Zo ToN

A Trilogy for adult-minded Masses

by
Gaud Rockefeller
2003
 Jacket Introduction:

In a world of bliss, no one knows death like someone

that teaches it. I am Gaud Rockefeller, and I am your guide.
Come along with me! We’ll explore the depths of the human
heart. When we’re done, we’ll go back to our business as
usual. Enjoy. Please.

*this is the second printing (Ellis DeAngelo fixed some

typos)
(c) 11-17- 2003

Disclaimer: The things and the places in this book are fucked up but real--
some of them are. But most of them are fanciful and made up. They are
fiction, in other words. The characters, with the exception of Susan Serandon,
Rush Limbaugh--though that’s questionable--are somewhat real, but most of
them are phony as well. Get that through your head, please! If you don’t, you
might wind up like Susan Serandon, whom starred in the Rocky Horror Picture
Show. That was her, right? You’re a mxtherf@ckxr, anyway, so don’t worry
about it, okay?

Smokey the Bear says... Only you can prevent forest fires!

This book is rated PG-13 because kids are smarter than they seem, right? Don’t give it
to them, in other words. I don’t want to be prosecuted by some lowlife that thinks I
mean I want to sleep with Hilary!

One in a hundred people will understand this book. The rest of you? Don’t worry. It’s
entertaining.
?

I dedicate this book to Gabriel Damien Alvarado. Without you, the

world would not go round. I mean that with all the heart I have.
?

?
Zoton has been read and been responded to...

“Americans don’t do this any longer. We are way too politically correct
as a nation. Gaud Rockefeller is taking a risk. I applaud him for it.
He better watch out. There are a lot of enemies to be made out
there. I am a friend of his now. I used to hate the son-of-a-bitch!”
--The American Dental Association

“This guy’s a son of a bitch! He stole my ideas halfway through the

book. I could have written a better piece of junk than this. I did. It
was called Tommyknockers. Go out and get you a copy.”
--Stephen King, in his autobiography, No More Tears

“We are against fiction. We stopped reading the book when Gaud--can
we call him that?--made his first declaration and assertion that
things were fake inside. How can we nab people if they come
upfront with the fact that they’re not writing about real stuff?”
--The Pitzer Participant

“Gaud wrote a breakthrough novel. That’s all we know. Call it a

trilogy of novellas--I don’t really care. We liked his stuff.”
--The Los Angeles Times

“There was a moment that we went to work with Gaud--I think he’s
about forty-seven, maybe fifty-two--and he told us that... What can
we say here? It’s fiction, right? Oh. He said that we were writing all
his stuff for him and then... Gaud! I can’t really think. I’ll make
something up.”
--The New York Times
Zoton made an impact places, like a crater from a meteor...

“Thanks for the kind words, Gaud.”

--The Progressive

“Every woman wants to sleep with you, Gaud Rockefeller!”

--Renee Zellweger during the shooting of a new film,
Independense Dayzz

“Condescending. Very condescending. But I liked it.”

--Edward Macral, guitar player and keyboardist for a band
known as Freight
Train

“Reese Witherspoon. I want to marry you. You’re married though. Do

you think we could be in a movie sometime in which I nibble on your
boobs for a while? That would be good.”
--Eddie Corona, a member of the Screen Actor’s Guild
 Table of Contents...

* foreword for trilogy.......................... 5

---open letter to Ronald Buccola.......... 6
---added addendum by editor............ 9
---article about Eddie, the Mexican!..... 11
** Metaphor Zoton................................ 15
---Part One............................... 20
---Part Two..............................
52
---Part Three............................. 79
*** Destiny Zoton.................................. 100
---Part One..............................
106
---Part Two..............................
134
---Part Three............................
168
**** Manifest Zoton............................... 184
---Part One..............................
189
 ---Part Two..............................
221
---Part Three...........................
256
foreword, by the author...
My name is Gaudlas David Rockefeller. I am of the Rockefeller clan. You don’t
believe me? Look it up in history. I’m right there with my cousin, Nelson Rockefeller,
when he was sworn in as Nixon’s vice-president. Anyhow, I won’t go into too many allusions
as to what I may or may not be. I am Gaudlas, but I haven’t gone by that name in a while.
They shortened my name to Gaud, my friends did. It was at my request. My family
wanted a Douglas--and they could have had one--but Gaudlas was on their minds. They
made up the name and the rest is history.
I wrote a book. I do have to mention before I go on that I don’t feel like a god
right now. I really don’t. My parents told me that they named me Gaudlas because it had
multiple meanings. A gaud, if you looked it up in the dictionary, is a trinket of little value.
They thought I would have significant value. Therefore they named me Gaudlas. It
sounds that I’d be anything but gaud, right? Anyhow, the other reason they named me
Gaudlas, they said, was because they thought I would grow up without the feeling that I’d
need God to get me out of trouble or to help me move on with my life. We have money. I
didn’t have to worry about money since day one. Godless is what they thought I’d be. In
the end, being a Rockefeller, I felt like a god eventually, quite often, so I shortened my
name.
Anyhow, I want to talk about a book that I read. It’s called Jonathan Livingston
Seagull. It didn’t take me long to read. It was written by an Air Force pilot, or something
along those lines. It was probably eighty pages or so, I can’t remember, but I thought I
could do the same thing. My problem was that I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t. I got to the end
of Metaphor Zoton--it’s the first in the series of what became a trilogy for me--and the
characters still lived with me. I had to write more. I had to. I had to tell people what
they were all about, or so I thought.
You have before you a trilogy. I hope you enjoy it. I hope critics take it to be
more. I hope they see a thread. I hope they take my collection as a whole and they write
about it. I hope they see Zoton as a novel. I don’t know that it’ll happen. It’s beyond my
grasp.
What you have here, in this introduction to everything, is early dialogue that
resulted from the first of the books. I liked it. I’ve read it many times. You have, after
that, the three series of stories (or books, if you will). I hope they’re enjoyable to you.
They were enjoyable for me to write.
Hasta la vista, baby! I say that a lot in my life. Actually, I have something to say
now that is more important than that: Bienvinidos! It means ‘w elcome!’ in my language.
The language I speak, by the way, is love. If you can feel it, let me know. Otherwise,
hasta! Thank you, John Felshaw, for giving my stuff the chance it needed to survive. Who
would have thought that you were literate ater all those papers Wendy wrote for you in
college? Funny, huh? Eddie told me about it. I joke about the literacy though. I really
do. I’d also like to thank Eddie though. He’s a cool guy. I really think so. Thank you Katie
Holmes also, for giving me the gift of leisure. You’re a shining star. You’re a diamond in
the rough.
I’m gone. Thank you, God, also. Thank you for letting me borrow your name. It
sounds rather cool when you spell it my way. Just joking. I’m having fun though. For once
in my life, I feel like a person. Thank you.
-- Gaud Rockefeller
Open Letter to Ronald Buccola...
My name is Lauler Shuster. I’m a friend of Eddie Corona’s. He
tells me that you are as well. I want to tell you a story and I’ll try not
to take too much of your time.
Eddie has let me know that he writes a lot of fiction and that, in
the past, you used to be a major recipient of it. He recently wrote
something that caught my eye. It was entitled Project Zoton. Later, he
changed the name to Metaphor Zoton but we don’t really have to go into
detail about why or how he did it. I want to tell you that he is a friend
of mine. I’ve already told you that. He wants to get his stuff published.
He doesn’t think it’ll happen. He believes that he’s a dime a dozen. He
believes his stuff is worthy of being published. It’s just that the things
in life are stacked against you in general if you’re an aspiring artist and
you want to make some money. Is Eddie an aspiring artist? No. I don’t
think so. He considers himself to be artistic. I think he’s more of an
entertainer though and a damned good one if you were to ask me.
He told you about Project Greenlight (he relayed that message to
me). It’s his lottery ticket. He wants you to pass on to your teachers of
the past--and some of his own that are in common with you--that he wants to
make money from it. More than that, he wants to be happy. He’d be happy
just knowing his stuff was read. Does it have to be liked? No, it
doesn’t. He’d like to believe it wasn’t boring though.
Why am I writing you? I’m here to tell you something that he didn’t
want to tell you directly. He wants to graduate from Pitzer College. He
told me that he has less of a chance to graduate from Pitzer than he does
to make it big as a writer. I believe him. However, I have hope for him
in this regard and he doesn’t. He told me that if I crafted together a
letter--a brief one for you to read--about the possibility of him going
back to Pitzer and graduating, he’d read it, consider it, then he’d include
it in a package that he’s giving to you. This is the letter. If you are
reading it, then Eddie has approved.
These are the facts the way I understand them:
-- Eddie contracted a mental illness in 1998 by the name of bipolar
schizophrenia.
-- In January of 2000, he wrote fiction, sent it to Pitzer, threatened
his former advisor, and was arrested eight months later in the guise of
“terrorist threat”.
-- In April of 2000, he had stopped writing his fiction and got a hold
of Alan Jones, professor of psychology at Pitzer, and a personal friend of
Eddie’s at a time. Alan helped him on a road back to Pitzer. He talked to
the dean of students at the time and he figured out what Eddie would have
to do to graduate.
-- Alan Jones, in April of 2000, talked to Paul Faulstich, Eddie’s
former advisor and the one that sent he to jail later that year, and
relayed a message FROM Paul that he would have to take an anthropology
course and a course of his choosing at Cal State San Bernardino or a
university like it, transfer the credits back to Pitzer, then he could
graduate.
-- Eddie did not contact Paul Faulstich in the time since he had talked
to Alan. Rather, he took an anthropology course in the summer of that year
at Cal State San Bernardino, got an A in the course, planned to take his
final course of study before receiving a bachelor’s degree in the autumn of
that year or in the spring of the following year, and it depended on his
financial situation.
-- Eddie was arrested in the late summer of 2000, one day after
beginning a job at a local warehouse. Paul Faulstich was pressing charges
for the earlier threat from January of that year. It didn’t matter to Paul
that he had approved, through Alan Jones, a course for Eddie to graduate.
It didn’t matter that Eddie stayed out of contact with Paul. It didn’t
matter at all.
-- Eddie served his time. He had made the threat in January of 2000
while drinking and sending out fiction on the internet. Pitzer had
threatened legal action against him in the past and Eddie had no idea that
a terrorist threat law existed. When they threatened legal action, he
thought they would sue for slander or libel. He wasn’t sure which it would
be. Nonetheless, he believed strongly that a school policy which
prohibited him from contacting students and former teachers upon being
suspended--this happened late in 1998 after he contracted his illness--
should not be obeyed. It was against his principal. Dr. Martin Luther
King Jr. wrote from a letter while being jailed in Alabama that unjust laws
should not be followed. He cited St. Augustine, one of Eddie’s patron
saints. Eddie believed that the Constitution of the United States of
America should take precedence over a school policy. He was wrong in his
assessment. He sent the threat as a message: “I don’t believe in you.
I’m not going to harm you but I’m entitled to free speech.” In the end,
the court system didn’t see it the same way. Eddie had studied
communications at Chaffey College and got an associate’s degree. He
learned--or he came to believe--that ninety-nine percent of all
communications is outside of the rhetoric being exchanged.
What am I doing here? Eddie is giving you fiction because he thinks
you’ll enjoy it. There were things that were bugging him about life and he
wrote about them. He didn’t think it’d be any good... at the beginning.
He was wrong. In my opinion, he was dead wrong.
Eddie can graduate from Pitzer College. That is my opinion. It’s
not his opinion. He sent them a letter that he told me he also sent to
you. This was in the summer of last year. He apologized for what he did,
he had the support of a social worker whom had wrote her own letter in
conjunction with his, and he received no response from them. They had told
Eddie that they hoped he would seek help for his mental disability--it’s
not a big one if you read his latest work, and I’m sorry for hitting that
over the head--and that they would be glad to graduate him.
Eddie told me that he believes his piece of fiction, in union with
the musical CDs that he’s enclosed with them, could qualify for a unit of
capacity toward graduating him. He told me that he received an F on his
transcripts for a class that he took in Ontario, in the autumn of 1997.
The reason he received an F--he had received three other A’s that same
semester--was because he failed to do work that was probing of his host
family after a member had passed away. It was rude, in his mind, to pry
after a loved-one had passed. It was rude and Pitzer should have known it.
Eddie was featured in an article (that is attached here) that
explains his predicament at the time. He could have been given an oral
exam--in all actuality he did, since the host family didn’t kick him out
upon tragedy--and they could have passed him with a D or a C. They didn’t
do this. He was later featured in the San Bernardino Sun Telegram on the
front page of their living section... promoting the Ontario Program, which
he had been involved in. They could have been flexible and gave him a
passing grade. They didn’t.
Alan let Eddie know that they were willing to change his grade in
that program. As a matter of fact, Eddie was pretty sure that Alan
reported that the grade was filed as an “incomplete”. Eddie was happy with
this revelation.
He needs help. He needs people to know that he is decent. He needs
people to know that he went through trying times. He needs people to know
that he’s not a threat to society or any individual. They say that the pen
is mightier than the sword. If that’s the case, Eddie is a danger... but
only to the powers-that-be. He’s not going to shoot anyone. Through
fiction, he will write about social ills.
Professor Alan Jones can help out Eddie Corona, and so can Doug
Anderson. He was the Ontario Program’s director before Alan took over for
him. When Paul Faulstich filed his charges against Eddie, Eddie contacted
Alan Jones through his public defender. He got a positive response from
him. Keep in mind that Alan is a professor of psychology and teaches a
class at Pitzer called Brain and Behavior. He probably knew that Eddie was
going through some turmoil and believed it was based in brain chemistry
changes in his body.
Dipa Basu, another professor at Pitzer, taught classes about modern
society and pop culture. She was a strong believer that we shouldn’t hold
back our feelings. She is an Indian, by race, from India. She would
rather hear somebody call her a derogatory name to her face than to
undermine her behind her back. That’s what she expressed to Eddie in a
teaching module. She was strongly against political correctness, or so
Eddie was led to believe on his own. I believe it too, from what he’s told
me.
Eddie believed there were people at Pitzer that could help him. He
believed that the idealism that they professed was not merely in words. He
believes, even until this very day, that there is substance behind the
things they taught. He also believes that there were a lot of scared
people out there who wouldn’t be willing to help, for whatever undefined
reasons, in spite of the fact that they might want to help.
Eddie can graduate from Pitzer College. That is his hope. He
started believing that the school was selling out. Nonetheless, he was
there for a few years and he sensed something about the place. It couldn’t
have been faked. That’s what he believes.
Eddie needs one unit to graduate. He believes that Alan Jones, Doug
Anderson, Leeshawn Cradoc, and maybe other people might still be willing
and able to help. He believes these people won’t do it for any reason,
after all these years. He believes his fiction might be good enough to
merit a change on his transcript from “incomplete” to something of passing,
thus, enabling him to graduate. He thinks he is a worthy student. I know
he is. I know him well.
Eddie is prohibited from directly contacting Pitzer through a court
order. It is sad. It is true. He abides by the court ruling. He has
used his social worker, on the occasion already mention from last summer,
as a go-between to try to put the ball in Pitzer’s court. They haven’t
responded. Eddie would like to know why. In the end, it is not that
important to him any longer. He feels like Gilligan. He feels like
Charlie Brown trying to kick the football from Lucy. He feels like the
people from Lost In Space. He feels hopeless, in a lot of regards.
Eddie told me to enjoy his fiction. There are two characters in the
book that are loosely modeled after me. I don’t think Eddie thinks I’m a
shyster. One of the characters is portrayed that way. We don’t agree
philosophically. Eddie didn’t want to write a conflict-free book and I
don’t think he did. I don’t think he went over the edge, either.
Enjoy what he has written. Have hope for the future. I do. I hope
for Eddie. I really do. I really do a lot.
I’m going to go. The purpose of this letter is not guilt--I swear
to my god on Zoton of that--but it is to keep you informed. If you can
help, please do. If you’re tied up, don’t worry. Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy.
Eddie has a philosophy. He believes that if you help out ten people
and receive a response from one of them in the future, a good job has been
done. If you’re one of the nine people in Eddie’s life that’ll sit back,
according to his analogy, and do nothing to help him out, he has no qualms
with you. Sooner or later, he’s going to get his, and I‘m pretty sure it‘s
going to be good. How and why? It’s beyond me. He believes in karma
though. He thinks that it might be time to collect the chips that he feels
he deserves, for whatever reason. And if it doesn’t happen? Oh, well.
That’s his attitude. He believes he’s in a big game of sorts. He’s at the
plate, it’s the bottom of the ninth, there are two strikes against him, and
the runners are on second and third bases. His team is behind by one run
in the seventh game of the World Series. He’s going to swing... Hit or
miss the ball, he’s going die knowing he tried.
I hope you enjoy what I have written. It was inspired by Eddie
himself. Actually, it was inspired by Gaud Rockefeller, but we won’t get
into that right now. Will we? No. I’m a pretentious one though. Eddie
Corona is not. He is down to Earth and he is quite nice to me. I think
he‘s too nice sometimes. How did he ever end up in jail?
Eddie’s going to win. I can feel it now. He’s going to collect
Social Security for the rest of his life, but he’s going to die knowing he
tried. He gave it the good ol’ college try, and I respect him for it. L.S.
Editor’s Addendum...
I am not a book editor of the classical kind. I proofread for a living, but it’s cookbooks
that I read. I know nothing about fiction. I know Eddie Corona though. I really do. He’s a
decent guy. He fell on hard times as of late. He started writing poetry, he learned to play
guitar, and he did some other instruments as well. He started writing archaic fiction, too.
Some of his work made it to Gaud Rockefeller. It was a piece that he co-wrote with his
sister and her then-boyfriend. It was called Spit Face Racer. It was about a boy that had nothing
to lose--that was my interpretation of it. Eddie later told me that the piece was rather Freudian.
He said that there’s a part in the poem in which the protagonist seems to die and a reference to
chalk-covered pavement is made. He told me that it could mean one of two things, if not more,
and it all depended on your point of view in life at the time. Chalk-covered pavement could
mean hopscotch marks. It’s just the same as looking at one of those illusions in which you either
see a pretty young lady looking away from you... or you see an old and haggardly lady looking
toward you. What is your predisposition in life? That would tell you a lot about how you view
things.
I’m not here to talk about Spit Face Racer. I’m here to tell you about my friend, Eddie
Corona, and I’m here to tell you about a guy that he recently met, Gaud Rockefeller. Gaud
found Spit Face Racer and he found a few other things of Eddie’s. He was inspired to write
fiction about it. Eddie told me that it wasn’t only him that he was writing fiction about. It was
his generation.
Gaud’s a man of about seventy-five. You wouldn’t know it by what he wrote.
I fixed typos in this book. Eddie gave it to me, and it was full of them. I’m a cookbook
editor though. I didn’t mess with the storyline. The typos were too many to fix though. You’ll
still find them. Eddie hopes to get this published for Gaud Rockefeller. He hopes that you’ll read
it, find his errors, gloss over them, then make a good judgment on the content of the manuscript.
Eddie read it and liked it quite a bit. He gave it to me with Gaud’s inconsistencies. He told me
that there were times that he must have been thinking of stuff during his work. “Camelot”, for
example, was used in the place where the fictitious town of “Miller” was supposed to go. I took
a Correct It, whited out the mistake, and substituted the appropriate words. I hope Gaud wasn’t
trying to make a deliberate message with an intentional typo. I don’t think he was.
I corrected many of these mistakes. If you find them still, as I have said before, it’s
because the story is what was important to me... and I‘m a cookbook editor anyway. It was
equally as distracting for me to read and reread something that was littered with handwriting
and White Out. I didn’t want to do that. Gaud warns you in the beginning anyway that his
work is archaic. Maybe it was a copout. Maybe he felt that unless he got something out, that it
would never happen to him. Maybe he thought that it was the only way to reach people. I don’t
really know.
I hope you forgive me for not fixing enough things in the book. I did it of my free time.
If given a month, I’m sure I would have done a perfect job. Eddie didn’t want that. He told me,
“You have roughly forty-eight hours if you want to help me and my friend Gaud out. Do you
want to do it? Are you up to the task?” I wasn’t up to the task. I didn’t want to do it.
Sometimes your head takes over though. I knew Eddie had helped me in the past in other
regards. It was time to give back.
On the other end, I hope that Gaud forgives me. He wrote a piece, I messed with it, it
was inevitable that changes would be made, but I hope I was justified in what I did. Maybe
“Camelot” was supposed to be “Miller”. I don’t really know.
Enjoy the piece. I recommend that you do one of a few things:
? Read it in your leisure and try to understand a nation and a generation--the Xer’s, as they
are called by me--in turmoil. This will be good for you, I’m sure.
? Contribute to the editing. Though I felt a slight guilt at contributing to the editorial
 process, even though it was what Eddie wanted me to do, I felt good about it. I felt I was
contributing to more than just editing. I felt I was helping out Eddie... and I felt I was
helping out Gaud, even though I have never met him before. I hope he likes what I have
done. I hope he’s open to further revisions and suggestions. My attitude is that he’ll
never make it without outside help. I hope he makes it.
? Toss it aside. There are many vulgarities in this book. Gaud talks early on about using
vernacular language. I guess he thinks that you have to cuss a lot in order to reach people,
nowadays. Part of me believes it’s true. Part of me believes that this could be made into a
PG-13 version and all can be happy. The story is that good to me. Why did he have to
cuss so much? I wonder.
? Talk to Ronald Buccola--he’s a friend of Eddie’s--and ask him about promoting the fiction
and the musical CDs that are included. Gaud thinks he has a special product. I think so
too. He has assured people, through Eddie Corona, that’s he’s more than willing to give
up a piece of the pie for promotion of his narrative. Eddie told me that he was open to
editing from a professional or a near professional. I don’t think I qualify. I subtly skew
the things that old ladies read for preparation in a family meal. I don’t know a thing
about fixing fiction. It’s not up my alley.
I have said my piece. I am mostly at peace now. I want you to know a couple of more
things before I go. The musical CDs that are included in this book have been revised from the
original. At the beginning, Gaud included only one CD. He must have known he would have
complaints. It is full of static, and there are the obvious vulgarities in some of the songs that I
have already talked about. He tried to correct that in two ways. He made a CD--CCCP is the
name of it--and it is intended for the male, adult audience, although a few ladies might like it as
well. It is free of the static but it is not free of the coarse attitude Gaud Rockefeller envelopes.
He included Concert Prison PG-13, also. It is for the juvenile audience out there. I don’t
think that Gaud expects that young, pre-teens will be reading his material. He included a CD,
though, that could be shared with them at their parent’s or their guardian’s consent. It is free of
cuss words. It is not free of the attitude that Gaud has through his make-believe band, Eddie &
the Whistlers. It has a song that is inspired by Eddie’s real-life niece. As a matter of fact, I’m
sure that it was her really singing on it, though I’m not a hundred percent positive.
I hope you enjoy everything. Eddie Corona is doing well. That was the final thing that I
wanted to say. He went to Pitzer College for few years, was included in some periodicals of
theirs and in other places, he contracted a mental illness of sorts, and then he started on a road
to recovery. I think he is doing just fine. His buddy, Ronald Buccola, liaisons between him and
other people he’d like to stay in contact with. Someday, Eddie hopes to be a star. He doesn’t
want to be on the big screen. He doesn’t even care that he makes that much money. He wants
to put his talents to work. It is simple as that. At this point in my life, I would say that
identifying Gaud Rockefeller as a potential success story in this world has wheels of its own.
Eddie let me know that he wants to do stuff like that. I’ve read his stuff before. It’s more archaic
than Gaud’s... but it’s pretty good in some places. A little polishing is all he needs.
Someday, I hope to meet you. I hope we’re at a party with many cocktails and we’re
celebrating the publishing of Gaud’s novella. For that matter, I hope we’re at the premier of the
opening of Gaud Rockefeller, the Success Story, as it makes its way to the big screen. I hope we’re
surrounded by stars. More than that, I hope we are the stars.
Enjoy the piece. It is fiction. I hope you take it well. There are subtle messages that
Gaud Rockefeller tries to get across--what author doesn’t do that?--but it is mostly entertainment.
It made me feel mad in places. It made me depressed in a couple of places. There were times
that I laughed. It made me mad. I have to emphasize that and re-emphasize that. But you know
what? It made me feel. That was that main part. A good piece of fiction hasn’t done that for me
in a while.
I like Gaud. I’m going to go now. Before I do, I have something to say... Hasta la vista,
baby! It’s what Gaud says all the time. Eddie told me so himself.
Yours,
Ellis DeAngelo
Ellis DeAngelo
u
Metaphor Zoton
by
Gaud Rockefeller
2003

?
 Jacket Introduction:

In a world of bliss, no one knows death like someone

that experiences it. Bill Swift is this person. His best friend,
Alfred, uncovers mysteries of the universe in a quest to meet
his friend someday... on his own terms.

Disclaimer: The things and the places in this book are real--some of them are--
but most of them are fake. The characters, with the exception of Bill Clinton,
Tom Cruise, and a few others, are fake. Get that through your head. If you
don’t like fiction, pick up something else to read... you mxtherf@ckxr...

Child’s saying: Sticks and stones can break my bones... but only the government can hurt me!

This book is rated R for graphic language, sexual misconduct, and many other things...

So... You’ll like it, in other words!

? ?
I dedicate this book to my sister, Dionne. Happy birthday, Sis.
? ?
what the critics have said...

“This is the grunge of book writing. It kind of sucks.”

--Tiger Teen

“There ain’t enough cars in this motherfuckin’ beyauch.”

--Motor Trend

“The author, Mr. Rockefeller, is obviously in love and trying to get

Catherine Zeta-Jones in the sack. I think it’s kind of sick.”
--Psychology Today

“if you enjoyed Star Wars, this is going to knock yo’ fuckin’ balls off!”
--Playboy

“There’s a moment of awkwardness or two--like when Edward Hand

suddenly scratches his balls for no reason in the middle of the
book--but if you get past it, it’s a good read, actually.”
--Reader’s Digest

“Gaud Rockefeller is one paranoid dude. I’m not going to meet him if I
had the chance. He makes me crazy. And I‘m a crazy dude.”
--Editor-in-Chief of Conspiracy Reader, Jim Bannister

“Playboy sucks, but if Gaud Rockefeller wrote articles for them once in
a while, we’d read them.”
--Mathematician’s Quarterly
and the raves continue...

“There’s a rumor that Gaud drinks heavily, blacks out after turning on
a tape recorder, and says all his shit into a machine. That’s how he
gets all his ideas.”
--The National Enquirer

“Gaud Rockefeller makes up so many new words--some of them are

good--but he’s changing the English language in other respects. I
don’t think it’s healthy.”
--The Journal of English Literacy

“This is a novella with heart.”

--Secretary of State, Butch Jackson, in a written statement to Gaud
Rockefeller’s son

“This was way too politically correct. I don’t recommend a goddang thing
to anyone involved.”
--Bill Maher, author of Someday You’ll Try
Introduction...
I was approached last week by a guy in a strange suit. He was wearing orange and
yellow pull up pants (he had suspenders on). I don’t want to waste too much of your time
here. His goal is fiction. My goal is delivering a message.
What this guy did was archaic--he didn’t print his piece in a traditional book or
anything along those lines--but it was unique to me. He said it’d blow my socks off. It didn’t.
But it was fresh to me.
Gaud Rockefeller is a man with too much stuff on his mind. It’s evident in the stuff
that he gave me. I was a lonely man too. Maybe that’s why he approached me. There’s a
song by Sting and the Police. It’s called “Message in a Bottle.” It’s a song about loneliness.
There’s a moral in the story of the song. In the end, the singer finds that he’s not really alone.
It’s just being alone that staked him. He sent out his message and was surprised to see that
a billion bottles returned to him. There were a billion people just as lonely as him. I’d
imagine that Sting found solace in that revelation.
I’m not here to philosophize with you. I’m asking you to consider if you’re in Sergeant
Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band. As far as I know, there’s still an open invitation to join.
Gaud Rockefeller is a lonely man. He found some of my fiction and he thought that I’d
enjoy some of his. I’m glad he came to me. What he wrote was refreshing. It wasn’t
polished, but it was refreshing.
The unique thing about his piece was that he included a CD in the end. He said it was
inspired by me. I wrote poetry in the past, you know? Maybe you don’t. He wrote one of my
pieces down and made it into fiction. I appreciate him for that. He said there was a character
in the book that was modeled after me. Though the character was minor in relative terms, he
hit me the hardest. His name is Eddie Macral. He made a CD, Gaud Rockefeller did, and he
attributed it to me. Actually, he said that it was attributed to Eddie Macral in the book, but I
got the picture. I think I did.
If you don’t enjoy the writing--and you might not because of all the vulgarities and the
sort--you might enjoy the music at the very least. It’s archaic in parts and I’m starting to
believe that it was meant to be that way. Gaud, I’d imagine, could have done anything he
wanted with the music.
He told me, “They’re only words. Don’t get uptight. If you don’t like the archaic
music, think of the character that made it. He’s a junior college dropout--a community
college dropout, I should say--and he didn’t have a lot going for him.”
I hope you see it the same way. I hope you give both works a chance. I did. I don’t
regret a thing but it does leave me longing for more stuff like this... in better form. I hate to
say it, but Gaud is a genius in some respects, but he really didn’t care in others. It’s evident.
He told me so himself.
Please proofread what I’ve given you and consider what I said. Maybe Gaud has a
future. I’m not really sure. Get back to me if you want. Take what I’ve given you as fodder. If
you don’t, sell it for a couple of bucks. I’m sure it’s worth at least that much to someone out
there. I’m almost positive of it. I can feel it in my bones.
Eddie Corona

Metaphor Zoton prologue

On a hot summer day, a girl passed a church on her bike. She was seven and oblivious to
everything around her. She had a crush on a guy--Randal was his name and he was a seventeen year old
stud--and she was going to pass by his house. That’s all she wanted to do. If he was outside talking to his
friend like he so often did, she would stop. She would pretend to fix her socks. After that, she would look
up at him. If he looked back, she would pretend that he wasn’t there. She was in love.
Randal and Bill went outside at eleven in the morning that day. They had a lot to say to one
another. A girl’s wish came true. Randal’s didn’t.

*Part One*

* one *
Caaaaa... tharrr... siss, ...is the relieving of emotional tensions... Yeah! someone sang from the
background radio--a loud one--as Randal and Bill left their houses and met in the center of the street. The
music blared on. They walked over to a sidewalk after a quick, nonfag embrace. They were always
careful about that. They couldn’t let things go too far without thinking of themselves as pusses.
“I finally found inspiration, Randal,” Bill said, after he thought in his mind about the subsided
feeling of potential homosexuality. It was a fleeting one.
“I don’t believe you.” Randal talked to Bill. They were outside on a sidewalk. Randal sat over
on the curb as soon as Bill told him that he had found some inspiration in life. The little girl he had been
seeing around quite often strode along like nothing was going on.
“It’s all about music,” Bill continued.
“No it’s not. It’s those voices in your head.”
“You don’t like me. I know that already.”
“How?” Randal was perplexed at this.
“It’s the dreams, motherfucker.” Bill wasn’t mad. He just liked using cuss language a lot.
Vernacular language, if you asked him.
“What the fuck do you want!?” Doug Michaels came by. He hadn’t heard anything going on.
He was on a rampaged. The old motherfucker was lost. Lost old man. That’s the way Bill saw him.
Daisy, his wife, followed slowly behind. She didn’t say a thing.
“It’s all about that flag, isn’t it?” Doug demanded.
 “Fuck you, motherfucker.” Bill talked to Doug like he knew him. Doug had only been around
for a couple of days. Prior to this, he had mostly stayed inside of this across-the-street house. He was a
punk ass though. Bill didn’t like to say so--he liked the guy, as a matter of fact, and not in a fag way--but
something was amiss. He didn’t know what it was.
“You’re a novelist.” That’s what Doug Michaels said.
“No I’m not. I’m a fuckin’ journalist.” Bill talked to Doug like he was a real journalist. He
wasn’t. He was just a wannabe poseur wanting to be a journalist. “What makes you think so anyway?”
“You’re a fuckin’...” Doug couldn’t complete this part.
“Besides.. I’m talking to Randal. Why don’t you fuck off for a while?” Bill said this but didn’t
know what to do. Ever since he started flying, people started looking at him strange. He took off one day
and things were never the same.
“Why don’t you fuck off?!” Christina said with empathy. She was talking to Bill. He didn’t even
see her coming. She worked as a secretary at the nearby Miller Tribune.
“What the fuck do you want me to do, Christina? I’m not getting paid for this, asshole!”
“I see.” It was a revelation to her. She skipped away and didn’t come back. She’d blow up later.
Bill skipped around. He got off the curb, where he had been sitting since Randal had joined him
there, and he started farting around. “I’m afraid. It’s as simple as that. And none of you understand!”
“It’s that Superman song, isn‘t it?” This is what Daisy asked. They all knew it was true though.
Bill had started listening to it. That’s all it took. Oh. It took belief too. Anyhow, that’s the way the day
went. Bill spent the next few hours explaining to them what had happened. Funny thing was that he
didn’t know what happened. He jumped out of a three story building one day--trying to commit suicide--
and then it happened. He started to fly... again and again.

* * *

Anna Harcdomm never knew what to do with life. She was a beauty. Seeing her knocked your
socks off. They didn’t knock your socks off in the literal way in the way that Bill was literally flying.
They knocked your socks off in the way that your mouth dropped literally whenever you saw her. Bill,
over time, knew that she would be his. Would it be a month? Would it be a year? He didn’t know. He
didn’t know at all.
Anna had something interesting going on. She played racquetball. She was from Holland. She
was a beauty from hell. She was playing racquetball one day and Bill saw her. This wasn’t long after the
time that he was chastised from Doug for not paying attention to him. Doug was like this though. He
didn’t understand. He was sixty-seven. In his world, you respected your elders. You saluted them when
they came by. If it wasn’t a literal salute, it was a figurative one. Bill wanted to be out of his grasp
though. He had slept with his wife one time and things were never the same.
Anna came up to Bill after she played her racquetball. “I want to give you a voice, Anna. Do
you want one?”
Anna started to say no. She shook her head. Very demur, she could be. Demur in the way that
no one else had ever seen her. He didn’t know what to do.
Alfred came around. This was Bill’s alternate ego. They were best friends. He looked a lot like
him too. They were very different though. Bill was in touch with the world, or so he believed. Alfred?
He didn’t really have a clue. All he knew was that he wanted to be Bill.
“How’s she treating you?” Bill asked Alfred.
“Alfred who?”
“No. I didn’t ask for your name. I asked, ‘How is she treating you?’”
“Fuck you. Fuck you. You’re not going to stop, are you?!”
“No. No fuckin’ way. Why should I?”
“You’re a fuckin’ genius, that’s all I know.”
Anna stood around but she didn’t say much. Bill liked her a lot. He wanted her. But he
contemplated things. “I used to be a loser, you know?” Bill asked this to Anna, but before he could finish
his sentence, she whisked away. She came back. You could tell that she didn’t want to talk to him.
“You’re all about me.” It was a statement she made. Bill couldn’t tell if she was talking to him
or to Alfred. Bill wanted to get to other points though. Quite frankly, though he was in the presence of
this beautiful girl, he didn’t want to talk to her any longer. He had been thinking about flying. He had
been thinking about flying saucers. He hadn’t seen one yet. He was waiting though. Everything that had
happened in his dreams the night before was coming true. It was too true to believe.

* * *
“I’m tired. I’m goin’ fuckin’ home right now.” After three hours of conversation with Alfred and
Anna, Bill finally let the words rip out that he didn’t want to say. He told them everything. The
Koagulates. That’s what they had called themselves in his dream.
They had said, “You will start flying. This is a sign. You’re supposed to give a message to the
rest of your people. Never, since Jesus Christ, has there been a man like you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“There’s nothing we can do, son.” They called him son. That impressed him. He wanted to cry.
“What are the Koagulates?” That’s what Anna wanted to know from him.
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I really... don’t... know. It’s a fuckin’ mystery, as far as I’m
concerned. Bill paused at this. It was then that he informed them--Anna and Alfred--that he was ready to
depart. “I’m not going though. You’ll see me. I’m going to be Superman.”
Bill went home and spent some time to himself. He thought about making a costume. Bad idea,
as far as he was concerned. He thought about the nature of what was going on. Were the Koagulates
people to be trusted? Could they even be called people? No. Bill didn’t think so. He pondered things
that they said. Things that made so much sense that he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it earlier.
“We come from a planet that is nineteen light years away.”
“So? Why are you telling me this?”
“We’re going to let you fly?”’
“What?”
 “Yep. We’re going to let you fly.”
“You’re talking like me. I appreciate that.”
“We’re going to let you fly. That’s all you need to know.”
Bill did his laundry. At the same time, he thought about what could be. I can get some pussy
with this. I can.
He separated the colors from the whites. I can get on any team I want to be on. All they need to
know is that I’m fast. They don’t need to know I can actually fly if I wanted to.
But Bill knew it was deeper than that. The Koagulates were going to give him a power for a
reason. Maybe Jesus Christ had this power. He probably fuckin’ did.
Bill didn’t know what to do. He lit up a cigarette after leaving the house. Laundry would be
done in an hour. That left him enough time to go to the corner store and buy a pint of booze... of any kind.
He didn’t care what he got at this point. Is it going to impair my flying? I wonder.

* * *

In the year 2024, there was to be a huge disaster on the planet. That’s what the Koagulates had
told him. He sipped his booze--a bottle of E&J liquor--and thought about it. Why didn’t I tell this to
Anna? Why didn’t I do that? I told her about the Koagulates, funny as that was, but I omitted that there
would be a future disaster... according to them.
Anna knocked at the door.
“Who is it?” Bill didn’t know it was her. “I’m coming. Please don’t leeave...” Bill felt crazy at
this moment. Did I fly? Is this going on?
Bill opened the door. Anna was naked underneath her dress. How did Bill know. He peeked.
He knew she was lifting the front part in front of him--he could see that through his lower periphery
vision--but he didn’t want to look directly at it. “Fuckin’ crazy.” That’s all he said. He knew that she
knew that he knew. Anyhow, that’s the way things went for a while. He screwed her to the bone. Nobody
was home... and when the alarm went off to remind him that his load was done, he shot a load of his own.
“I’m going to bed now.” Bill wanted to sleep. Anna let him. A half hour after he started
snoring, Anna crawled into the bed next to him. She let him snore. She didn’t wake him. She stroked
his hair. There would be another day.

* * *
By the time the cocaine wore off of Bill, he was ready to go again. The dreams had stopped.
Cocaine induces dreams, and Bill had known that, but he wasn’t really sure if the dreams that he was
having were real. Not only was he to start flying again at his own will--in the days past the Anna
sleepover, he wasn’t able to fly and he didn’t know why--he was to become invisible at times. The
cocaine he had had led him to believe that it was all a farce. He wanted to escape. He couldn’t, no matter
how hard he tried. He had flown around the city just prior to sleeping with Anna. Why couldn’t he fly in
the days past that? Bill was thinking that it was virtue. The Koagulates had stripped him of his power.
Or maybe, in his mind, it was simply that it was like riding a bicycle. In other words, when you first
learn, you’re going to fall. You’re not going to ride the whole time.
Daisy approached Bill as he was doing his lawn. She didn’t have a lot to say except that she was
emotional. If showing your emotions was a form of talking then she had a lot to say. Either way, Bill
didn’t care. Daisy stood on the sidewalk where he had started to talk to Randal many days before. She
stood there as if waiting for an invitation. Bill didn’t give her one. He kept mowing his lawn. In his
mind, we was a dick. But in his mind, he had reason to be a dick. No one in the neighborhood had flown
before. Hell. In the history of human beings, the only known flyer was Amelia Earhart, and she died
doing it. That was the joke that Bill used to say. “If she wasn’t flying around the world then, she sure the
fuck is now.” Either way, Bill went about his business. By then, Bill was surprised to see that Daisy had
started to leave. She was now across the street but she turned around every now and then as if expecting a
conversation to brew up.
“What’s up, Daisy? Cat got your tongue?” Bill yelled this to her as she passed a house
cattycorner to his. “What’s up? You afraid of me now?” Bill didn’t know what to do. He was intrigued
by what was going on. It had occurred to him that she found out. He didn’t tell anyone that he had slept
with Anna. He hadn’t told a soul. But weird things were happening. Though no one else in the
neighborhood was flying, strange things started to brew. His neighbor, for example, put custom plates on
his car. They read “THE END IS NEAR”. This is what they said on the outside frame in both the front
and the back of the car. No one does that, Bill thought. What’s going on? Are the Koagulates starting to
talk to other people? Maybe I’m not good enough for them. Maybe they’re skipping me. Maybe they’re
blowing horseshit up my ass. Maybe the part of me turning invisible in the near future is bogus. I don’t
really know.
“What’s up, neighbor?” Bill had told them as they got in their car that day. He was talking to
Cruz in particular. He didn’t expect a response.
“What’s it to you, freak boy?” Cruz surprisingly came back with.
That was enough for Bill. He went into a shell after that. He thought about Anna a lot. He
thought about getting into the sack with Daisy again. That would have pleased him. But nothing was
going his way. What could he do? he often wondered. He was thinking about Cruz. Maybe he’s thinking
about busting me. The neighbors--the other ones--seemed good enough. Karma has a strange way of
making itself through the grapevine. It was strange to Bill whenever he thought what could be. He would
think about his older brother, Ned, now living in Montana, and how proud he’d be of him. He meditated
on that for a while then thought, What if I used my powers to help people? I know deep in my heart that
Anna chose me because I flew. But we were tight before that. Why hadn’t we ever slept together?
Bill wanted to die. That’s all he knew. Daisy made her way up and down the street. She
wouldn’t come by Bill though. She went by. She pretended not to hear. Bill knew she wanted something.
What it could be was beyond him. Maybe that’s why he started mowing his lawn to begin with. It didn’t
need mowing. He just wanted to be outside though. He wanted to feel connected. He didn’t feel
connected. “Fuckin’ Koagulates,” he said. He left the mower on the lawn running and went inside for
some tea. At this moment, right after going through the screen door, Daisy finally spoke up.
“What the fuck do you want from me?”
“Just believe in me, okay?” She didn’t hear him. Bill was whispering under his voice. She
didn’t hear him, she took off as if ignored, and Bill hung himself in the driveway ten minutes later.
 * two *
On the planet Kliptor, a major celebration was being planned. Bill didn’t realize it, but he wasn’t
going to Heaven. He wasn’t going into a state of nibbana, either. For that matter, he wasn’t going to Hell.
People don’t realize this, but the Earth’s major religions don’t carry with them the facts of the way things
work out in the real world... or universe, per se. Bill’s spirit left him about eight and a half minutes after
he left dangling from the post that supported his outside basketball hoop. A child saw him and screamed.
Paramedics showed up fifteen minutes later. It was too late. Bill was already on his way to Kliptor.

* * *
Nothing could be done. It was too late. Bill’s neck was snapped. Rigor Mortis started to set in.
It was the end of the world for Daisy. She had planned to propose to him the next day. Her life was too
crazy. She was going to leave her husband. She was going to make a case as to why she was the better
person for Bill than Anna... or any of the other girls that had started to like him since his strange
experience of flying around the Moon without an aircraft. Of course, he didn’t get to the Moon. But he
pretended that he did. On the day that her husband, Doug, started to whine about what he was doing, Bill
fly right up into the sky, through the clouds, and didn’t come back until five in the morning the next day.
In all actuality what happened was that he went to see Anna and Alfred at the racquetball courts, but he
told them that he was heading toward the Moon and he wouldn’t come back without a moon rock.
Daisy was forty-three. She was ready to settle down. She had been married to Doug for a long
time, but his temper was short. He didn’t understand her. Bill wished that he did, but he didn’t. Bill
slept with her on a day that it was raining outside. She had a flat on highway fifty-seven outside the town
of Hetfield, a small place of a hundred residents. No one saw her. Dusk had set in and she was a mess.
Bill changed the tire, sparks flew, and he undressed her a half hour later in a hotel with the raunchiest
stench in the world. No one noticed the stench that night. It was too late. Everything had happened
wrong. The tire change was a success. It was nice to sleep with Daisy and even she liked it, but
something was wrong. Adultery. It set into his mind. He couldn’t sleep halfway through the night. In
the morning, he prayed to God that he’d be forgiven. He wasn’t. There wasn’t even a God up there, or so
it turned out. He found this out when his spirit landed on the planet Kliptor.

* * *
“Welcome, Zigweed,” a large man dressed in an alien costume said.
Am I dreaming? Bill wasn’t sure what was going on.
“No. But you have entered a parallel universe.”
“What the...?” Bill wasn’t sure what to do. “Did I tell you what I was thinking?”
The Zigweed, also known as Bill at this point, didn’t know what the fuck to do. He waited for a
response from the leader. He must have been the leader because the other two in presence stood far back.
Am I dreaming? Bill wondered again.
“You are not dreaming.” The alien-looking man started to get mad. “You are not DREAMING.”
“Okay. But... I don’t know what to do. Do I pinch myself? What the fuck happened?” Bill
knew at the moment. Suicide had kicked into his life. That’s what happened. He didn’t know what to do
anymore. “Why am I here?”
“You’re over...” the alien-looking man said with disappointment. Bill was supposed to know
something.
“Can I have a beer?” Before Bill could finish saying “beer,” one popped up. It was like a
cartoon. “What am I supposed to do?” Bill asked after taking a sip.
“I don’t know.” Bill looked down at himself after hearing the alien--yeah, he was an alien and
Bill knew by now--say that he didn’t know. What he noticed was that he didn’t change. He was wearing
the same shirt. But the peculiar thing was that he could poke his finger right through his body. He was a
ghost on another planet.
“Who put me here?” Bill demanded of the alien. No response. Bill took off at that time. He
started to fly and discovered that he couldn’t. These aliens--unlike the ones in his dreams--didn’t know
him. They were guessing things about him. There was a strange connection with the other ones. And it
just occurred to him: The other ones were from a planet known as Xeon. These guys were punks. “Am I
in hell?” Bill demanded.
“No. You’re not,” the leader said reluctantly. “But you’re not in...”
“You’re a fake. Get me off this fuckin’ place,” Bill said with authority.
“You’re a fake too, I must say,” the alien retorted with a quiet demeanor.
“You’re a fake.... Yoda? Is that fuckin’ Yoda? Someone wake me up!”
After the alien said that Bill was a fake, Yoda from the Star Wars movies appeared from behind a
rock. This tripped Bill out. Dreaming or not, he fainted.
“You’ll get yours, Bill Swift,” the leader said. He was uptight now. He wanted Bill in Hell. Bill
would later discover that Hell exists. It’s a planet called Zoton.
* * *
“Tackle football is the best game you can play if you’re big and tough. We’re not talking about
pro football in this instance. What we’re talking about is the pickup games. You know who gets the
women though? It’s the swift.” Bill Swift’s friends around him laughed because of his name. “You can
beat down on a guy if you’re two thirty and he’s a buck sixty... but to evade a man of that size? It makes
him look stupid,” Bill Swift said as he cleated up.
Bill Swift was the best tackle football player there ever was. He’d never make it to the NFL with
his size. At the age of eighteen though, he knew that he could experience things that only other people
could dream about. On Kliptor, he wondered how things changed and what could have been different that
day.
“Get up, ya’ fuckin’ puss,” Dirt said after tackling him. This happened on the day before he had
his dream of the aliens from Xeon. “You’re going to get it the next time you come up the middle, too.”
Bill looked up into the stands that day. Lucy was there. She was still cheering for him. Though
overweight, Lucy had a heart. She’d cheer for him no matter what. And when it came down to it, that’s
all he wanted.
“Skank bitches.” Bill said this after glimpsing the girls next to Lucy. Anna was one of them.
“What the fuck do you want from me?”
The game went on. Dirt had his day. At two fifty, he was bound to make his tackles. Adam
Fleshman tackled him once and it brought a tear to his eye. It wasn’t because the tackle was hard. It was
because Adam was half his size. He took him down with the grace of an elk being taken down by a lion.
Whatever the case, the game went on and they had pizza afterwards.
“You don’t know me,” Dirt said to Bill.
“You tackle pretty good. That’s all I know. That’s all I need to know.” Bill paused then said,
“Pass me a beer.”
“You’re eighteen, you prick.”
“I know. But you can afford it, can’t you?”
“No.” Dirt looked surprised at his own answer. Mr. Toughguy who makes all the tackles can’t
even risk being caught by the pizza joint. “Don’t say more.”
“You bite me. You’re twenty-one and you’re a pussy!”
Bill wanted to say, You’re twenty-one and you’re a pussy followed by, and you stink! but Dirt
picked him up by his collar. “You don’t know who I AM!”
“I’ll fuck you in a month. Just wait and see,” Bill said through a loud whisper. He could hardly
breath with Dirt’s lock on him.
“I’m going to go now,” Bill said two minutes later after he caught his breath and Dirt let him
down. “You’re a prick and I’ll say it again tomorrow.”
Bill never got the chance to say it to Dirt. That night, he had his dream. The next day, he was
flying around town. The last person he wanted to see was Dirt Cassidy.

* * *
“I’m out of inspiration again,” Randal told Bill. They were leaving the pizza place and walking
down the street. Bill got up on his skateboard and began to ride. Randal followed close behind. “You
don’t know what it’s like,” Randal told Bill. “It’s like being lifeless.”
“I know what you’re saying. I’m there now.”
“You pray.” Randal made this observation as he skipped over a curb. “You pray, and you’re not
good. What good does it do for you?”
“Nothing. But you’re a prick.”
There was a slight pause. Bill didn’t want to get mad. He knew, though, that people tend to hate
what they can’t understand. Randal wasn’t understanding him, and in return, he wasn’t understanding
Randal. Bill wanted to say something about Randal’s lifeless world without his inspiration. He held it in.
It wasn’t important enough to bring up. He wondered why.
Anna passed by. This caught Bill by surprise. “What’s up, Anna?”
“You’re a...” she began but didn’t finish. Bill could tell it wasn’t going to be good. She stopped
herself though. Bill always wanted to win her over. He was into journalism. It wasn’t the journalism that
most people are into. He wanted to work for Grandma Earth, an offshoot of a paper that he had read long
ago. Grandma Earth was a paper that you could rely on. While people bought Teen Tiger and the like,
you could count on reading Grandma Earth and having them not cram something down your neck.
Actually, that was wrong. They tried to cram environmentalism down your neck. They wanted to get
young people to do more than to buy Neekay’s every week. They wanted them to work. They wanted
them to write. They wanted them to stop watching so much TV. In the end, it was a paradox and an
oxymoron. They were trying to sell you something, but it wasn’t typical of what everyone else was sell.
Grandma Earth was the best paper available. That’s all he had to go on.
“You’re a bitch, Anna. And I’m going to sleep with you...” Anna left. She started walking
away. Bill knew he’d sleep with her. She was gorgeous. But that wasn’t the reason he wanted to sleep
with her. It was fourth grade and she passed him a note that he still remembered. The note read, I like
you. Simple as that. He’d take that note over anything though. And she had no breasts at the time. That
made him feel noble. I liked you, Anna, before you were even gorgeous. Why won’t you give me a chance
now? Bill knew that something was suppressed within her. Had she forgotten the note? Nah. It doesn’t
work that way. Does it?
Bill skated on. He wanted to finish talking to Anna. Randal was around. Bill was going to
swallow his pride. Bill played Playstation for an hour after getting to Randal’s house. He couldn’t
concentrate on what was going on. It didn’t matter. Didn’t matter at all.

* * *
Not long after Randal and Bill stopped playing the Playstation, they heard a knock at the door.
Bill had jabbed Randal in the back with the skateboard he had ridden home on.
“Answer it, you prick,” he said to him.
“Nah. It’s a newsletter from my pops.”
“You fuckin’ prick,” Bill jibed. “You’re a fuckin’ prick. I bet it’s Anna. I know it’s...”
Thump, thump, thump.
“It’s her. I know it,” Randal said.
“You can see her?”
“No. But you’re not wrong. It might be that little kid that keeps riding around here.”
“I know. So...”
“I think she’s going to leave anyway...”
“I know. Unless I answer it.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Whatever.” Bill got up to answer the door at this last remark. “What the fuck do you want?” he
asked Anna after seeing her. “I didn’t think you’d come. I heard you say at the game that you wanted to
play with us--the Playstation, that is.”
“You’re a corporate raider.”
“No. I’m not. I’m proper...”
Anna left. She saw the Neekay swisher that Bill was wearing.
Bill wanted to chase her. He finally said in a loud and strong voice, “I’ve given up! I’ve given
up! You can’t beat them!”
 There was an awkward moment of silence in the house. Bill wanted Anna. The world was
complicated to him. He didn’t know what to do. Finally, he exposed him man-boobs by taking off his
shirt and going after her. “This is my heart. That’s my logo. You can’t see...”
“I know,” she said but she was bored by then.
“Does it sound good?” Bill tried to jibe her. He couldn’t. She was upset but she was feeling
good. He could see it under the tears that started to form.
Anna took off at this time. Tears started streaming down. From down the street, he could see
Daisy and Doug coming. “What are you doing now?” Doug demanded of Bill. He knew Bill. Bill even
believed that he liked him before. He knew him but he wouldn’t stop harassing him... for whatever
reason.
“You don’t know me,” is what Bill finally said to Doug.
“I know,” Doug calmly said back... but Bill wasn’t paying attention to him. He was watching
Anna as she was going down the street. He paid attention to her while Doug looked on. He didn’t want to
deal with Doug. “I know you know me,” is what Doug said.
“Fuck it. Doesn’t matter anyway.” Bill paused, paid attention to Doug for a while, then said,
“Were you talking to me?”

* * *
Bill found out why Doug had been harassing him. He was about to go to sleep when the phone
rang. It was Daisy. “He knows, Bill.” Knows what? didn’t even cross Bill’s mind. Doug knew that they
had slept together. Did Daisy tell? That’s what he wanted to know. “He knows. And he’s going to shoot
you.”
“What?” Bill was groggy. He was ready for bed. He was sleepy from the earlier football game.
Though it had been the day before, he was still getting over the aches and pains. “What the hell are you
talking about?” Bill knew though.
“He’s going to talk to me tonight. I think he’s going to forgive me.”
“I don’t care. What we did, we did.” Daisy hung up the phone before Bill finished. “It was a
mistake then. It was a fuckin’ mistake.” Bill held the phone in his hands. The words he had just spoken
bounced off the wall but nobody heard them. He was alone. He was ready for a change in life.
“Milk. That’s what I need.” Bill got up not long after hanging up the phone--it was clutched in
his hands for about twelve seconds or so--and started toward the kitchen. I’ve gotta stop talking to myself
now.
Bill fixed a bowl of hot milk. He intended to put Cheerios inside. He didn’t though. He sipped
it like a cat at first and then just drank it like a bowl of soup. “I’m going to bed now,” he said. “Will you
please stop talking to me!?” The words of Daisy were ringing in his head: He’s going to shoot you.
 * three *
Bill had these fantasies when he was younger that he’d die--a tragic death--and there’d be
women that would be weeping at his funeral. There were no weeping women at his funeral. His mom had
passed away the year before. She would have wept for him but she was gone. Daisy wept for him, but she
wasn’t at the funeral. Doug would not allow her to go. She wept and she wept and she wept. If Bill
would have known what was going on, he would have been saddened. Anna was there. But she didn’t
weep. She shed a tear but, but that was in passing.
It was Alfred that wept for Bill’s passing. He was at the funeral and he wept like a baby.
The year before, Bill had been admitted to a private school. Fezeare Prep Academy was the
name. He didn’t have much money but he had talent. He didn’t have extraordinary talent but that was
okay by him. He wanted a shot and they gave him a shot. They gave him a full ride scholarship for an
essay that he submitted to them. It was entitled The End of the World As We Know It. He had wanted to
be a journalist. He had talked about how his buddies were committing suicide left and right. They
weren’t doing it real life. They were doing it in life decisions they were making. He played guitar and
that helped. Alfred used to play guitar with him. They’d switch off between playing bass and drums
when they recorded on a cheap four-track machine that Bill’s older sister had given him. He didn’t want
to be in the business though. Not in the music business. It was a cutthroat place. You’d be lucky to make
money if you had extraordinary talent which he did not possess. He thought he could make it as a
journalist though.
“What the fuck do you want from me?” Alfred demanded into thin air. “What the fuck are you
doing right now, Bill? What the fuck is going on?” Alfred sat underneath the rain. The coffin was going
to be lowered into the ground in fifteen minutes. He was going to have to go sooner or later. He didn’t
know what to do.
“Come on now,” Anna said to Alfred.
“Come on what? You’re not even crying for God’s sake! Don’t you care? Don’t you fuckin’...”
“Don’t you raise your voice to me!” Anna stunned Alfred at this time. He didn’t know what to
do. A moment of silence followed--awkward silence. “I don’t know what to do,” is what Anna finally
mustered. “Let’s go. I’ll let you play your guitar at my house.”
“Don’t you do this to me, Anna.” Alfred was thinking about what was going on. He couldn’t
read Anna. He didn’t want to read Anna. He was hot. The rain trickled down on his skin but he was hot
inside. He wanted a break. He wanted a break from life in general. He knew it wouldn’t come. “I’m on
the verge of joining him,” he said to Anna.
She didn’t respond. After a few moments, she laughed.

* * *

The End of the World As We Know It was not the only thing that got Bill into Fezeare though he
didn’t know it. Fezeare was a prep school for the rich. What the rich do is to identify talent. They look
for gold. Bill was a nugget. He was an unrefined nugget. What Fezeare wanted to do is to take that
nugget and to mold it into something else. They wanted it to look like a piece of art. They wanted it to
look like a statue. That’s what they wanted. And in the end, it would make them more money. The
cheap scholarship in terms of what they were worth was to be an investment. That’s all it was. Bill didn’t
know this. Above the arches of the doorway that led to the administration building was a plaque that read,
“We accept everyone.” They accepted him. He had no idea they wouldn’t accept Alfred. Though they got
along--he and Alfred--Alfred wasn’t good enough to them. Besides that, they believed that they were
getting two for the price of one. What Bill did for Fezeare, Alfred would do as well... because they were
brothers. They loved each other. Bill knew it. Alfred knew it. But Bill wanted to blaze a trail. Alfred
was a year younger than him. He wanted to get Alfred into the school as well. And he wanted Alfred to
get his younger friends into the school years later. It was a chain, and as far as Bill was concerned, a
chain is only as strong as its weakest link.
Alfred held the rejection letter in his pocket. He had received it not even two weeks before Bill
started flying. Bill started crying when Alfred was rejected. He didn’t cry in front of Alfred. He couldn’t
do that. But he cried. He cried at night. He cried in the day when no one was looking. It ate him inside
like a cancer. He started to question Fezeare. He didn’t know what they were all about. Why would they
reject Alfred but they accepted me? Bill wondered. He cried night and day for about the next seven or
eight days. He didn’t let Alfred know. He did let him know, I’m not going to Fezeare next year. They’re
a bunch of jerks. How could they see that you didn’t belong there?
What Bill didn’t realize was that the school was in the process of selling out. They had started
with idealism, but idealism doesn’t pay the bills. The sign that said that they accepted everyone was a
hoax, in the end. It was a hoax. It was idealism to the max. If they accepted everyone then the janitors
would have been able to attend classes once in a while. There weren’t any janitors in his classes though.
“Why’d you leave me, Bill?” Alfred managed, right before going to bed. He thought about crying
at the funeral. He thought about Anna. He thought about rejection. He wondered where Bill could be.
He had been an atheist, Alfred had been, but now he was starting to believe. He knew that the strange
things in the days past were an indicator that the world was nothing like he ever believed. What was the
nature of the universe? That’s what he wondered. He fell asleep pondering it.

* * *
Waldo Fleshman entered the room with his pocket protector. He was skiing the day before and
still had a sunburn from not wearing any sunscreen. He had known Bill but was afraid to tell anyone
about the way he was feeling. He stopped by the blackboard on the way to his seat and wrote in chalk,
“We need to live now.” Simple as that. Someone from the back of the room threw a paper ball at him.
No one else cared. Waldo struck a couple of people at what he wrote but he was a nerd. You can’t
publicly cry out for a nerd unless you’re a nerd yourself.
“Bill was a nerd, I want you to know,” Waldo said. His friends called him Wally.
“You’re a fuckin’ nerd too,” Danny cried from the back of the room.
Everyone roared, and then Miss Prits walked in. “Who WROTE this?” she demanded.
 “I did, you fuckin’ cunt.” The class stood silent. It wasn’t Danny that claimed to have written
the message. It was Wally and he was mad. He even called her a word that he hadn’t used since junior
high. “You’re a fuckin’ asshole,” he continued on. He didn’t say it to Miss Prits. He said it to Alfred,
sitting in the front row, center seat.
“You’re a what?” Alfred retorted. “You’re going to the fuckin’ principal. Why are you doing
this?”
Wally didn’t respond. He had nothing to say. Miss Prits didn’t have a thing to say. When
Danny finally broke the silence with a loud fart, the class busted up again. No one was sent to detention.
They knew that Wally was affected by what had happened with Bill. They knew. They felt it. In the end,
no one cared. Not even Wally. He was finally accepted by them--the rest of them, and not just Bill (God
rest his soul, Wally would say later) and not just by Alfred. He was accepted by all of them.
“I don’t need this anymore.” Wally took off his pocket protector and threw it in the trash.
“Two points. Nice shot,” a girl from the back said. She liked him now. She had thought he was
a fuckin’ loser before this. She liked him though.
“What in the world do you want me to do?” Daisy said.
She had entered the room and Alfred saw her first. “What are you doing here?”
“Come on. You’re going to go.” Alfred knew what she wanted. She wanted Bill, but Bill was no
longer around. This wouldn’t be the last time that Alfred would realize that he had become an
unintentional surrogate for Bill Swift. Alfred even thought she wanted sex. It was suggested in the
clothes she was wearing.
“I’m coming, Your Hosebeast. Just wait up for me and I’m taking off.”
“Who is this?” Miss Prits wanted to know.
“It’s my mom,” Alfred said... then left the room.
“Who the fuck are you?” she screamed at him as he approached the doorway at the end of the
hall.
“I don’t know. But I’m having fun. Ease up on my ear... please!” Alfred said.

* * *
Alfred was still rubbing his ear as he passed Thirty-fourth Street in Daisy’s car. “I want you to
meet someone,” she told him.
“Who is it?” Alfred asked.
“It’s none of your business.”
“If it’s none of my business...” he started to say. “My ear hurts!” he finally added.
“I twisted it for a reason,” she told him.
“Fuck you,” he told her.
“Get out.” She stopped the car and let him out.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” Alfred demanded of her. He was already sitting curbside when
she whisked away in her car.
He started to walk down the street after getting up and dusting himself off. This was after her car
was out of view. She knew where he lived though. He was sure of that. If she knew his class, she knew
other things as well. She likes me. I know she does. It’s the Bill inside of me. I’m pretty sure of it.
Ten minutes later, Alfred was near his house. He sat outside on the porch for a while. I bet she
comes back, he thought to himself. He didn’t know what to do. He thought of going inside. He didn’t.
He had a feel she would come back. It ate him who she wanted him to meet. He wanted to meet this
person. Things were getting boring now though. It was nearly sundown when he finally decided to go in.
I have nothing to do anyway. Was that really a waste of time? I hope my teacher doesn’t bust me
tomorrow though.
Alfred went inside and made a sandwich. This is when things started to get eerie again. It had
been eerie before when Bill had first told him about flying. Things were strange now. Things started to
shake around him. He was in California and things were supposed to shake. The world knows about the
quakes that happen in the good, old southwest part of the United States of America. Things were different
now though to Alfred. Things started to float. It happened for about five seconds. He looked at the Chex
cereal in front of him. The milk started to levitate above the fuckin’ Chex. It was strange but he knew it
was a sign.
“Show yourself!” he finally demanded.
“What’s going on!?” his mom demanded of him. She was in the other room, already going to
sleep. “What’s going on in there?”
“Nothing, Mom.” Alfred changed his demeanor. “Didn’t you feel a quake right now?”
“Who are you talking to?”
“No one in particular.” At that moment, Daisy came to the door. “My other mom’s here, Mom!
She just came to the door.”
“You’re out of your...” his mom began. She came out in a robe and saw an old lady at the screen.
The lady wasn’t old--maybe in her mid-thirties--but she wasn’t young in the sense that her son Alfred was
young. “Who are you?” his mom asked the lady.
“You’re old, son of a bitch,” Daisy said to Alfred.
There was a pause. “Mom. Meet Daisy. She was one of Bill’s friends.”
“God rest his soul,” his mom said.
“Mom. I want you to do something.”
“Yeah?”
“Tell her I’m not Bill!”
“Okay, sweetheart.”
Another awkward silence ensued. “What do you want from me?” the lady demanded. Another
awkward silence. Daisy had spoke mostly to Alfred’s mother this time. “I’m going to go.”
“I think you’re crazy, you son of a whore,” Alfred’s mom said.
Another awkward silence. “Do you know I loved you?” Alfred asked Daisy.
“Why?” Daisy wanted to know. She was genuine now. No games.
“You’re what I call a doll. And Bill liked you a lot. I think he still does, whereever the fuck he
is.”
 Alfred’s mom stood in silence. She wasn’t sure what to do. Another awkward silence ensued
before Nicole’s husband came into the room. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not,” Nicole said.
“Daisy, this is my mom, Nicole. Nicole--er, uh--Mom, this is Daisy.” Alfred introduced the two
ladies as he headed for the screen to let Daisy in.
“I know you,” is what Daisy said to Alfred. She wanted him to stop talking.
“Say your peace,” Alfred said to Daisy.
“You play guitar...” she began.
“And drums and bass. What’s your point?”
“I want a friend like you.”
“You have one.” Alfred looked around and noticed that his step-dad wasn’t comfortable. “This
is my friend and step-dad, Homer. We call him Homer. His real name is...”
“...Lard ass,” Alfred’s step-dad said. Everyone laughed. They had tea, Daisy left (not without
fighting though; she wanted to spend the night there), and Alfred slept peacefully for the first time since
the prior week’s funeral.

* * *
In the days that followed the strange incident in which Daisy met his mom, Alfred would have
strange dreams. He slept peacefully on the first night of the meeting, but disturbing images would keep
creeping in his head. He stopped going to school. People would look at him strange. Not only had he
lost his best friend to a suicide, there was the rumor that started that Bill had flown prior to killing
himself. Initially, it was only a handful of people that witnessed it. Rumors are a strange beast though.
They started saying that he had deathrays coming from his eyes. They started saying that he had see-
though vision and he was checking out the cops while they passed in their squad cars. The popular rumor
about the cops was that he was helping them solve cases. Nothing of the sort happened. Bill’s father even
lied and said that Bill had been secretly flying since he was six years old. Nothing was true but people
even suspected that Alfred had the powers as well, being that he was a best friend. In the end, he couldn’t
handle it. He started praying at night as Bill so often did. He started praying and wishing for signs. He
didn’t get them except for in his dreams. In one dream, his father--not the biological one whom passed
away in a train wreck in 1997, but rather the one he had known through Catholic catechism--told him that
it was all nonsense. Don’t pay attention to your memories, he said in the dream. It’s reality that counts.
Reality is that you don’t stand a chance against the government. They’ll slay you if you don’t handle
things right. Tell them that Bill flew. Leave it at that. Tell them that you saw it once with a group of
friends. Leave it at that.
Alfred was disturbed though. There would be conflicting messages. That’s all he knew. In the
end, he wanted to leave his church--one that he hadn’t regularly attended since his confirmation the year
before--and he wanted to go to Oregon. A voice told him to do so. It was his own inner voice that was
saying it, but the way it said it was strange.
There was a new church that had started up there. It was a cult in many people’s minds. It
wasn’t modeled after Jesus Christ. It was modeled after Kurt Cobain. Go up there, the voice said. A long
time later, Alfred would learn that Bill himself was planting the seed in him, though not directly. Bill
came across Kurt Cobain, himself. This happened on the planet Xeon.

* * *
A celebration was being prepared for Bill at the moment that the inhabitants of Kliptor knew that
he passed from his Earthly body. They thought that he would be one of them in time. Nothing could be
farther from the truth. Bill wore out his welcome in the first minute that he talked to the nation’s leader
(being that the planet was considered to be a nation by the people that lived there). He wore out his
welcome and was exiled. They sent him to Neptune in the Earth’s galaxy. It’s not inhabitable by people
that walk the Earth as they are born. When they leave their bodies--their organic captors, as they are
called elsewhere--they are free to be liberated of gravity and the lack of oxygen. Free flying is what most
people get... unless they wind up on Zoton or a place like it.
From Neptune, Bill went other places. When he found Xeon finally, he came across Kurt Cobain
by chance. They were both looking for the planet’s leader. One couldn’t be found. It was at this point
that Kurt suggested to Bill that he send his friends on Earth to a place south of Seattle but north of Bill’s
earthly home: Oregon.
 * four *
Anna strode along late at night. She approached Alfred’s house, which had been located near a
dairy farm since its inception, and she walked up the doorsteps.
Knock, knock, knock.
No answer.
Knock, knock, knock.
Still, no answer.
She went to the side of the house and ventured to peek through the window. The curtain was
open a crack and she could see enough to witness pots and pans from an open kitchen cupboard. She
stayed long enough to see Alfred’s mom. She was in a nightgown. She was getting ready for bed,
obviously. Maybe she was upstairs while Anna had been knocking and didn’t hear. Maybe she was just
knowing that late at night, you ignore these things sometimes. Most likely, it was the former and not the
latter.
Alfred laughed miles away. He was on a Greyhound bus on the way to Oregon. He knew what
he would see up there. He would see a lot of flakes. He might even see a couple of shysters. He didn’t
know what to expect in specifics but he knew he’d be blown away nonetheless.
Anna knocked some more. This time, Nicole came to answer.
“I don’t know what’s going on!” Anna said to her.
“Who are you?”
“Don’t you keep track of your son’s friends?”
“Which son’s? I have two.”
“Not the mean one...”
“Not Jeremy then.”
“Yeah. He’s a brat,” Anna said. They laughed and then Nicole let her in.
“Do you see what I’m talking about?” Anna asked Nicole they after sat down and had a brief
conversation concerning the whereabouts of Alfred.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think he’s joining a cult. He was talking weird.”
“I know. I sent him there.”
“You what?”
“You’re a stranger to me,” Nicole said. No one was in the room but Anna. Anna knew that she
wasn’t talking to her though. She was talking to her son, whereever he may be. “You’re a fuckin’ idiot!”
she said. “You’re a... Oh. You’re taking advantage of me!”
“What the fuck are you saying?”
“I feel him.” Nicole told this to Anna.
“She...” Anna tried to change the subject but couldn’t. “Are you saying...”
“Yep. I feel him. Sure as shit.”
“And you’re okay with that?” Tim came in the room. He had been sleeping. Anna spoke to him
as he approached.
 “I told you... No. It was the other kid. Anyhow, my name’s Homer. Call me Homer. My
enemies call me Tim.”
“You’re what?” Anna asked.
“Who are you talking to now?” Nicole demanded of her.
“It’s in this house. I know it is,” Anna said. “I can...”
“Sure as shit my ass!” Tim screamed. Many miles away, Alfred logged onto a book that he had
been keeping. Sure as shit my am! he wrote. “Sure as shit. That’s... Do you feel what...?” Tim started a
sentence and couldn’t finish it. He looked at a picture of himself, dubbed “Homer” underneath, and asked
it, “I know you know what’s up, buddy. Why are you there?”
“You’re crazy. That’s all I know,” Anna said. She was speaking to a picture next to the Homer
one. It was dubbed “And the rest of the Simpsons” underneath. Alfred made a funny face in it--it must
have been taken a few years ago because of the acne around his mouth--and he was the predominant
person. “I don’t know what to do.” She looked at the picture. All of them were crazy by then, but they
didn’t realize what was really going on: The rest of the world was becoming crazy in a heartbeat.
Alien sightings started taking place two weeks before Alfred left to Oregon. People began calling
the Air Force late at night. At first, the Air Force dismissed them. Then, the Air Force began to deny that
people were calling in in mass quantities. After that, they began to fess up. They had to. TV stations and
radio stations alike started voicing the concerns of everyday citizens.
“I don’t feel so bad now,” Nicole said.
“Bad about what?” Anna asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re a fuckin’ Homer,” she said to the picture of Alfred.
“No. I’m the Homer,” Tim said. He went back to his room. “I’m sleeping, ya’ll.”

* * *
Alfred went to the Greyhound station with just enough money to buy his ticket and maybe a
couple of meals. He thought about hitching a ride. That wouldn’t do. He needed money. He needed
money bad, but it wouldn’t do. He had to buy food or scrounge from trashcans. That wouldn’t be so bad.
The urgency to get to Oregon... That’s what drove him. He rode on the bus like a stranger. He looked at
lovers. They looked so happy and oblivious to what was going on. The world is changing. Bill knew this
all along. I don’t think he knew the magnitude of things.
He scribbled something down: Sure as shit my am! He didn’t know what it meant. Since the
alien sightings had started, he got impressions--strong impressions--and he’d ignore them. He did this as
first. Later, things would happen that felt like deja vu. He didn’t know what to do because he couldn’t
control it. The best he could do was to log everything down that felt strong.
Sure as shit my am!
After he bought a log book, he jotted something down that seemed to come from the outside.
Buy a beer. It ain’t so queer.
There was a billboard--a new one--that was being put up around the corner. Alfred didn’t know
this as he jotted down his idea. He saw it two minutes later. It didn’t drop his jaw--he was already
expecting things like this--but it made him feel less crazy.
I’ve gotta get me a beer. I hope it’s not that advertiser working on me. That would suck.
Alfred thought about things a moment longer. He thought about Daisy. Somehow, things felt
incomplete. He should have slept with her. He could have slept with her. But Daisy told him the story of
Bill’s final day on the planet as a living person. She said that she had sought him out. The guilt must
have buried him. That’s what Daisy thought. Doug was a good guy. He was an old guy. Bill made Daisy
feel young, or so Alfred thought. I could have made her feel young, Alfred thought. A McDonald’s
passed on the left. Suddenly, Alfred was hypnotized. What do I feel like doing? Eating a Big Mac or
getting my work done? When the bus stopped, he made his decision. A Fish Fillet and a bag of fries.
That would do.

* * *
Oregon’s second biggest city is Duckton. Duckton’s biggest claim to fame is that it started the
shoe company, Neekay. There had been a small shoe factory in the center of town that made the state’s
shoes. Pretty soon, they were making the nation’s shoes. When they got big enough, they opened
factories in other parts of the country. At this point, they made shoes for the rest of the world. Later, they
would move their factories from the United States to places unheard of. They would do this and they
would branch out into apparel as well. On the day that Anna slept with Bill, he was wearing a Neekay
sweatshirt. He did this not really caring that it made him mad every time he put it on. He had learned at
Fezeare Academy that Neekay was an evil source. They were using slave labor on seven different
continents. No, there were not penguins making shoes in Antarctica. No. None of that. It was only the
portrayal of the company that they would indeed do that. Bill stopped caring though. Fezeare pretended
to be something... and they rejected his friend, Alfred. If they did that, they couldn’t be right about what
went on. Though it still made Bill mad toward the end of his days to put on a Neekay shirt, it wasn’t
always because the anger was directed at Neekay directly. He was mad at Fezeare as well. He didn’t want
to know what he knew.
Alfred approached the city of Duckton at noon. It had surprised him that it took so long to get
there. He was staring at lovers on the bus for a couple of hours. After that, he felt like a voyeur. The rest
of the ride was long.
In the place where the old, original Neekay factory was, there was a museum. Next to the
museum stood a thirty story structure. The Neekay swisher was on top. It looked like a spiral. There
were no shoes made there anymore. Nonetheless, the city was thriving. Inside the building was a
complex of various business offices. The most dominant and important ones belonged to Neekay. The
rest of them were leased to buildings that wanted to feed off of the Neekay success story as far as financial
wealth is concerned.
Neekay was tarnished. It didn’t matter. What they did have going for them was that they turned
the town into a thriving media center. In all the offices at the top third of the building were people that
worked for Neekay Incorporated. Some of them specialized in the apparel department. Some of them
kept tabs on where and what shoes were being sent in. Some of them dealt with contracts of megastar
athletes. The most important of them worked for Neekay’s budding television department. Neekay put
out a product that rivaled Fox and the rest of the family of networks associated with it. They owned
thirteen radio stations in Oregon alone. They were affiliated with ABC in markets that Neekay
Broadcasting couldn’t reach. In Oregon, NBN--the Neekay Broadcasting Network--reached ninety
percent of all homes. The only homes that Neekay didn’t reach were the ones without cable television or
satellite hookups. This was a good deal of people to Neekay. That’s why they partnered with ABC
whenever they could.
Alfred looked up at the Neekay swisher at the top of the building. “What a goddamn mess,” he
said.
“What?” a lady asked from the seat in front of him.
“I’m in a mess. That’s all.”

* * *
Bill lit up a cigarette on the planet Xeon. He was talking to Kurt Cobain, now known as Zofer,
for about an hour, Earth time. He lit the cigarette and it didn’t occur to him that cigarettes were exclusive
to the planet Earth. He lit one up and he dragged. He didn’t want to think of things. He knew that by
now--his ability to communicate with the living from his former planet was becoming greater--Alfred
must be deboarding his bus. Alfred looked around at his Oregon surroundings at this time. He couldn’t
feel Bill directly--he wondered what he must be doing--but he made a trek into his journal nonetheless. I
know I need money. I know I need to make a couple of friends. I need to avoid getting sidetracked by the
business of this town. Please help me, God. Please help me, Bill, if you’re out there. That’s what he
wrote before going into a McDonald’s. “Is there any way I could get some help around here?” he asked
aloud. No one was in the restaurant to the best of his knowledge. “Hello?” Still no response.
Alfred jumped the counter at that moment. The grills were hot. Everything looked in place.
Nothing was burning. Nothing was over-cooking. There was food around. He grabbed an Egg McMuffin
when somebody came from around the corner.
“We were robbed a second ago. Who are you?”
“I’m no one. I’m looking for help,” Alfred responded to a scrubby man.
“I can see that. You’re a mess. Please, let me help. We’ve been expecting you.” WEIRD CITY,
Alfred thought.
“I just want to know where the bathroom is. That’s all.”
“What’s with the Egg McMuffin in your hand?”
“What Egg... Ah. This? I’m hungry, you see? And I thought no one was around...”
“...so you just jumped the counter and had your...”
“No. It’s not like that. I’m hungry though. I didn’t come in here to steal food!”
“Goddammit!” Alfred heard from the back. More weirdness, as far as he was concerned. “I...” a
female’s voice started.
“It’s the lady of the house,” the man said. “She owns this place now.”
 “What?” Alfred wanted to know. “What’s gone on over here?”
“Fuck you!” The man was mean now. “Fuck you and go home to California. I can tell you’re
from there. No one wears those canvas shoes up here but you guys... and the guys from New York. You’re
all pricks. We don’t want you here.”
“I’m not here for Neekay. I’m not here for... anything. Who’s the lady, anyway? She don’t look
like an owner.”
“Wish granted. You get to speak to her.”
For the next hour, Alfred talked to Lolita. She was an aging black lady. Oregon was ahead of the
times as far as the aliens were concerned. The businesses still ran, but when the saw a stranger, they
didn’t know what to expect. When Alfred convinced Chuck, the mean man whom greeted him, that he
wasn’t an alien, he was let in. Reluctancy was on his face as he did it. He did it nonetheless.
“Okay now,” Lolita told Alfred as they ended there conversation. “You’re going to that church,
they’re going to tell you things there, and in a month, we might have our life back.” The last part of her
statement was nearly a question. She was unsure of herself and a little scared.
“I’m going. That’s all I know. I don’t know what else is going on. My friend is in that church.
I know he is. He told me so in dreams. He said it’d be the best way to reach him.”
“I get you now.” Lolita let him go at this last statement. “There’s a hospice in town. Check in.
You could use the rest.” By then, Alfred was out the door. Lolita hoped she was heard. Alfred needed the
rest.

* * *
Alfred arrived at the Church of Kurt Cobain at around dawn of the day following the day that he
stepped foot in Duckton. He had spent a few hours napping in a park. After that, he set about on a
twelve-hour trek. He found out from a homeless man that the church was due south, about forty miles.
He stopped to rest once in a while. Beside that, he was on a mission. He took off at about five o’ clock
and didn’t look back.
At the door of the church was a man that resembled Cobain. It was eerie and Alfred started
wondering if it was a good idea to do what he’s done. It’s too late though. I had to do something.
Nothing at home was working.
“Hello, sir,” the man said. “My name is Shuster You can call me Clyde if you stick around long
enough.”
“Huh? What? Is this it?” Alfred looked around and saw that the church could seat no more than
eighteen people. The rest of it was a stage. He didn’t know what the stage was for just yet. It was dawn
and no one else was around.
“Yep. You bet your sweet ass this is it. Don’t worry. When it gets big--the crowd, I mean--when
we get fifty or so people here, we go outside. Simple as that. That’s the way it works.”
“You’re Shuster? The fuckin’ Shuster I’ve been looking for?”
“Kid. It’s Shuster and not shyster. Keep that in mind, okay?”
“Yep. Lead me on.”
 For the next twenty minutes, Mr. Shuster led Alfred around. He could see a lot. In the back of
the church were bleachers. Behind them, was a wall that was painted green and orange, a rather odd
combination if you were to ask Alfred. He didn’t know what to do at the end of the twenty. He had no
place to stay and the service wasn’t going to start ‘til noon.
“What do I do now, Mr. Shuster?”
“You can start by...” the man began. He retracted himself. He didn’t like ignorance but caught
himself whenever he got angry at detecting it. “You can start,” he said again, “by polishing my shoes and
licking my boots.”
“I thought you weren’t a shyster.”
“Fuck off, kid. You’re not ready.”
“Every day is Sunday, for all I care. Don’t you guys teach that?”
“It’s a misnomer. We’re in it for the money. I tell you because you look poor, no one would
believe you over me anyway, and you have nothing to give. If you shine my shoes though...”
“I’ll wait for the service.”
“And if it’s good? You’ll shine my shoes then, won’t you?”
“No, buddy. You can fuck off.” Alfred felt dejected at this. He didn’t know what to do. His first
plan was to walk back to the city of Duckton. Maybe the people there would hire him long enough to buy
a ticket back home. Maybe he could call collect and...
“Listen, man. I’m sorry. I come across people like you all the time,” the shyster said. “I don’t
want to harm you.”
“You’ll listen to me, won’t you?” Alfred was desperate.
“No. I’ve heard a million stories. Kurt touched them in this way...”
“NO! That’s not it! It’s not it at all! I talk to him. He tells me things at night. He says
something to me every time...”
“...Ah, buddy. You don’t understand. I tried to tell you...”
“...Listen man. You’re not listening to me. I walked all night to see you. FUCKIN’ LISTEN TO
ME!!”
“Alright. You have an hour. After that, you have to go. I don’t even want you at the service.”

* * *
At around the same time that Alfred walked up to the Church of Kurt Cobain for the first time in
his life, Anna was having a dream, many miles to the south of him. It was about cars. There were fast
things in her dream. There were spaceships and drug addicts. There was a lot of things and she couldn’t
make sense of any of it when she woke.
At the time that Alfred sat down with Mr. Shuster for the first time, both of them sharing a bottle
of homemade brew, Anna was starting to wake up. She pulled the covers over her face to hide the sun.
She wondered briefly where she was at. Then she remembered... I’m at Dirt’s house. His parents are
gone. I’m betraying Bill somehow. That’s the end of the world as I know it.
 * five *
Randal was just getting used to the idea that Bill was out of his life. Did he want him out of his
life? Probably so. He didn’t admit it though. Bill brought baggage with him. He brought the people that
were from the planet Xeon and everyone else. Randal didn’t want to deal with this. He didn’t want to
deal with the fact that everyone was dealing with the same thing.
“You think I’m a fuckin’ loser, don’t you, Bill?” Randal asked him. He was dreaming and didn’t
know it.
“No. But you are a fuckin’ loser. Did you know that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I don’t think. I know. They tell us this stuff up here.”
“You don’t...” Randal started thinking of his buddies. They’d kick his ass. They’d kick Bill’s
ass. “You’re bold. I know,” Randal said. That was the end of the conversation. He woke. Bill had a new
realization at that point: They could get to him... in their dreams. Literally, in their dreams.
“I’m not going to end this so fast,” Randal said aloud. No one was around. He couldn’t hear Bill
any longer. He knew that Alfred had taken off north. He didn’t know why. He hadn’t stayed in touch
with Anna or any of the rest of the people that Bill had hung out with. “I’m going to lose,” Randal said.
You’re not going to lose, a voice from within him said. You’re not going to lose at all. I’ve lost,
Randal. You can trust me on it. I feel great, but that’s about all. They’re going to send me to another
planet next week.
I’m hearing voices, Randal thought. I’m hearing fuckin’ voices!
Bill was around him. He learned, by then, to be around people all the time. It wasn’t just a
chance thing anymore. If he wanted you to think of him, he could do it on command. It wasn’t Cobain
who showed him. It was Andy Worhol. Surprising as it may be, Andy Worhol showed Bill the ropes at
reaching people on Earth.
I’m going to go now, Randal. Please trust me. You’re the only one I’ve got. Alfred’s a lost
motherfucker. He won’t listen to me. He rarely even listens to himself.
I got ya’, bud, Randal said in his head, and then he cracked open a can of beer. He sipped it. I
hope my mom comes back okay. Many parents were leaving. The government started quarantining
certain areas. Other places, they would just scare you to death. Bill lived in a neighborhood where aliens
were present. They weren’t there in mass. This happened first in the big cities. The government tried to
quarantine these areas in hopes of stopping a disaster. They didn’t know that it was inevitable that they
would lose. I got ya’, bud, Randal said again. He finished his beer not even a minute after cracking it
open.

* * *
The day before Randal had his mental conversation with the ghost of Bill, Alfred sipped beer
with Clyde Shuster. He had a rather interesting conversation. In all, he thought it was worth it. He
thought traveling up to Oregon on a whim was worth it.
“I have something to tell you, Mr. Shuster.”
 “I know already. I can read your thought like anything else I can read.”
“It’s not that though. I know it’s hidden or else you would have done something by now.”
“You’ve been looking at my necktie. I know that. There’s something about the necktie and I can
feel it. No. I can’t read your mind and tell you what it is. I know it’s there though.”
“It’s your neck. Not your necktie. It’s ready to be hung.” Alfred barely got the words out before
he was attacked by Mr. Clyde Shuster.
“I don’t like what you’re saying, little buddy!”
“I don’t give a shit!” Alfred retorted. He could barely speak his words. He was being choked.
“All I was saying was that it’s a pretty noose. Do you ever get that?”
“No. Fuck no. Why would I?”
“You’re from Seattle, no?”
“Duckton, Oregon. That’s where I’m from.”
“You know of Seattle or else you wouldn’t have...”
Clyde wouldn’t have any more of the conversation. “I know. I know, I know, I know.” He had
stopped choking Alfred. He was sitting upright and looking for his beer. He couldn’t seem to find it.
“I forgive you, you know?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re a corporate raider. That’s all.”
“No I’m not!”
“Then why dress like...”
Mr. Shuster wouldn’t have any of it and Alfred knew it.
“You live up the street from...” Alfred began again. Once again, he knew Mr. Shuster would
have any of it. “I’d do it too, you know? When I’m over thirty and all. When that happens, all hell
breaks loose, right?”
“You mean that as a matter of speech, don’t you? The part about hell?”
“Of course I do. Me and you both know what’s going on.”
“Which is?”
“It’s going on in front of your nose... The people that come here. They know and you don’t. You
pretend to know. That’s all. It’s sick, if you asked me.”
“You’re a...?” Mr. Shuster tried to figure him out. “You’re a...? Come on. Help me out here.”
“You’re a corporate raider. I hoped you’d have an artistic flair in you. You don’t. You’re a
sheep. You shouldn’t be running this thing! You’re a fuckin’ sellout! You’re a fuckin’ sellout!”
Mr. Shuster took it all in.

* * *
Anna laid next to Tim. She was becoming the village slut but she didn’t really care. She knew
the end was coming near. She dreaded the time that Nicole would come home early from a bridge game
and find her with her husband.
“What do you want from me?” Anna asked.
 Tim didn’t respond. A moment passed and then Tim started to say something about Bill. It
didn’t matter to Anna. She couldn’t understand what was going on.
Nicole came home at eight thirty that night. Anna had long since been gone. “You’re a slut,”
she said aloud. “Tim? Are you here?” She wasn’t talking about Tim though when she called someone a
slut aloud. She may have been talking about herself. She wasn’t really sure. She put her head against the
door and wanted to cry. She couldn’t cry though. She had some martinis with the girls. That’s all she
remembered. She wanted to go to bed early. Things seemed to be returning to normal. There hadn’t been
an alien sighting in a couple of days. There was collective amnesia going on. There was a lot of
suppression. There was a lot of pretending.
Anna knocked at the door. “I slept with your husband,” she said.
“That’s good. Do you want to come in?”
“No. I really slept...”
“...I know.” Nicole was starting to get mad. “Come over here, babe,” she talked to Anna as if the
fear and anger never surfaced. “Come here, babe...” Anna came close after coming through the door.
Nicole got her in a headlock and started giving her a noogie.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Anna asked.
“He’s over. That’s all. He doesn’t even know it yet.”
“You’re a loser too, Tim,” Anna said after seeing him come into the room. “Who were you
talking to?” Anna asked Nicole.
Tim didn’t say a thing. The two women were fighting but they didn’t want to kill each other.
Bill was fast leaving from their minds. At the very least, he was being pushed into an area known as the
subconscious. Some people would call it the Twighlight Zone.

* * *
Bill was having a dream of Randal--that’s right--and he woke from a slumber that lasted twelve
Earth days. He was dreaming that he had been too hard on him. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t
know that there were ways, by the way, to avoid sleeping when you’re on other planets. Some people--or
things--have it mastered. There are beings that have been awake for twelve millennia without even trying
to sleep. Bill was finding out fast that life was different elsewhere. He could imagine certain things. A
lifespan? Well, to Bill, he would have thought that two hundred years would have been a good number to
rely on if betting on the longest surviving alien. He was wrong. It’s twenty billion years and more. You
see? A housefly doesn’t know that everyone else lives millions of times longer than them... on Earth. Is
that a literal figure? No. But you could get the picture if you were to ask Bill after only a few weeks after
his passing from Earth. He didn’t know. It’s all relative. That’s what he learned. Bacteria used to live
on Earth and lived for a short period of time. It still lived on Earth and had the same short lifespan.
Things evolved. The first living being didn’t last seventy-five years. Over time, things evolved.
Earth had been around for four billion years. This gave it a good head start on planets that were
just forming. Nonetheless, in the universe, there are galaxies and planets that have been around for much
longer. Xeon, for example, had been around since the Crab Nebula was formed. What’s the Crab
Nebula? Bill didn’t know. He was told it by Kurt Cobain when they had their conversation. Whether or
not it was true was beyond him. He was still learning.
“What are you talking about?” Nicole asked her son. Alfred had come back from Seattle two
days after his stop in Duckton. He went up to Seattle to ask around. The conversation he had with Mr.
Shuster was an interesting one. They were able to channel Bill directly. With him, they channeled Kurt
Cobain as well. This surprised Mr. Shuster. He had been a shyster. He had been duping people. The
church wasn’t his idea. It was his brother’s. A tax shelter, you see, is the perfect place for a church! he
had told him. Your product can’t go bad! How can you lose? If your promises go bad, you tell the
people, ‘You just didn’t have enough faith!’ It’s a no miss situation. How about I help you set it up? Mr.
Shuster was surprised at the revelation. He never knew that things could come true. He played “...Teen
Spirit” at the beginning of every sermon. He didn’t even know that Bleach or Incesticide existed. It
didn’t matter to him. Whenever a believer would come and approach him on his knowledge, he would say
to him or her, Don’t worry about me, kiddo. You’re faith is what brought you here. I could tell you all the
answers you want--and I will--but you have to give me time. He was a shyster. Sometimes he didn’t even
know it.
“What are you talking about?” Nicole asked her son again.
“Huh? I was thinking about this past week. That’s all. A lot’s happened. I don’t feel like
talking about it right now.”
“Talk to me,” his mom said.
“I’d like to. I will. Not now.”
“Go home.”
“I am home, mom. Do you mean to Seattle? Is that what you’re talking about?”
“No. Stay here.”
“Okay. I’m ending this now. Good night.” Before he finished saying the word “good”, his mom
gave him a peck on the check. It made him feel good.

* * *
Wally Fleshman was getting more and more popular by the day. With it--the popularity--came
tasks. He had been an outsider for so long. He bottled in his emotions. Very few people knew what was
inside. Alfred had a poem of his. He wrote it down, rewrote the verses, put music to it, then decided that
the world ought to know what was going on inside that guy.
“We’re going to win,” Wally said to Alfred on the day after his mom had kissed him on the cheek.
“We’re going to win. I can feel it now.”
“What are we going to win? I don’t know what I’m aiming for. I know I want Bill back--he was
a lot of fun--and that’s all I know. I know...”
Marie came into the room. She didn’t know what was going on. Wally’s garage was wide open.
Alfred’s amplifier was facing Marie as she approached. He strummed a couple of notes. That seemed to
settle Marie. He didn’t know what to do after that. He didn’t know what she wanted. She was going to
say something. She didn’t complete her sentence. Wally wasn’t even sure if she began a sentence. Alfred
knew though. She wanted to talk.
“We’re going to win, I say,” Wally said again.
“I don’t think Marie cares,” Alfred casually mentioned. “I don’t think she cares at all.”
Wally didn’t say anything. Alfred was uncomfortable with the silence. He knew no note could
even bring him up. “You’re a star now,” he said to Wally.
“Since the pocket protector thing. I know.”
“No. You had it brewing.”
Concha came around at Marie’s request. She had been hiding around the hedges.
“What do they want?”
“Answers, buddy,” Alfred said to Wally’s question. “I think I’m going to start calling you Bitch
Ass. It’s not a bad name,” Alfred finally said to Wally. He observed Concha and Marie looking on.
“They’re going to cheat!” Wally said about them.
“Cheat what?” Alfred wanted to know.
“Cheat me and you both.”
“Nah. It ain’t set up that way. You ever hear of critical mass, Waldo?”
“No. Fill me in.”
“Well...” Alfred went on to tell him what it was all about. “There’s a certain point in chemical
reactions in which a reaction can’t be reversed. If you add water to chlorine, you’re bound to explode.
But chorine is what you put water in to. In other words, if the elements are wrong--if you don’t get it
right--kaboom. Simple as that.”
“Critical mass, huh?”
“You bet your ass. You see...?”
“...don’t tell me about Jesus--Hesoos, okay?”
“No. I’ll stop there,” Alfred said. Wally got up and looked a little mad. “What’s the problem,
Wall?”
“Don’t ask me. Ask them...”
Dirt Cassidy came around. Nonetheless, Alfred knew that Wally could have continued his train
of thought if he really wanted to. Wally was scared. It was new to him.
“It’s about chemical reactions, Marie.” She had approached him. “It can’t be reversed. Can’t
you see that?”
“Yep. And I’m happy.”
“I’m glad you are.” Alfred took Marie aside and put his arms around her. It wasn’t sexual. “I’m
fine. Everyone’s fine. We’re all going to be fine. Things are going to be normal. The players are
different. The game is still the same.”
Alfred never got to tell them the sociological implications of what critical mass is. “Jesus? He
can’t be reversed. He’s forever in our minds as one thing. Same thing with Gandhi. Same for a lot of
people. Some people don’t have it so well like Judas Iscariot. He has his followers, sure. But you never
get to worship him in the same way. He’ll never be seen as a leader. Not in my lifetime.”
 Alfred talked to himself all the way home after hugging Marie. He continued his personal
sermon by telling himself more things he had learned the day before in a dream from Bill. It was all
incredible to him.

* * *

A storm was brewing on the horizon. It wasn’t the type of storm that you would expect to see
every day after a cold front meets a hot one. Far from it. It was the government. They wanted to hush
people up. Wally and Alfred wrote a song the week after Marie and Concha started scouting them out.
Dirt laid back that day. He was afraid for his life. He knew he could physically harm nearly anyone he
wanted. He was afraid of the forces that started to take hold in Alfred’s home. He knew these forces were
spreading. Alien invasion was imminent, as far as he was concerned. He wanted to do something about
it. The thing he wanted to do was to learn about them. He would have to kiss up to Alfred. He was
willing to do that. It was to save his own skin. The thing that bothered him the most was that Wally--
Waldo--was a nerd in the past. He didn’t know what to do. He’d have to swallow his pride. He didn’t
know if he could.
“These changes...you see...” He was uncomfortable talking to Alfred. He had gone to his home
and began to talk to him at the screen door. “They’re changes that are...?”
“Worse than you imagine,” Alfred finished for him. He wanted to cry at that point. He picked a
scab from his finger. “Fuckin’ thing!” he said.
“They’re changes that you know about...?” he asked inquizitively.
“No. They’re not. Get the fuck out of my house!” Alfred spoke to Dirt at the beginning before
he saw Swartz come up the steps. That’s who he was talking to about getting the fuck out of his house.
“They’re changes that...?”
“Fuck it all, Dirt. I’m having fun. I’m having fun for the first time in about eight years. I was
always overshadowed by Bill. I’m glad he’s gone.”
“But you talk to him, don’t you?” he asked inquizitively again.
“No. I talk. He doesn’t listen. Does that matter?”
Dirt started to say something else then chose against it. “I don’t know what to do,” Alfred said.
He was surprised the conversation began to begin with. It shouldn’t have surprised him. He’d seen
loonier things over the past few days and weeks.
Bill told Alfred the night before about how life was structured. He told him that atoms aren’t the
smallest particles. This was news to Alfred but it wasn’t news to anyone that’s studied modern physics.
He went on to say, though, that the modern physicists were still billions of years behind in their
understanding of things. He said that in the same way that the fly doesn’t know that his life isn’t long
compared to the human’s, modern physicists on Earth don’t understand the smallest known particle in the
universe in a millionth the size of the one that we know about. We have organic captors on Earth based
mostly in carbon. In Xeon, there’s a known substance known as schlaclak. That’s the equivalent to the
hydrogen atom because it begins the charts in United States‘ schools and universities. Carbon is still
bigger than that in Earth’s chemistry, and that part Alfred knew about for whatever reason.
After Bill spilled this knowledge onto Alfred, Alfred said to him, “It’s doing me no good here.”
You don’t know what’s up then! Alfred wasn’t in a seance. He was talking aloud in his room. It’s
something he became accustomed to. The voices from Bill and others would surround him but he didn’t
know where they were coming from. He had started to believe that he was bugged by the CIA and that
they put tiny microphones and speakers all over the place. He couldn’t believe what was going on. More
so, he was naive to the way things really worked in the United States of America. There was an relatively
unknown agency known as PIA, only known to the few hundred people that ran it. It was a spy man’s spy
game. It stood for Periphery Intelligence Agency. They were like a sieve. They picked up things that the
CIA couldn’t.
“Bill. Tell me then!”’
No. You’re going to fuck things up.
“Why are you mean now? I never did anything to you.”
It’s a fuck up. That’s all. I go through them too. A pause ensued and then Bill started to speak
again. It’s a fuck up. I can’t tell you more. I will. I’ll tell you one more piece. It’s for that fiction you’ve
been writing since you got these voices. I’m going to tell you something to throw them off. Okay? You
can tell them that I know who they are. I don’t know. Don’t tell them that though. I just know they’ll be
coming after you. They’ll hit on you in busses. They’ll do a lot of strange things. Watch your mom, too.
I think she has a thing for you. Tell my brother, Ned, in a letter that you talk to me.
*Part Two*

* one *
“The most secretive place in American psychology is a place called Area 51. There’s a place
more secretive than that. It’s not in American psychology in general. It’s in the places of minds that dupe
the masses. It has a physical location. It’s in Siberia.” Jeff paused to see if there was any questions.
None were asked. One man eventually raised his hand but he was ignored.
“The world doesn’t know that Americans financed the Russian Revolution,” Jeff continued, “At
the turn of the twentieth century... Only a few historians know about it, and their knowledge is rather
bleak. Americans had a plan for Russians many years ago. These plans were lost in the archives. As
people died off, the secrecy was not kept. It’s like losing your keys. You remember where to put them one
day and they get stolen. You find a secret hiding place for them when you remake a new set. Over time,
you lose them. Why? Because you make the spare set and you don’t need them. You keep them there. In
the back of your mind, you’re assured by the fact that they’re there someplace. On the day that push
comes to shove, you lock your keys in your car while you’re getting ready to go for groceries or whatever,
you think about the secret set of keys.”
A man farted but no one paid attention. It didn’t smell too bad or else there would have been
shuffling and that would have disrupted the mood. Professor Jeff Splifer continued, nonetheless. “You
remember that they’re there--the keys. Funny thing about memory is that it’s not perfect. Sometimes
secret things get lost. Sometimes even the hiders of secret things forget what they’re doing. What a
stupid world we live in.” Jeff paused again. “I have nothing more to add. If you have questions, it’ll
have to wait until tomorrow.” He was pissed that someone had farted during his lecture. No one noticed
or seemed to notice. In the end, it bugged him.
“Wait, Slif... I don’t know what your name is. I’m sorry. Can I ask a question before we leave?”
It was Edward Hand, the one that let one go on accident. He had a question that was burning inside him
for the last hour. Jeff Splifer wasn’t going to leave and he could see that, although he looked a little
discomforted. “I want to know...” He paused and looked around. “Where’s the nearest bathroom?”

* * *
“Butch Jackson was sent to an area known as Sector A1263166. The Reds called it Red Sector A,
after a Rush song that they had heard over and over and over and over. Butch wasn’t ready for the truth.
He knew that alien invasion was forthcoming. He didn’t know when it would happen.” Edward Hand
spoke at a convention and relayed a message he had heard not even twenty-four hours prior.
A few people rustled through the crowd. Tens of thousands would like to hear this message. I’m
pretty sure of it, he thought after getting a drink of water from a cup in front of him.
He continued, “Red Sector A was a place in Siberia--Jeff Splifer had it right--and they were to
prepare for these alien attacks. The sightings in New Mexico, California, and Arizona were the tip of the
ice berg. They had radars in the Red Sector--so it was known as--that made the Stealth Fighter look like a
flying piece of tin. They could pick up a sand storm and tell you how many pieces of sand flew through a
tree foot box per hour. They had technology that good.” He continued on after seeing a friend of his sit
down in the front row. “Where did the technology come from? It came from the aliens themselves. They
started financing revolutions throughout the Earth. For some reason, they picked the United States to be
their major recipients. The reason was simple: Faith. The United States had faith in them. In the same
way that the Russians forgot how they got in power, the United States did also. The Russians forgot that
the Bolsheviks... Ah, Let’s not go there right now. What I want to tell you is that everybody eventually
bites the hand that feeds it.”
Edward paused for a moment. It was a dramatic pause but it was unintended. He started to
stutter a word, “I... I... I’m not sure. I really want to tell you. I want to tell you.” Music played from the
background. What we’re going to do here is pass around a plate. I want you to donate. Make it good.
Make it really, really good. I have to go on and share this with other people, you understand?”
“You’re a fraud,” Butch Jackson said. He was the Secretary of Defense in the country. No one
had noticed him in his street clothes.
“Go on, Butch. State your peace. I’ll give you the mike.” Edward handed him the microphone.
“I have this to say, people. We don’t need freedom of speech. We don’t need...” He paused.
Edward looked around at the audience. More and more people were coming by the minute. He
could sense people leaving. They weren’t getting up just yet. There was an unrest though.
“I have this to say, Butch said again.
“Speak on, brotherman,” Edward retorted. He wanted him to have speech. If they liked him,
they would listen. If they didn’t, they’d ignore him. “You can’t beat the truth!” Edward yelled as he
reached for the microphone back. “I’m not on his side,” he said after giving the microphone back
apologetically. “We can’t stand for this!” he said at the top of his lungs.
“They got him,” Glory said from the back of the room--a small place, it was. No one heard her
but her husband. She was making an observation about what the government was doing with their
officials.
“I can’t stand this,” Butch said to Edward. It wasn’t loud enough for the mike to register.
“I won!” Edward yelled. He was happy. “I’m going to take a shit now,” he said through his
mike. After brief laughter, Edward went to leave. It was Jeff Splifer that came into the room next. He
had a look of consternation on his face.
“You don’t know what’s up.” Edward could read his lips but not hear him.
“Why?” Edward asked him as they met on the floor of the convention center--a small one, keep in
mind. “Why, Jeff? Why? What are you telling me?”
“I’m not Jeff. I’m Fido!” Once again, the group broke into laughter. Jeff and Edward hugged.
It was a joyous moment.
“I’ve gotta take a shit still,” Edward said. He left the room squeezing his butt cheeks tight
together.

* * *
 For the first six months since Alfred came back from Mexico--a trip he had wanted to take since
recently coming back from Oregon--he played guitar a lot. He talked to Wally a lot. He even talked to
Dirt on occasion. No one would play with him though. He wanted to be in a band. He couldn’t be in a
band. Bill was right. The government didn’t come down on him. He was right about people coming on
to him in unexpected ways, most of all his teachers at school that were female. He was shocked. There
were no more alien sightings around but you could feel that something was brewing.
“Twenty, twenty-four,” he said aloud. He practiced his guitar. “Sounds like a good name for a
song. I think I’ll write it.”
Many miles away, Edward Hand returned from the restroom after relieving himself.

* * *

Cindy Dalton, a follower of Edward’s for a while, came into the convention room about thirty
minutes past the time that she had said she’d arrive. Edward was expecting her but things were getting
late. Things had softened up a bit in the crowd after Butch decided to leave. Edward spoke about sports.
He told jokes that no one had heard. He was on top of the world at that time. And he was tired.
“Cindy. I want to tell you something...”
“What?” She wanted to know.
“First, understand that I’ve been doing this all day.”
“I know.” She agreed with him without telling him in words that it was okay to be tired.
“I have to tell you something. I feel a charge! I think...”
“We’re getting our nation back?”
“No.” A nervousness seeped into him. “It’s not that...”
“I know what you want to say. Sleep at my house,” she said.
“Are you talking to Tom? Tom fuckin’ Cruise! My God! What the FUCK!”
“I have reservations with you, dog boy,” Tom said to Edward. Edward couldn’t hide his joy
though. He was happy. He was happy, happy, happy, HAPPY. “I have reservations...” Tom stopped.
“You get some rest. There’s bags under your eyes.”
Edward stopped. He felt let out. He felt victorious. He felt greet. He wanted to go home, close
the blinds, and beat his meat ‘til the cows came home.

* * *
In Mesa, Arizona, a lady pumped gasoline. She did this because it was her job. She got funny
looks from some people. When she explained that it was a family-owned business, they usually went
about their business as usual.
“I don’t know what to tell you.” She was wearing a crystal around her neck and she was talking
to a scrubby, old man.
“Listen, lady. I’ve been working at McDonald’s for most of this past year... I don’t know what to
tell you either. A lady working at a gas station. It doesn’t jibe with me. I don’t care who your dad is or
what he owns.” The man was surprised to see that he hadn’t boiled over into an uncontrollable anger.
“Do you have anything to say to me, or are you going to jet let me go without a comment on it?”
“You’re nothing to me,” the lady said. The man would swear later on that it was Stevie Nicks at
the pump. It couldn’t have been. No way.
In Mesa, Arizona, there were signs that reported the previous alien sightings. They would
advertise beer. They would advertise restaurants. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that you went
straight to Roswell in the New Mexico sector of the country. “Have a nice day anyway,” the man said. “I
wish you the best.”
The man sped off. He was leaving Oregon. He had enough of that town. He thought that
exploring the American Southwest would do him some good. He felt like a cowboy. He was going to be
one... in Irving, Texas where the Cowboys play. He’d be one as a fan. And he’d start a new life. Little
did he know that alien sightings were still going on in Mesa. It was the only part of the country where
they still existed on a regular basis.
“I get it,” the lady said with joy. “You’re mad. You’re not crazy, like I thought you were. You’re
mad. You’re mad about me!”
“Don’t be so vane, lady. Can I have a picture with you? You look a lot like Stevie Nicks!”

* * *
Jeff Splifer wasn’t ready to teach. He was mad. He was angry at Bucky Holdwater and what he
had done to Edward Hand. He didn’t want to teach. He could. He’d be effective. Rhetoric has incredible
weight. Most people don’t even care to notice whether or not you care about your subject. They don’t
look into your eyes. They don’t pay attention to how your body language is. They turn on their tape
recorders, they listen, they jot down notes, and they don’t even know if the teacher is thinking of a burger
while he says that we shouldn’t slaughter the cows. There’s a lot of hypocrites in the world. Jeff Splifer
didn’t want to be one. He felt like one. It was because he was paid to perform. Every day, he’d have to
go into class and say something. It was all rhetoric to him sometimes. Sometimes, he’d even forget
where he was at in a lecture. At that point, he had a trick. He’d say to the class in a generic way, Can
someone paraphrase what I just said? It was a trick. He knew it. No one else did.
Bucky Holdwater jotted down notes in a mean fever. He worked for Ameriway. He knew that
Ameriway was threatened by what Jeff Splifer taught. He didn’t know what to do. His only solution was
to invade the beast.
“Do you know what he’s saying?!” he yelled in class to Bucky. He was talking about Edward
Hand. Edward was taking the notes from what he was learning and he was using them. He used them so
well the week before that he met Secretary of State, Butch Jackson, and he met movie star, Tom Cruise.
There’d be others. Edward wasn’t into it though. He wanted to make people happy. He didn’t like the
people he was around. He liked them, but they were ineffective for his cause. They helped him sleep,
yeah, but when it came to shove the beast that you wanted to change, they were ineffective. Why? It
didn’t matter to him. All he knew was that if he kept talking truth, someone would come. It was Tom
Cruise the week before. It might be Butch Jackson in the future again. He didn’t know. As far as he was
concerned, Bucky could fuck off because he was the undermining authority in his world. At least his
friends that he grew up around humored him. Bucky wouldn’t do that. He’d undermine. It was his way
and Jeff was mad about it.
“Do you see what he’s trying to do, Bucky?” Jeff asked. He was genuinely concerned. He had
hope for Bucky. Edward could detect it in his tone. He wasn’t one of the people that just turned on the
taper recorder and started listening without connecting other dots. Bucky argued. Most the time he’d
argue, it was something that Ameriway told him to say. He didn’t know what to do. In the end, he didn’t
know if he was equally as bad. He listened to KFRE FM. It was a liberal broadcast station. He thought
that they were freeing people. If KFRE told him to show up to a rally, he went. No questions asked. He’d
go. And if he found out that one of KFRE’s directors turned out to be a fraud? He’d give the station the
benefit of the doubt. “Exception to the rule” is what he always said. He had a conversation with an irate
man from a small town one day--Michaels was his name. He didn’t know what to do.
Do you think I’m a fraud now? he had said. Look at my credentials. He showed him paperwork
that was sent from KFRE. It was to establish him as a Listener... with a capital L. It established him as a
certified liberal. Do you think I’m a liberal? he asked Michaels.
I don’t know, Michaels slowly replied. He looked perplexed. I want this to end though. He
looked sad when he said it.
I’m not even on my own side, you son-of-a-bitch, he said. I don’t know what is going on in the
world. But I have hope.
You’re a drop dead son of a bitch yourself, Michaels said. He didn’t look convincing to Edward
Edward continued the conversation, but deep down, he didn’t know if he was right. He went by
their dogma and it felt goooood. It felt sooo gooood to him. He wanted an orgasm everytime he touched
the dial to put the station on. It was that good to him. It was like stroking his pecker.
You couldn’t imagine, he would say to Michaels before leaving. You don’t know shit, you son of a
bitch, he said to someone else when they tried to chastise Michaels in his presence.
“You’re missing the point, Bucky,” Jeff Splifer continued. “You don’t know what’s up.”
Edward wanted more information for his speeches. They were a hit. They made people feel
good. That’s all he knew.
“You stick up for your people. I’ll stick up for mine,” he said to Bucky and then left the room.
He came back to peek his head in. “I like you, Michaels. Wherever you are. You let him know that if he
ever comes to your class, Jeff?”
“Nope,” Jeff said.
“Good enough.” Edward split

* * *
On a day that wasn’t so hot--there were clouds all over the place--a little girl mustered enough
courage to speak to her friend that she made in her mind. For a year or more, she would think of him. He
was in high school. She didn’t know what to do. She rode past his house every day that she could. She
waved when he wasn’t there and pretended that he saw her. He’d wave back, in her mind. She saw him
one day fixing his car--an old Camero--and she decided to stop.
“Your name is Ron. I know you well.”
“No, little girl. You have that wrong. The name’s Randal.”
“No. It’s not Randall Flagg like the man from the scary movie. You’re Ron to me. I’m going to
marry you.”
There was an awkward silence as the young man continued to polish his rims and didn’t know
what to say.
“You’re not too young to me. You’re calculated. I don’t like that.”
“You better run off then, miss. I’ll see you another day.”
“What can you tell me about the stars? I know you know about them?”
“I know nothing.” Randal became frustrated, stopped his cleaning, and tried to hide his
emotions.
The little girl went about her business. She’d remember that day for a long time. In the end, she
thought he was a jerk. Those things would happen in life. She’d learn that the hard way when she met
her first boyfriend in sixth grade. He was a punk ass loser to her. That was all she needed to know about
Randal. She stopped riding by his house the following day.

* * *

Edward taught a convention--that’s what he always called them no matter how small they were--
at a coffee house in his home town. He had gotten on the internet and pretended to be someone he wasn’t.
He let the rumor spread that the real Edward Hand would be in Los Angeles. He tried to get a small
group of people to come to the coffee house to talk about his implications. In the end, he thought he was
getting too big. He didn’t want to see Tom anymore--he called Tom Cruise by his first name when people
were around--and he didn’t want to see Butch Jackson. He wanted to see people like himself. He had
become a celebrity of sorts, and not by his own choosing. He had become popular. He thought that if he
could pull this off, he’d get back to his roots. It was as simple as that.
He waited at the coffee house--he wore a mask over his face at the beginning and told the server
behind the counter that he was getting ready for a costume party--and he sipped on his mocha until the
first of the visitors showed.
“Are you the...” Dirt began.
“No. I’m not. I’m the real deal, buddy!” Edward said. There was a moment of disapproval that
he had for himself after a moment of embrace. “I’ve been waiting for this though. I’ve been waiting a
long time.”
Ten people showed up that night. Edward had a good time. An Italian by the name of Stephanie
showed up and had a thrill. In the end, they shared knowledge. What Edward got out of the conversation
was more than he wished for. He thought that he’d be the one doing most of the talking. It was far from
the truth. Stephanie told him that she learned through the grapevine that Bill still talked to people. There
were things of interest. He didn’t know if half of it was true and none of them did when push came to
shove. It was intriguing. By the middle of the conversation, Edward had enough of the talking and
decided to go. He drove home. On the way, he thought of the new concept of micro particles. Physicists
didn’t know about it. The analogy that Stephanie gave was that scientists were looking at atoms like a
giant alien would look at the Earth from far away. You couldn’t see the small particles of dirt that made
up the planet. You couldn’t do that. An alien from far away might think that the Earth is a big piece of
solid rock and nothing more--a self-contained unit. He didn’t think of the implications he was telling her
when he said to slow down a bit (she was on a rant at the time). He didn’t do that. But on the way home,
he thought, I’ve been thinking of hydrogen like it was the smallest thing available. Dirt and Earth.
Makes sense. Scientists can’t see the “dirt” that makes up the hydrogen. It’s as simple as that.
A million balls tied together. That’s what Stephanie had said. It looks like a giant ball from far
away. How weird, huh? she asked. Edward felt out of place at the time. He wanted to tie in with his
roots. He felt like a fraud when he talked to them. They didn’t know shit and neither did he. But they
were trying to figure things out. That’s what mattered to him.
Edward crossed the street at the intersection before getting to his house. He was somehow glad
that he was alive. He scratched his balls. He believed that he’d leave the preaching in the future to the
kids. They had more passion.
 * two *

“Do you think,” Zotar began to ask, “that the reason that Bill wrote the poems was for us to do
something with them? I know they were lyrics he was working on. He left them on his bed though. Was
it a coincidence? I wonder.” Zotar finished his sentenced, sipped a beer, and then kept asking questions.
They lasted about fifteen minutes. Every time that he would say or ask something too deep, Candy would
shrug. She didn’t know. She didn’t care.
“Why do you call yourself ‘Zotar’ again?”
“It doesn’t matter. It came in a dream.” Zotar had a funny streak about him. He liked a girl
named Lizzy. He wouldn’t stop until he had her. Dead or not, he saw a threat in Bill. Dead or not, he
wanted to get Bill out of people’s consciousness. He didn’t know what to do so he kept asking the
questions.
“I’m Candy!” Candy finally yelled. “I’m not Hoopla or something like that! Call yourself
something real!” She calmed then added, “Ya’ fuckin’ prick.”
It wasn’t all that bad in town now. People began to mock the aliens. Dirt was now going by
Zotar. No one even knew his real name when he was going by Dirt. It’s a funny world.
“I don’t know what to say,” Alfred said. He was quiet most the time. He strummed his guitar in
the background and tried not to think too much about it. He didn’t know what lyrics Bill had left behind.
That was one of the many rumors. Rumor had it that there was a suicide note as well. Deep in his pocket,
Alfred hung on to the rejection noticed that he received from Fezeare Academy. Without that sometimes,
he’d go mad and start to wonder if any of it was true. It’s the only tangible thing he had connected to Bill
besides the pictures that they took over the years. “Do you see how it works now?” he asked Randal.
Randal was quiet though. He was in trouble at work. No one knew why. He wouldn’t tell. “I
have something to say,” Randal said after a stint of five minutes. No one talked in between. They listened
to music--mostly the radio--and they listened to Alfred tried to mimic tunes that he had picked up. “I
want to say...” he began. There was a quiet hush when Alfred turned down the radio. He wanted to hear
what Randal had to say. “You’re all washed up. That’s all I have to say.”
“Okay. Go with that,” Zotar said. “Go with it,” he said to Alfred. “Can I make a song...?” he
began. He was writing lyrics. They were all writing lyrics. They were in the epicenter of where all the
alien sightings took place in California. Though the government only recognized Los Angeles as the only
town in the golden state with problems in the past, everyone knew that it was in a city that was located far
to the east. It was called Miller, a town of only fifteen thousand residents. That’s where they all grew up.
That’s where they would all die, as far as most of them were concerned. No one left town. The only
person to make it big was Bill Swift, and that was because he was flying around town in the days before he
died. There was Edward Hand too, but he was a speaker. He was nothing of legends.
“You’re a bullshit artist,” Randal said to Alfred. “I think you’re a bullshit artist and I want
people to know of it.”
“Okay, Randal. Go with that. Do you see what he’s doing?” He shook himself off. “I don’t
have any pride.” The last part he said more to himself than anything else. It was tense, but Zotar was
working through things. He was working through things pretty bad.
“Does anyone want to talk about Spit Face Racer?” Alfred asked. It was a poem left by Bill--or
so it was rumored--and they had it before them with about five other poems.
“Here comes Lizzy,” Randal teased. He saw her at the door.
“Can I come in?” she asked without knocking. She simulated a few knocks but they didn’t
connect on the door.
Alfred bowed... and then he got up to get the door. “You’re my God,” he said. He opened the
door for her. “It was open, you know?”
“I know,” she said. She was beautiful, probably the most beautiful person on the block, and that
was counting Anna Harcdomm. She didn’t say anything after that but she looked uncomfortable after an
discomfited silence.
“Welcome to the human league, my doll,” Randal said and opened his arms toward her. She
gave him a quick, nonchalant hug. It was Doug that she was there to see. He was the owner of the house.
He opened it to the kids while his wife was sleeping. The neighborhood had become more communal. It
was a great place to be if you were a late teen. There were no suspects as far as gang members. No one
was worried about getting robbed. No one suspected that Doug was a meanie anymore. No one did this.
“I want to do something before I go,” Randal said. He was hoping for a hug from Lizzy. She
hugged him after she noticed his discomfort. “I want to leave, and...” He didn’t know what to say. He
got his wish. He got Lizzy, for the time being. No sex. No kiss. A hug. A good one. His dreams were
made true. He made something up. “I want to play scrabble.” He was joking. They knew it. They could
read him. The atmosphere had become a lot better around town.
“I’m not happy,” Zotar said. Everyone laughed. They knew things would be made better.
Awkward and discomfited silences is what they were used to. It was okay. Things were going to be okay.
They could feel it. Zotar wasn’t happy though. That was the main part. Lizzy hugged him. She was a
master of it. Randal’s heart longed for her. So did everyone else that laid eyes on her. She was new to
town. It was a great break from what had been going on. A breath of fresh air.
Alfred cried on the inside. He wanted her to belong to him. These were fleeting moments. If
you love something or someone, you set it free. That’s what he was taught. It’s a lot easier said than done
he found out.

* * *
“Ah, shit. Here comes Francine,” someone said aloud when they saw her. A crowd of people
gathered at Nicole’s for a barbeque.
Francine Cross was an old lady that lived down the street. Everyone else was having cookouts
with one another. They wished that Francine would behave. She didn’t. She got a crush on all the young
boys--Alfred in particular--and she wouldn’t let them go. It sounded like he was whining to many people,
but at one of the cookouts that she was present at, Alfred was talking to three ladies at once. One of them
was the newcomer Lizzy, another one was Anna, and a third was a girl by the name of Monique. All of
them were attractive. All of them wanted his company. For once in his life, he felt good. He felt he could
be somebody. Granted that it took his best friend’s passing for this to come about but it felt good to talk
about.
Francine approached him while he talked to the girls. She was forty-five years old and starting to
gray. Her eyes were baggy and she was secretly on cocaine. She had an abusive father that lived in the
next town over. People felt sorry for her. With that sympathy, she tried to get many favors. Bill had
come back from Fezeare Academy one weekend with a revelation for Alfred. It’s about empathy, he had
said. Don’t feel sorry for people, Alf. Feel sorry, but don’t let it rule your world.
Francine, after approaching him at the barbeque, said that her car tire was flat.
“Okay. Fix the tire, Homeboy,” Jill said. She was standing near the three ladies that were
talking to Alfred and heard Francine’s distress.
My God, Alfred sighed. The three girls scattered and Alfred went into the front of the house to
take care of the poor lady’s tire. He wasn’t mad.. yet. He wasn’t mad because he thought he was doing
something right. Something was amiss about Francine and he knew it long ago. She started talking about
leaving the barbeque.
She looked at her car. “Oh. It’s fixed,” she said. “Someone must have come along...”
“...and fixed it... I know.” Alfred knew what was up. It was a lying, old lady, probably coked
out as he spoke to her, making up lies. Why? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.
The prior day, while the barbeque was being planned, he got a rap on the door. Thunk, thunk,
thunk.
Who is it? he had called out.
You’ll have to see for yourself, Francine said. I’m in a robe. I’m not...
...I know. ‘...wearing anything underneath,’ is what you were going to say. He let her in. He
knew her ways and they sickened him. She talked for about five minutes. He felt captured by a dying
bitch. That’s how he felt. It wasn’t the first time. When Bill passed away, long before this started, she
was at the funeral and crying fake tears. He felt sorry for her then. He should have run. He should have
never let her in his life. He should have never let her in his door many months later. He would regret it
right before dying. A carbon monoxide whore took him down. That’s what he called her. How she did it
was beyond him. Why she did it was beyond him. He even wondered things he‘d never find out, and not
because he wanted to.
The three girls wouldn’t talk to Alfred after the barbeque anymore. Lizzy later would, but things
wouldn’t be the same as they had been when he first met her. She started spreading rumors, she would
say the following week. That you’re sleeping with all the girls, Alfred. She pouted. He didn’t know why.
She was cute though.
I am. It’s not like that though. I want you. It sounds like a line, but if I had a choice... He cut
off. She knew. Social pressure was going to be strong. And when you have a dying bitch with nothing to
live for... in the name of Francine Cross, you have a whole world to contend with.
Think about this... he began to say to Lizzy that day.
I know, she said stubbornly. I know already she said, disturbed. He’s not going to stop, she said
to Zotar when he rode up on his twelve-speed. She’s already after you. I can feel it, she told Zote, as he
was being called. She spoke to Zote. He should have known though. Maybe she harnessed the spirit of
an evil dwarf from another planet. No one was really sure. Maybe life was like the Buddhists say and shit
just happens. Observe it, learn from it, move on. I know she’s going to have you, Liz said to Zotar. It was
Alfred that she was thinking of. No one knows why. Alfred didn’t even know why.
“Throw another shrimp on the barbie,” someone said to Alfred when he returned from the front
of Nicole’s house.
He wasn’t sure what to do and people could see it on his face. “False alarm, people. She only
wanted me.” People laughed.

* * *
Francine had a friend that worked at the post office. Junior was his name. He would do favors
for her. He worked for the CIA but no one in town knew it. He was unaware of the PIA’s status. He
opened letters though, read them, sealed them. Simple as that. He wouldn’t tell anyone what he was
doing besides his superiors. The people that worked along side him didn’t even know. They had it
rigged.
It wasn’t a big post office that Miller had. It was an important post office. Ever since the
sightings had started, they needed--the government felt the need--to check on people. There were a lot of
letters they had noticed going to Roswell, New Mexico. There were others going to Washington, D.C.
Special interests were the main targets. There were letters going to towns surrounding Area 51 in
Arizona. People wanted answers. They wanted to talk to people that were like themselves. It was as
simple as that.
Junior was fifty-one--an ironic if you asked any of the alien buffs in town--and he was lonely. He
had worked in Montana. This was when there were cults forming that planned to declare their
sovereignty from the United States of America. He was a master of manipulation. But he was alone. He
couldn’t say it enough. Someone get me off this planet! The words echoed in his head at night.
Francine was the perfect friend he could make in town. They were two of a kind. Together, they
would become one. His life would be justified. He wouldn’t harass people anymore. Maybe he’d fall in
love with her. If Alfred knew everything that was going on in his mind, he’d wish it would happen. He
was oblivious though, just like everyone else. Francine kept his secret. He needed one person or else he’d
go crazy. He knew she had a reputation for being crazy herself. If the shit exploded in his face, he’d
blame it on her. He’d be sure that the CIA would back him up.
The most interesting thing that Junior got from the post office was a letter that was written to
Waldo from Chelsea Clinton. Whether or not it came from Chelsea herself was beyond Junior. It was a
red flag. The First Family--the former First Family--had to be kept in the dark. There are only so many
things that they are allowed to know. They get a tour of Area 51--Bill Clinton did, at the very least--and
they’re shown the secrets that are leaked to the media anyway. They’re kept away from Siberia. They’re
kept away from the real secrets. The CIA is smart like that. The PIA is not, and Junior would later find
that out. It was Junior’s job though to make sure they stayed smart like that.
“What do you want me to do?” Junior asked Francine one night. Francine had been laying off of
Doug. He was the first target that she went after when she realized that Alfred wanted Liz and wouldn’t
settle for anyone else.
“What are you talking about?” Francine asked Junior.
Junior didn’t speak. He was a chickenshit, inside and out. He was a follower, as so many spies
are. Rarely do you get a spy that cracks the mold. Sometimes, it’s better for the agency. Do you know
that some of the best intelligence our country has comes from defectors? Bill had asked Alfred one night
during a seance at his house. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. It was getting too stupid, the seances and
the like.
No, but I’m sure you do, Alfred said aloud and everyone involved got a chuckle.
Junior didn’t know this as well. He was oblivious. He was in the dark. He didn’t care. He took
orders. It was as simple as that. Every now and then, he’d go too far. He’d take an order to the T. He
wouldn’t quit.
Watch this guy night and day, Butch Jackson had sent an order to Junior through constituents.
He’s a mean guy. You’ll know him when you see him. It was Alfred he was talking about. He watched
him night and day, as ordered. Pretty soon, Alfred caught on and wrote a song about it. He sent it on the
internet to New Mexico and pretty soon he had a network of people that believed him. He didn’t trust the
internet though. There were pirates. He trusted the postal service though. It was a mistake he shouldn’t
have made.
Chelsea wrote in a poem:
I know you’re out there
I know you see me
I’m over here too
And I’m not too dreamy
I want to save your life
I want to give you hope
I can’t do either right now
I’m tied with my own rope
It was laced in perfume. Junior liked it a lot. He liked it so much that he didn’t report it. He
thought he got the real thing. He was sure he got the real thing.
Francine looked at Junior’s dazed look and knew something was wrong. What secret is he
keeping from me? she wondered. She thought about her own secrets--the one about cocaine and her
father--and she thought that she’d be that same way with the same look if he were asking her about her
problems. He wasn’t though. He was asking for advice.
Boredom filled the room. There was no awkward silences as there were around the kids
sometimes. There was none of that at all. It was pure boredom. Something they both got used to. They
figured that if they could experience their boredom in each other’s company, then things wouldn’t be so
bad. They were far from the truth but they went through the motions any way.
 * three *
Alfred channeled Bill one night after he couldn’t get a hold of Lizzy. He wanted to be with her.
He felt lost. He wanted advice. Not on what he should do with Lizzy. He wanted advice about how to
handle the pain when she was gone.
God, are you out there? Alfred stopped believing in God in the conventional sense. He referred
to Bill as God. The reason was that for all practical reasons, he was God. He was the source of ultimate
knowledge. He was the source of pain and strife. He was the source of healing as well. A Hindu would
tell him that Bill was merely the top level deity in his particular pantheon of worship. This would happen
later in the year when comparing notes on their various beliefs. The man wasn’t Indian that he would
meet. He was an American converted to Hinduism. A strange thing, but it happened in life.
God, are you out there? he’d ask again.
What do you want? He heard a sarcastic voice and knew it wasn’t from Bill. It was Kurt Cobain,
part of the pantheon he had chose. I’m what? Cobain pressed. He didn’t know what to do as Alfred’s
deity. I don’t know what you’re up to... he began.
Alfred began to speak aloud. “I know you’re out there... God!” He was being sarcastic now. “I
know...” he started and he heard a near echo of the same words in his head from Kurt.
I don’t know, Kurt said apologetically.
“Too much apologies. Is that all you are, Kurt? Are you sarcastic now?” He knew he wasn’t and
wanted to chuckle in spite of himself. One of Nirvana’s major songs was “All Apologies”. Everyone in
town knew that Kurt fronted the band, Nirvana, in the nineties except for Francine and Junior. It seemed
like everyone knew.
I don’t know, Kurt said. This time with a little more authority.
“I forgot my question now, you punk ass. Where’s Bill?” He could feel Kurt now, and it made
him laugh. Kurt was in joy.
You’re going to talk about that religion, huh? he asked.
“No. You are.” Alfred still thought about it. He wanted to talk about Lizzy but was
uncomfortable talking to Cobain about her.
You’re a wreck, Kurt observed.
“I think I’m going to Hell now,” Alfred said.
No. It’s Zoton. You can join me.
“Can I write that down?”
Nope. But you did already.
“Where?”
In your book.
“Okay. You caught me. I’ll look you up when I need you. I need to go.”

* * *
Jeff Splifer started to lecture. “I’m going to open this talk with a letter that I just read not too
long ago. It reads, ‘I have a carbon monoxide whore on my case. How do I get her off?’ Naturally, I’m
not Dear Abby. I don’t know why this person wrote. He goes on to say, ‘I’m hemoglobin, man. How do I
get her off? I want oxygen in my life. Her name is Lizzy.’ Interesting, don’t you think?” Barny raised
his hand from the front row. “We’ll have none of your kind, right now, Bernard,” Jeff continued. “We’ll
just have to wait and see what you have at the end of the session.”
“It’s about love. I can do this.”
“It has a point though,” a sir said from beside Bernard.
“I’m not Bernard, either, teacher. I’m Barny My parents raised me as Barn...”
“Whatever you say. Righteo.”
“Go on, bud. I want to hear what the man has to say with Elvis sideburns,” Edward said. He had
vowed not to return to the guest speaker lectern. He wasn’t going to quit going to class though.
“Well. You see?” the man with the Elvis sideburns said. “It’s like this...” He continued on with
hand motions. They were making humping motions. People laughed. It was amateurish. Didn’t matter.
People laughed. They got it. Even Jeff Splifer got the joke: Teen moments of anxiety get you high laughs
if you know how to duplicate their humor.
“Anyhow, we’ll carry on. I have a point, by the way.” Jeff spoke this night in an English accent.
For a little while, Edward wondered if it was his real accent. He didn’t know him too well. “I’ll carry on
and then we can have some dough nuts.” The “dough nuts” part was especially exaggerated. He was
starting to sound like an Englishman on drugs.
“I don’t know what to do,” Edward said. He didn’t know what to do. He was in class and he just
wasn’t feeling it anymore. He started falling in love with this Lizzy girl and he didn’t even know her.
She was oxygen; the other lady was carbon monoxide. What a strange thing. An intriguing analogy to
him. “I’m going to go,” Edward said. “Like any of you care.”
They didn’t. They let him go. He got home, spanked off, and thought about this Lizzy girl. He
was almost sure he might have known a Lizzy or two. Was it the new girl from town? Probably was. Too
young though. Thank God for true love, right? Yep. As far as he was concerned, it was the only reason
the world went around and people knew about it. He spanked off, and when he was done, he threw away
all of his porn magazines. He felt filthy, but that wasn’t why. It wasn’t guilt. The reason he did it was
“void”. There’d be a void in his life that those magazines left behind. He hoped it’d be someone like
Lizzy. Chip monks fuck and they don’t care how old one another is. Why don’t humans do the same
thing? he wondered. He then thought, I’m starting to sound like this carbon monoxide bitch that
resembles, in my mind, that wicked witch from Cinderella. Or was it Snow White?
He drifted off to bed. There was a pain in his heart he could remember just before falling asleep.
I worked for you though, he thought. Who was he working for? Mrs. Right. He never found her. In the
morning, he found a thirty-two revolver under his bed and blew the shit out of his mind.

* * *
“FIVE INCH COCK” is what a poster read in town square. It had a picture of a chicken--a
rooster, actually--on top of it. “GOES BY THE NAME OF ALFRED” is what was written below the first
line. Then, “CALL FRANCINE AT 555-2120 IF FOUND”. Alfred knew she was messing with him. She
started to do this since the time at the barbeque. This was the worse one though. Funny thing was it
made him laugh. He witnessed the sign for the first time with his girlfriend. Liz was her name. He
didn’t want to break up with her though. They had gone together for two days. Something was awry. It
wasn’t Liz. It was him. She was a good friend but that was about it. He had no drive to kiss her. He
wanted to touch her boobs and her other thing--the one down there--but he was afraid. It didn’t matter.
He felt that he was on a mission and Liz helped him see clearly. The funny thing was that she was
nothing like he thought she’d be. Actually, she was better then he thought she’d be--a lot better--and he
really couldn’t handle it. Someday when he was old, maybe thirty or so, he’d feel proud of himself that he
even went out with her for a day. She was on her way. That’s what he hoped. They’d help each other out
though.
“It’s in the stars, Liz. I can feel it.”
“No it’s not. It’s in your brain.” She was perfectly serious.
“Yeah. But it’s in the stars too. Don’t you listen to music?”
“The Steve Gabriel, or whatever his name is?” she wondered.
“No. Not that. That one song. You know the one that goes...”
“We are made of stars. I know. I knew. I was teasing.” She laughed. It was as simple as that.
There was something empty in it though. It wasn’t why Alfred knew he had to break up with her.
“I know I’ve said a lot...”
“It’s in your brain. Trust me.”
“What?” He waited for a response.
“You’re an asshole,” she said to him solemnly.
“I’m older than you. I’m a full year and half older. Don’t you get it? I’ll be graduating this
next month. Don’t you get what I’m trying to say?”
“No.” She shook her head when she said it.
“Oh my God,” she started to cry. Alfred wouldn’t stop and she knew it. “The worse part is..”
“Do you know, Lizzy? I’m trying to break up with you now.” He waited. Nothing awkward
about it. He wanted to cry. She began to. That was why. They were going out for a couple of days. He
wanted to feel what she was feeling. If she pricked her finger, he wanted to feel the hurt. He wanted that.
His mind and everything else couldn’t do it.
“You’re lost,” she said solemnly. She was in that kind of mood now.
“I don’t want to break up with you. I’m not going out with anyone else.”
She heard the last sentence and thought it was a lie. “You think that...” she began. She was
furious in a way that he had never seen her and couldn’t even imagine her. He wanted her happy. It was
a dream come true. It was... for a while.
“I want you. And I’m not selling these ideas to record companies.”
“Oh.” She was assured. She looked pleasant. He wished she could handle the pressure because
she flew from one end to the other. She looked like a girl on TV that he had seen. This girl had broken
up with a skateboarder and didn’t mind... until she found out that he was dating someone else.
“I’m going to go.”
 “You go.” She wasn’t happy. She wasn’t upset anymore, either.
“What do you think about the poster?”
She grabbed his cock. “It’s not four inches, is it?”
“Nope. It’s five. She’d know. I bet she has cameras in my house.”

* * *
Jim Blackstone and Bob Gomer came into town one day wearing their suits. They were ready for
some action. Their operative, Mr. Junior Spinner, wasn’t doing his job correctly. How did they know?
They sent letters. They would send letters ranging from Fran Tarketon to Lady Diana. Though Lady
Diana had passed on, there was a postmark from England stating that it came from her estate. The CIA
had figured that it would be too obvious to send a letter from a living person. They tried many letters.
Many, many, many letters. They wanted to get to Junior... or they wanted to figure out if he was loyal
enough to send on another mission.
Francine’s home was bugged. As soon as informants started to report that Junior was spending
nights there, the CIA kept tabs on him. At some point, he was deemed a danger. He had gotten drunk the
week after opening Chelsea Clinton’s letter--an authentic one, in this case--and started babbling about it
in a corner bar near his house (it was located two blocks south of Francine‘s). He babbled and babbled
and babbled. Sooner or later, they are going to find out anyway, he thought. I might as well make the
most of it.
The PIA took over the case from the CIA when they deemed him not to be enough of a threat to
the people of the town. So long as he kept quiet about his association with the CIA, all would be fine for
him. The PIA thought different about sending operatives to take him out. They let him do it himself. He
babbled so much that they portrayed him as a turncoat. It was the end of his life as he knew it.
Jim, being an agent for more than twelve years, saw the worst of these cases. The CIA wouldn’t
find out that the PIA was on the job for another fourteen years because agents Jim Blackstone and Bob
Gomer were known as CIA agents and nothing more within the agency. Most people in the public didn’t
even know that the CIA had operatives in the post offices across the country. They were going to be really
shocked when they found out that Junior was one of them. The papers were leaked information. When
the stories broke out, one of the headlines was from the Miller Tribune and read, “CIA Operative Caught
In Miller Post Office.” A subtitle read, “Agent in Drug Division Caught Snorting Cocaine During
Lunch.” The story went on to say that agent Junior Spinner was a defector of sorts. He was planning to
steal all the cocaine that he could (it was reported that the reason he was there was because people were
getting mail-ordered coke from unspecified areas of the country through the mail service; and Miller was
a hotspot of activity) and he was going to sell it one day (once again, to an unspecified person) and
planned to leave the country. Nothing was said in any article about the government using Junior in the
past to open letters and find out what the town was communicating.
Jim Blackstone and Bob Gomer weren’t sent into town to arrest Junior--they would send the local
police to do that--but rather to get a feel of the town. They would go door to door for an hour at a time
and interview people. Jim was to work the first day and a half while Bob gained intelligence. On the
third day of the mission, Jim was to fly to Washington D.C. and leave Bob behind.
Jim dropped off Bob at a local hotel and then started his rounds. “Hello, ma’am. How are you?”
he asked his first customer (they were known as customers to him). It was a lady of about sixty-seven
years old and she wore a dress that looked like it had once been a curtain.
“Hello, sir? Is there a problem?”
“No. I see though.”
“See what, sir?” the lady asked. She was kind. She knew something was up.
Jim Blackstone wanted to say more but he couldn’t. He was brought in the house as far as the
door opening--two steps past, actually--and was awestruck by what he saw inside. There was a big picture
of Jesus on the wall. He was laughing though. He was having a beer with the Buddha and Gandhi.
There were no aliens. He would find that in the city of Miller, unlike Mesa, Arizona, there was
suppression of things going on. People would talk. On occasion, they would write. They didn’t care
about the aliens though. They didn’t worship them.
“Are you going to say more?” the elderly lady asked. Jim was quiet. He expected the lady to
keep talking but she didn’t. She fixed him a glass of lemonade from the kitchen without asking.
Jim took the glass from her--ice was filled to the rim and a little above--and took a drink. “We
have a problem,” he said to her. He was surprised when he didn’t continue--end--his sentence with the
word “ma’am”. It was a way that he kept his distance. It was a way that he didn’t get involve.
“I have something to say,” the lady bellowed. “I’m forty-five years old... forty-six... Excuse me.
I’m old, I’m decrepit, but I see a loser when I see one. Please leave my presence. I don’t want anything to
do with you.” She reached for his hand and squeezed. She wasn’t decrepit at all. She was coming on to
him. The bellow was to throw him off.
Jim wouldn’t have another experience similar to that until the next day when he came across
Francine’s place. The elderly woman was nice... compared to her. Francine walked out in a bathrobe
when Jim approached. Rumor had it that he was interviewing people in town. His partner stayed in a
hotel, as always. He was there for backup though. Two men coming to your door made people scared and
that was the reason they didn‘t operate together at the same time. They took turns.
Underneath Francine’s bathrobe, of course, was nothing but a wrinkling and aging body. Jim’s
job was to feel the pulse of the city and make evaluations thereafter. When he met Francine, he felt a lot
more than just the pulse of the city. He felt her entire wrinkling body and more. She was decrepit,
alright, but it didn’t matter to him. Did the PIA have a watchdog agency after it? I doubt it. What do I
have to lose?
“The Periphery Intelligence Agency never had a finer moment, and the CIA was not there to
witness a damn thing,” Jim told Bob the next day.
“I know, bud. I know,” Bob said then drank a beer through the bottom in a hole he had
punctured through a can on purpose. “This shotgun’s for you, Jim. By the way... Call next time you‘re
going to be late.”
 * four *

Saul Folstiklar was a member of ELF, Earth Liberation Front. He was a member, and it has to be
emphasized. Whereever he had gone in life, he faced rejection. He had brown teeth, but they weren’t
from tobacco or tea stains. Some people were born with blue skin. It’s a deficiency in the blood, of some
kind or another, or so he told people about on occasions. When asked why his teeth weren’t white, he
simply replied, Genetics. Simple as that.
Saul was a madman though. He was tired of being rejected by society. The only people that
would accept him were the ones that accepted nature. It was natural that people were born with blue skin.
It was natural that people were born with a tendency to have brown teeth as well.
Saul made a point over his years to associate with people that didn’t watch a lot of television. On
television, you’re only allowed to be there if you’re beautiful. They didn’t let people like him on TV and
it was as simple as that. The rest of him was normal, though. He had normal build. His penis was even
seven inches long when erect. You couldn’t go into a club in California, though, and expect to bring
home a beautiful person with you unless you looked like the people on TV in Saul’s mind.
There was an irony in it all. He learned, in his study of the world--the natural world--that
giraffes, baboons, and many other animals tend to have a stud population. In other words, it’s the
strongest males that are accepted. It’s the ones with the build. One would even argue that intelligence
would play a role. Animals don’t have TV though. They’re not bombarded with images. In Saul’s mind,
if a baboon had brown teeth, it didn’t matter as to his mating capability. He’d still be dominant because
the necessary traits in that field are based on physical superiority and maybe a little psychological
coercion.
Baboons, you see...? he told a friend one day. They’re not wired like us. Actually, they are.... but
we’re layered with civilization. Do you know that one baboon typically has eight to ten female mates?
Do you know what that means? he demanded.
No. What? Tell us, the bored friend replied. She gulped some of her Slurpee and then made a
waving motion to a passing friend. Go on. Tell your story. She had just gotten back from the corner
store and was waiting for cheerleading tryouts. He friend, Saul, was going to try out for the high school
football team even though he was underweight at the time.
We’re just like them! Don’t you notice in our circle friends that the same guys get the same
girls? I’m looking forward to about ten years of male bonding, at the rate I’m going. If I can make the
team... He paused and then made a slashing motion with his finger across his neck. ...They’ll all be over.
That’s all. We’re just like them though.
Go on, the friend said, a little more interested.
I like you, Sandy, he told her. I like you a lot. But who do you like?
I like that Gomer Pile motherfucker by the name of Butch Jackson. He’s the one I want.
Okay. My point made. The dominant male wins again. He tried to test her. Will you sleep with
me tonight?
No. No fuckin’ way... She realized it was a joke though. It was an illustration, but it was still a
joke.
Unless I’m a stud, I’m going down... but I’m not going down without a... He was going to say
“fight”. He didn’t get the chance to. She kissed him on the lips and never turned back.
Butch Jackson became Secretary of State in 1994. It happened mid-term because of a death in
the government. He lasted two years, retired, and then was wooed back to office in the year 2000 when
Ralph Connors was elected President of the United States. It was something he didn’t regret. Saul
Folstiklar, on the other hand, regretted not taking him out at the knees when he had the chance during
football tryouts. It was something that burned him... ever since the day he was cut from the squad.
I told you, he told Sandy one day. We’re going to be something, me and you... he told her. She
didn’t believe him. He wanted revenge. He could see in Sandy’s eyes that it was important that he not be
cut from the squad. He could see that clearly.
When he blew up his first building--an oilman’s personal office--he celebrated. Sandy wasn’t
there with him. He was with a few friends from ELF. They liked his brown teeth. It reminded them of a
society that was real at one time. They wanted to see more brown teeth on TV. They wouldn’t. They
knew that the powers-that-be wouldn’t allow it. They knew it from the bottom of their collective hearts.
They knew it well.
“I’m going to blow something up,” Saul said aloud. He had heard, through the grapevine, that
the government was under siege in the city of Miller--a place he hadn’t heard of until recently, since he
had no television--and it was ironic that he was sticking up for the government now. No, it was not the
national government he was fighting for. It was the local city council that was passing an ordinance that
banned nuclear weapons from passing through their town. Though no nuclear weapons had ever passed
through Miller, to the best of the council’s knowledge, it was a statement to the government that they
couldn’t rule them so badly. The backlash from the PIA had hit everyone swiftly--of course, they had
believed that it was the main CIA that was operating there--and they wanted to send a message: Leave us
alone. That’s what they wanted to collectively say. They couldn’t do so without a symbol. The symbol,
in this case was legislation. They knew that if the government ignored them, everything was okay. They
didn’t know that the government was already officially stepping back. Jim Blackstone, and his buddy Bob
Gomer, made a superior recommendation of the city to their higher ups--the ones that had liaisoned
between them and the official CIA. The backlash was incredible though. As soon as the legislation was
passed, it made headlines news--front page--in the relatively nearby Los Angeles Times. The Chandler
family--the ones that started the paper--had a field day with it.
Saul Folstiklar came to town to blow up a building. He didn’t like the headlines that were being
brought about. The reason was that they portrayed the inhabitants as cooky--and it set a fuse in him;
touched a nerve--but they were proactive, according to the paper. He didn’t like to be portrayed as
anything less than serious, sophisticated, smart in all respects, and more than anything else, right. He
wanted to be seen as right. Cooky? Nah. This was going to end. The LA Times were too big to be taken
on. The little Miller Tribune? It was small. It would be blown to pieces.

* * *
 Alfred and Wally were the only two people from Miller that went to Edward Hand’s funeral.
Three and a half months later, they talked about it. They had since graduated high school--a nothing
event to them considering what had been going on in town since Bill’s passing--and they wanted to get to
the bottom of some issues.
“Do you ever notice...?” Alfred began. He saw Anna walking up the steps. Their conversation
was going to have to wait. They planned on talking about Edward--it had been suppressed by them and
others--but it was going to have to wait.
“What do you want with me,” Anna wanted to know.
“I called you for a reason,” Alfred told her. Wally felt up her boobies a little. She was good with
him like that. “I called you for a reason,” he began again, but he began to laugh instead. “I have some
time to fill. That’s all it is. I don’t need to...”
“...talk?” she answered for him.
“No. Bounce. Yeah, talk. That’s what I mean, Wally. Every time she comes, something gets
messed up. They had both kissed her in recent times on different occasions. Never were they all together
at the same place. Wally wanted a “minage de twa” though. On the last day of school, Alfred looked at
him... then at her. She looked back. Wally passed the note that said it all. It didn’t matter if he couldn’t
spell the word. He was right in other respects though. He wanted something that everyone wants in his
or her heart.
Wally was willing to ask now. “You want to fuck, or what?” he asked Alf.
“No. It’s not time for that yet. She might want to fuck though. Britney had come up the steps
thirty seconds after Anna.
“It’s because...” Britney began. “It’s because...” she said again then waved Alfred off. “It’s
because of people like you that I lose money!” she finally spit out.
“What are you? A whore?” Anna asked her. It was funny. To Alfred and Anna, it was hilarious.
“Come here, Britney,” Wally said to her. He wasn’t laughing with Anna and Alfred. He wanted
to get some from her. Ever since he started writing poetry--and ever since Alfred started up words in his
mouth about what to say about certain things concerning the women--he came around. He wasn’t Waldo
the Nerd anymore. He was Wally the Stud and most people knew it around him.
“I’m going to break down and cry,” Britney said. Nothing was further from the truth.
“Did you get a tummy tuck?” Anna asked Alfred. This caught him by surprise because he was
checking out Britney and the way she handled things.
“No. What’s it to you anyway?” he asked her. Things weren’t so serious at the moment and he
wished they were a little. “I’m going to talk about Ed now, Wally,” he said then went inside the house
from the porch. “I’m going to talk about him. Listen if you want...” he could tell that Wally didn’t want
to hear. He wanted to say, He didn’t die in vane. I still think of him. I want to write a song about it and I
want your help. He was a loser, yes. But what kind of loser was he?
Edward was buried in Corona. That’s why most people didn’t go to the funeral, in Alfred’s mind.
He was well liked by a lot of people. They didn’t come though. Why? Corona wasn’t far from Miller
“Have you ever thought that...?” he began again after coming back with some tea. No one
wanted to hear. Sometimes Alfred would get on an agenda and try to stay there. He wanted to say, Have
you ever thought about how close Corona and Miller are to each other? They should do a beer
commercial around here.
No one would think of Edward though. He said inspiring words. In the end, it’s the people with
the big cocks that are remembered. Why that was, was beyond Alfred and Wally both. They spent
eighteen minutes exactly talking about cocks to Anna and Britney. The wall clock struck on the hour
right after they started and Anna checked her watch when they stopped. She knew.
“If Edward played guitar though...” Alfred said.
“Or wrote poetry,” Wally added.
“Yep. I would have fucked him,” Britney said. They laughed. Britney never knew when she was
funny... and loved.
Alfred loved her. He had her in his last day of class in a corner. Everyone else had left the room.
I’m going to fuck you someday, he had said to her. He was joking, of course. Somehow, he knew it’s
what she needed to hear. She was like that. It was strange to him.

* * *
Saul Folstiklar arrived in Miller while Britney was saying her funny lines to Alfred, Anna and
Wally. He was wearing khaki pants--no one would see these ‘til later--and a hat that suggested that he
was an artist from maybe France or that part of the world. It was a Barret. That’s what it was. Wally
recognized it as Saul drove by in a beat up, old Datsun 240z. It had paint that was falling off as he drove,
or so it seemed to Wally. It was in need of a wash job, but that wasn’t going to happen soon, or so Wally
thought. He didn’t call it to the attention of the people around him. He thought it was a curiosity though.
Phil McOaland was the head of security at a nearby warehouse that stocked and shipped grocery
goods. He was responsible for overseeing twenty-eight people during shift change--those were the good
times--and as many as three hundred when the company was in full rush. He worked for Darber. It was a
food company that was responsible for a third of the state’s food products. The regional warehouse where
he worked covered three counties. He was responsible for a lot, in his own mind.
He worked for the fire department in years past but was fired (Excuse the pun, he would say at
times long afterward, but I was fired from LAFD) when he helped a lady lift a fifty-pound weight over her
head and onto some boxes as part of a physical exam It wasn’t the first time he had done something like
that. He got favors back from the ladies in most cases when they were hired on. It was worth it to him.
At Darber, he had twelve monitors in front of him, at any given time, that would scan the whole
place. There were twenty-two cameras set up in all. He could select any various one at the push of the
button. Known to him and management, there was a hidden camera in the men’s room as well (there was
not one in the lady’s room for reasons that even he agreed with). He looked at the cameras twelve hours
per day sometimes. Adam Fleshman, Wally’s brother, got a job there as soon as he turned eighteen. He
was a star worker. Most people were not. They’d steal. They’d lie. They’d cheat. They’d do a lot of
things and most the times, Phil would turn his head. It was the big thieves that he wanted to catch. It was
the union organizers that didn’t know they were being filmed and taped in the bathrooms during breaks.
This is what inspired him.
Everyone is good at something, or so Phil reckoned. Being that he had been fired from the fire
department in Los Angeles, he wanted to be good at something else. Fire work was a drag, anyway, to
him. It was boring all year round except in the summer. Then it was a bitch.
Phil bought a book entitled The Secrets of Remote Viewing when he was hired on at Darber. He
thought it would be good fiction. He was watching cameras all day. What could a little New Age
nonsense do to him? Nothing. That was his attitude.
For those that didn’t know, New Age is a term that became Old Age to Phil. He started to believe.
Remote viewing is a term that the CIA coined--or so it was lodged in his head that it came from the CIA--
after experimenting with psychic techniques of checking on people. The book that he bought likened a
remote viewer to one studying karate. A remote viewer that was a black belt could draw in detail the
things he was seeing from thousands of miles away. Though the CIA later officially renounce remote
viewing as being ineffective, they still practiced it.
Phil saw Saul coming into town. He didn’t see him through a monitor on his desk. He saw him
in his mind. During the time that he worked at Darber, he learned to see things that the twelve screens in
front of him didn’t see. He was secretly attracted to Adam Fleshman. He would follow him into the
bathroom after seeing him go in through one of the screens. The cameras weren’t fixated to catch the
glimpses of employees’ peckers. They were there to watch social behavior, like union organization. Phil
though, had learned to be a black belt in the remote viewing area. A white belt--if someone got off the
block and began to see things--could see things like a person sees with severe cataracts. He could draw
squares if buildings were around. He could draw blob-like shapes if he was witness a stadium or
something that vaguely resembled it.
Phil followed Adam Fleshman into the bathroom one time--it was a time that he was using his
black-belt-like technique--and discovered something peculiar. On Adam’s pecker were four small words:
Don’t Look At Me. They were written on a paper that covered his pecker, in all actuality. Phil was a
confused man though. He was really confused and he didn’t know what to do about it. He would harass
people at night in their dreams, not knowing that that was when people knew that they were being spied
on by him. He would do this, but it wouldn’t stop him from doing what he did. At that point--when he
first realized that people knew they were being watched--he stopped for a while. In the same way that a
young, teenage male might try to stop masturbating, Phil tried to stop spying on people. He found he
couldn’t.
Saul came into town--Phil was fixing himself a glass of Kook Aid; something the grandkids liked
when they came over--and all of a sudden, his life changed. He had a realization that something was
going on. This man was going to blow something up and he knew it. He looked on the seat of his car and
he could see the explosives. He looked on the man’s face and saw confusion, pain, and anger.
Phil was at a crossroads. He could use his power--his ability, if you will--to continue spying and
maybe catch the guy. Maybe even turn him in.
He could ignore things.
 Phil drank his grape-tasting liquid and sat down on the couch.

* * *
Randal went by Phil’s house on his moped as Phil down to drink his grape Kool Aid. He didn’t
have Phil on his mind though. He was on his way to Francine’s. They were going to do the horizontal
they were going to do the horizontal mombo. After that, they were going to do the vertical mombo. It
didn’t really matter to him. He was young, full of hormones, and life was a blur to him. Bill passed away
things got crazy everyone’s luny no one knows what to do the paper is crazy there’s agents everywhere
mombo mombo mombo mombo she called I’m going to get some I’m going to get some. Horizontal
mombo is that he was going to be doing. There was too much to think about. Horizontal mombo et
cetera she likes me she’s going to take care of me she’s over Alfred she’s over Phil she’s over the rest of
the neighborhood I might get crabs horizontal mombo...
Boing. It stuck up. It wasn’t through his pants though. He got closer to her house and he could
feel her She said that she had slept with the agent from the CIA. That was probably a rumor. Horizontal
mombo. Boing. Boing, boing, boing. He didn’t know if he was going to get there.
He rounded the corner and he could see her house. He got closer. He could see her at the screen.
Am I desperate? Horizontal mombo. Damn fly in my mouth. Horizontal... Boing. That was it. He didn’t
feel like doing it anymore.
He parked his moped in front of her house. Not in the driveway. He parked it right where she
could see it in the front. He was mad, by now. Horizontal mombo? Why don’t I feel better? She looks
good. Decrepit? Is that how she felt on the phone? Decrepit? She looks like she put...
Music blared from inside the house. I saw you yesterdaaaay, it said. I want you to take a burger
to my hoooouse, it continued.
What kind of shit is this? Randal wondered. He didn’t care. Francine was on the other side of
the screen. I thought she’d be naked, he wondered with frustration. They all said she’d be naked.
Anna had become the village whore for about the first two weeks after she slept with Bill before
his passing. If whore was what she was, there was no word for what Francine had become.
I’m naked, Randal thought. I’m naked, he thought again. His clothes were on. I’m naked,
nonetheless, he said to himself after looking down at his jeans. She’s going to win, he thought. He was
thinking of Bill and Alfred. He was thinking of Bill in Heaven--or whereever they said he was now--and
he was thinking of Alfred because Alfred tried to put a stop to it all.
“You can’t stop me, Alfred!” Francine yelled.
“What are you talking about?” Randal wanted to know... but he knew. She read his mind. It was
like Tommyknockers, the movie. The town started reading each other’s minds... after the aliens arrived in
the form of a spaceship. “You’re a rip off artist,” he said to Francine.
“You are a dog!” she yelled back. They didn’t even know if they were communicating with one
another.
“Let me strip off your clothes,” Randal said.
Surprisingly, Alfred came out from the other room. “Don’t do that,” he calmly said to Randal.
“You’re being set up, buddy. We know...” he began. He knew that Randal knew what he was going to say.
“I’m a dog, huh?”
“You said it, buddy.”
“I’m a weenie,” Randal said back to Alfred.
“It’s over,” Alfred said. Randal wanted to know what he was talking about but he knew. “It’s
over, I said.”
“What?” Randal said. He didn’t know. He really didn’t know.
“It’s over,” Alfred repeated.
“What are you,” Randal asked him.
There was no response. Alfred waited for Francine to say something. She wouldn’t. She wasted
all his time and nearly fucked up his teenage years... but he forgave her. It took a long time, but it was
there. He waited. All she had to do was behave. She wouldn’t... until now. And even then...
“I’m going to go now, Randal,” Alfred said.
“You’re a loser,” Randal retorted.
Alfred got on his bike--it was sitting outside around the corner--and thought, The sucky thing is
you were the only one I trusted. I like Waldo--everyone does now--but you had potential. You’re a let
down. What a fuckin’ drag!

* * *

As Saul approached the Miller Tribune building in his 240z, Bucky Holdwater was preparing for
a birthday party across town. No one would come except for Ameriway friends and a few relatives. At
that moment, Alfred was telling off Randal and getting ready to leave Francine’s house. Inside the house,
Randal reconsidered that he may have been set up, after all. Francine was taking off her clothes and
crying. Randal stayed. What do you want me to do, Bill? he asked. He found that he was reaching for a
higher power though he claimed to be agnostic at school. What do you want me to do?
To his surprise, there was a response in his head that seemed to be foreign. It came from his dad,
Randal Meyer Senior. Don’t do a thing, son. Don’t do a thing.
What are these voices? he wondered. He undressed himself and started to look Francine up and
down. She was feeling better. Though she didn’t have Alfred there--he was still the one she wanted--she
had someone. It would do. They screwed and at the moment that Saul approached the editor of the
Miller Tribune with a package in his hand--one he had crafted together five minutes before entering the
building--Randal shot his load. It wasn’t the first time he had sex. Anna was sleeping around for a while.
It was the first time he had a lady. He called her a rocket queen--everyone did speak this way of older
ladies at his school--and soon, he began to fall in love. It wasn’t with her. It was with his dad. It wasn’t
homosexual. He felt loved. He felt looked-out for.
Saul approached Marlin--he was the editor of the paper and formerly from Daytona Beach,
Florida--and gave him a gift.
 “What’s this?” Marlin wanted to know. It was a nickname--one he was given after covering
games for Florida’s major league baseball team of the same name. “Is this for me?” Inside was a ticking
bomb. He didn’t know it. He sensed it--anything could happen--but he didn’t know it.
Alfred flew over there on his bike. Phil McOaland had yelled to him, “There’s a crazy man on
his way to Marlin’s!” He knew just where to go.
Right before the bomb exploded, Alfred got close enough to catch shreds of brick in his head. He
didn’t know one brick had hit him, let alone many pieces. Neither did Marlin. Neither did Saul. They
visited Kurt Cobain, his buddy Bill, Edward Hand, and many others on a planet known as Xeon. As soon
as Alfred saw Saul on the planet--he knew what had happened immediately because of planning for this
kind of event through Bill--he said, “Who the fuck are you? What are you about?!”
He got no response. The man he talked to looked confused. He was now a ghost on another
planet, and he didn’t even look happy for what he had done. What a waste. What a fuckin’ waste, Alfred
thought. He went to Bill and tried to hug him. Bill didn’t respond either.
*Part Three*

* one *
“You see, class? The Koagulates are a band of people from another planet,” Miss Kidman said to
her second-graders. “They are a class of people and people believe they exist.” She paused. “But you and
me? We know it’s not true. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, Miss Kidman” was mixed with “Yes teacher” throughout the room.
“So we’re going to teach you today...” She was interrupted by Phil McOaland. He was blamed
for Alfred’s death. He didn’t really care. He liked telling the story. More than this, he liked telling
people that he talked to Bill... and Alfred... and other people from beyond. Some people thought he was
crazy. Others had remembered the two. They knew that Bill had flown, though it had been suppressed in
people’s minds since it happened a year ago. “I want to tell you something, Phil,” Miss Kidman said.
She was his wife-to-be. Her name was Nancy Kidman and in a year, it’d be Nancy McOaland. It was a
crazy world.

* * *
Bucky Holdwater’s party didn’t go as planned. This was a year before Miss Kidman was
interrupted by her future love interest. It didn’t go well because of what had happened a few blocks over.
Here he was, trying to celebrate his twenty-first birthday, and all people would talk about all night was the
explosion that took place. Five people died that day and Christina was one of them. She was Marlin’s
personal secretary. Bucky had a mild interest in her but that was about all. She was a Seventh Day
Adventist and he knew it would never work out between them. She was rich. Bucky wanted more. He
wanted someone that ate, drank, and slept money. That’s what he was in to.
Bucky was interrupted by Randal earlier that day. Randal knew what happened and it wasn’t
long before word got out from Phil that Alfred had been speeding toward the scene of the atrocity. Parts of
his bike were found. There were human remains but no one got close enough to identify who was in the
remains. Paramedics and police closed off the scene anyway. Bucky had known Randal because he had
started going to Ameriway meetings. It was something that Bill and Alfred would have deplored. It
didn’t matter to Randal. He didn’t have a friend on the Earth. He knew it. He didn’t have a friend
elsewhere, as far as he was concerned. He was an extravert to the Nth degree. He didn’t care about deep
relationships. His boat was knowing people--many people--and that was fine with him.
Bucky invited Randal to his party after they had a brief conversation about the wreckage. Bucky
wasn’t too fond of Alfred--he didn’t care much about him--but he felt for Randal for some reason. He
looked lost. He didn’t know what to do. Bucky invited him to his party--one that was to be held later that
night--and he assured him that all would be fine. Things weren’t. Randal started to die that day. It
wasn’t suicide. It was an ulcer that he couldn’t control. Feelings--massive feelings--ate him up from
inside and he couldn’t identify their source. He had slept with Francine. That was a good thing to him.
He had lost Alfred, and prior to that, he lost Bill. That was no big deal. He knew people. He knew a lot
of people. He knew a lot of people. None of them filled him. At the same time, all of them filled him. It
was one of those things. If he decided to go to college later in life, he may have come across theories
presented by psychologist, Carl Jung. Randal was an extravert. That’s all there was to it.
Bill and Alfred started getting along in what’s known as “the afterlife” on Earth. This was not
long after Bucky’s disappointing party. They started getting along. Alfred started to learn. Bill had been
mad at him at times. He wouldn’t be mad anymore. It’s like trying to teach your kid calculus. If he’s too
young, he’s just not going to get it. It’s as simple as that.
Alfred started to understand what he was telling him about the Nebula that was near by. If Alfred
were to turn around and try to contact the people on Earth, they would have NO idea what he was talking
about.
“Ghosts are said to be fiction in many parts of modern day America,” Bill had said to Alfred
seven days after he got to Xeon--Earth days. “They’re not. Humans are made of carbon and the like.
Carbon is made up of a substance that you don’t need to know right now, but it goes beyond protons and
neutrons. There’s smaller things, and I think you know about it...”
“From our earlier conversations. I know.”
Bill was getting mad at him again though. “The humans had it right about photons. It’s like
light with weight. I won’t bore you with the details. Things can simultaneously exist in different parts of
the galaxy, you see? That’s all you need to know right now. It’s a matter of physics, that’s all. But it’s
not Physics 101 like is taught in high schools and colleges and the sort.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Alfred wanted to know. It had become a common question he
asked Bill since he had passed on. “Why?” He knew why though. It was about religion. Even as
ghosts--that’s what they were for all practical reasons--they couldn’t forget their pasts if they wanted to.
It’s a hard thing to understand no matter what alien race you are, and they came to believe that firmly.
“Let me tell you something,” Bill began again. “That Church of Kurt Cobain that you visited
while you were on Earth...” He paused. “We could do something with that. I’ve been working hard
without you... but the Earthlings--I can’t believe I’m calling them that--are stupid. They just don’t know.”
“Say ‘ignorant,’ please. Say ‘ignorant,’”
“I’m not going to talk to you any longer. We have work to do, my son.”
It wasn’t odd to Alfred that Bill called him his son. It was odd to him in retrospect, but when it
rolled off his tongue, it was the right thing--“tongue” being the operative word here.
“I know what to do,” Alfred said. He didn’t tell Bill though because he was already making his
way away from him. There was a game on Xeon that‘s likened to baseball. That’s where Bill was
heading The game had nothing to do with baseball. It just made him feel that way.
A year later, Phil McOaland interrupted Miss Kidman’s class and Alfred’s plan would finally
manifest itself. He didn’t think it would take so long, but it did.

* * *
Six months before blowing up the Miller Tribune, Saul Folstiklar was a lead member in Earth
Liberation Front. He was exiled. The reason he was exiled was because was because he sent another
member to jail. How did he do it? He lied. He lied a lot. This member who had been sent to prison
didn’t have a lot of money. He was down and out on life, and because the members did a lot of magic
mushrooms in their meetings, he started showing signs of being disconnected from the real world. During
one of his trips, sitting around a camp fire with the rest of the members, this guy said aloud to Saul, “I
want you dead! You’re not doing enough to help our cause.” When he sobered up, he was regretful. He
remembered doing it. He had seen horns coming out of Saul’s head. That’s what set him off. He was
wasted out of his mind and the thought the universe was giving him this great revelation. It’s somewhat
funny what can come out of people’s mouth’s sometimes when they escape sobriety. That’s what the guy
would tell his friends many years later.
Saul was carrying a tape recorder when the mystery man said it. They would later learn that the
mystery man was a CIA informant but he wasn’t in the CIA directly. He was an informant because he had
relatives in the CIA. It’s like being born into the mafia. You really don’t have a choice if you’re in or
you’re out. If your family is taking care of you, you’re in. No doubt about it.
Saul carried the tape recorder because he secretly worked for a petroleum company. It’s funny.
All of these guys were sitting around the camp fire telling each other how dedicated to the cause they
were. Some worked for corporations. Some worked for the government. Others just didn’t know and
were caught in the cross fire. They were the idealists. They were the ones that didn’t know.
If the mystery man had known that Saul would eventually turn him in to the authorities--it’s
ironic because ELF fought the authorities--he would have never let down his guard. He wouldn’t have
said what he did. He would have seen the horns on his head during his trip and ignored them. He had
that much control but he thought he freedom of expression mattered more. Girls were dancing around the
fire. They were on the plain as well. The mystery man was Bill’s older brother, Ned.
Saul took the tape to the authorities in his hometown of Clearwater, California--it’s a place about
a half hour’s drive from Miller to the east. He took the tape there and swore that Ned had a knife. No
such thing happened. It was fabricated. When Ned was initially jailed, he thought to call Saul. He didn’t
though. You’re given three calls and that’s it. Every call after that requires a collect calling acceptance.
He didn’t think anyone would believe him at the time and didn’t waste his time or his energy. On the
stand, Saul said that he called Ned while he was in jail. The transcripts are there for anyone to see, Ned
told his younger brother one day. If you don’t believe that people can lie and put you in jail, you have
another thing coming. His brother shook his head but knew he was serious. Watch yourself. That’s all,
he finally told Bill.
Bill watched himself fine. He didn’t get the transcripts from the court before his passing--he had
intended to do it someday or another--but he did believe him. He didn’t know that you couldn’t receive
calls in jail if you were an inmate. He planned to find that out, too, in a more concrete way.
They should have thrown the case out as soon as he lied about calling me in jail, he told Bill.
They didn’t do it though. They should have done it. They had the hard evidence though--fuckin’ OJ
Simpson. Because of him, people think that we need to be scared of verbal threats.
Sticks and stones can break your bones, right? Bill agreed with him.
You damn right! He paused and then said, And only the government can hurt you!
 It was a child’s saying the year after. He taught it to all his kid cousins. It was a blast. He liked
hearing them say it.
Saul Folstiklar stood on the planet Zoton--he had been banished from Xeon because he was a jerk
and Zoton accepted nearly anyone--and he confessed his sins to a saint.
“Mother Mary is my name,” she had told him. He couldn’t tell if she was an Earthling or not.
She was glowing from around the edges. She looked like a saint. That much he knew.
Mother Mary tried to give Saul some food--it was bread--but he didn’t take it initially. She was
saddened. She had a heart but it no longer pumped blood full of iron. She was saddened. Saul took the
food and went away.

* * *
Randal meditated on a picture of Alfred and Bill that he had in his room. It was quiet. He knew
he wouldn’t be disturbed for a while. He felt lonely. He had started to hang out with Bucky, but that
became a drag after a while.
He meditated.
What do you WAAANNTT? He heard a voice from beyond. He didn’t respond because he was
saddened. Alfred wanted to impart some knowledge on him. He didn’t know if he would. You’re going
to be taken up, Randal, he said. This time, he wasn’t joking. That tone had left him. I already told a
couple of people. Just like Enoch before you... and just like Elijah after him, you’ll be...
“Give me a break,” Randal said. He believed it though. He didn’t like the religious allusions,
true as they may have been.
I’m trying to bust your chops, buddy, Alfred said from the beyond. Phil already knows. I didn’t
want him to know... but he has powers I can’t really control. He can read minds just like you can now...
There was a silence in Randal’s mind now. Alfred hadn’t left but he could sense that other
beings wanted to talk to him. They were demanding his attention.
Randal summoned Bill instead. Do you hear me? he tried, through pure telepathy.
No, a voice said. It was a foreign voice but not one that wasn’t originally from Earth. He could
tell now. He could see quite often the things we was hearing.
The voices left the room. Randal was left to his silence once again. It didn’t last long. He
played the radio, and he played it loud. The theme to “The Greatest American Hero” played on. He liked
it. Made him feel good. He got it from the internet. It was a good buy at ninety-nine cents. He got it
from one of his web sites that he checked out on a regular basis.

* * *
Father Thompson was a man that had thought the Church was a great place. He had affairs over
the years and kept this from his brethren. He never thought God would find out. He didn’t care. He
didn’t even believe in God. He did his mass every week, and the whole time, he was the biggest
unbeliever in the building. He thought Jesus was a great man... if he ever lived. He even thought he was
an inspirational man... if he ever walked foot on this planet. It didn’t matter to him though. The Church,
in his mind, was a great social institution. He prayed to see Saint Mary Magdalene at times but he never
did. He often prayed to Saint Mary, Mother of God in his world... but she was a no show. He stopped
believing. It was as simple as that.
Phil McOaland got Miss Kidman out of her second-grade class in time to stop a miracle. Father
Thompson was sent on his way to a park in the middle of Miller. He was told to meet a boy--a young
boy--and that was good enough for him. He was told to go through the park whistling Dixie and he would
be approached soon after. A miracle was waiting for him.
Randal was to fly that day. He was to do more than fly. He was to take off into the sky and never
come back. Enoch had done it in the Old Testament and so had Elijah, except that Elijah took off on a
fiery chariot, never to return. That chariot was a flying saucer but there was no such word at the time. We
got “fiery chariot” from the ancients’ understanding of their primitive world.
Phil showed up with Nancy. He was frantic. Nancy told the principal beforehand that there was
a family emergency. Phil knew the miracle was coming because of his foreknowledge abilities. No one
else tipped him off. Randal hadn’t said a word to a soul.
Father Thompson started whistling Dixie in the park. A few kids turned to him and were afraid.
He was in street clothes and feeling a little out of place. From behind the bushes, Randal popped out.
“It’s time,” he said. “Give it a moment or two. I’m supposed to see a sign myself. You’ve been
waiting for this for a long time. I’ve heard about you... and don’t ask how. I got my secrets right now.”
“I have what? the priest wanted to know. He misunderstood what Randal said or pretended no to
know. “I have what?” he said again, then he calmed. There was no response from him. The world tried
to help him out. He was bitter. He wanted to see the sign though. Randal got the feeling that even if he
saw it, he’d be an unbeliever the next day. He’d rationalize it somehow. He’d want to see another one.
He’d want to do this ‘til the day he died, and even then, it might not be enough. He’d probably be on his
deathbed with Mother Mary and Mary Magdalene right above him and not believe it. He was a doubter.
He really was. And he was full of some bitterness that was starting to subside.
Phil and Nancy rushed in. They wanted to stop the miracle. Why they wanted to stop it was
beyond Randal’s and Father Thompson’s comprehension but they sensed it nonetheless. They knew they
were sniffed out. It didn’t stay so secret.
So be it, Randal thought.
He said it aloud and then Father Thompson said, “Likewise. Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
“I have to wait still,” Randal said. At that moment, he got a sign, but it wasn’t the one he
wanted.
We have to wait, he heard from inside his head.
“The guy says we have to wait,” Randal told Father Thompson.
“What do you mean we have to wait?” the father phenomenoned.
“We have to wait because he doesn’t like you. He thought you were worthy though. He changed
his mind. It’s too bad, isn’t it?”
Father Thompson began to feel duped. Randal would later find out that that was why Phil and
Nancy rushed to stop them to begin with. Father Thompson was a fraud and there was nothing anyone
could do about it. It made Bill sad in the sky. It made him sad beyond belief. This man had baptized him
when he was a young child. Now? He wasn’t ready for the miracle. Maybe he’d never be.
 * two *
Clyde Shuster was doing well outside of Duckton. He became a believer. He stopped wearing a
suiting and tie to work. He started wearing clothes that Cobain would approve of. Come as you are,
Cobain had told him one day in a seance at his home. That’s how he knew what to dress in.
So as not to scare off the people that were already coming, he slowly changed--that was his style--
and he was chastised by Cobain whenever he would summon him on a personal level. He started wearing
a beanie to his sermons. That’s what he always wanted to do. His steady parishioners--there was only two
or three that could be called really steady--thought it was a little strange... but they accepted it. They
nearly thought of him as a fraud before but they were starting to see the changes and they liked them.
When Clyde couldn’t get a hold of Cobain, he’d get a hold of Bill. And if he couldn’t get a hold
of Bill, he would talk to Alfred (he was really comfortable when it was Alfred but Alfred knew less than
the other two). He would talk to different people. Pretty soon, his small church couldn’t handle the
amount of people that came. There were bleachers in the back--that was a given--but people were sitting
on the surrounding lawn at times. Shuster was so successful that he decided to cash in his chips--that part
of him still existed--and he moved to Liverpool, England. He thought he was going to hit the jackpot. He
was wrong.

* * *
Jeff Splifer stood behind his podium. He was ready to give a speech that would affect one person
in the crowd so much the she decided to change her entire life because of it. It was no big deal to him. He
made speeches like this all the time. Some teachers say, “If I could only change one person’s life, I’ll be
happy with what I’ve done.” Of course, they mean changing the student’s life for the positive. Jeff wasn’t
like that. He had too many things going. He thought that the things he was teaching, people should know
anyway. He saw himself as an agent. An agent of what? An agent of truth. He believed that truth was
out there... and that’s what was changing people’s lives. It wasn’t him. He was the messenger.
The girl who’s life he changed was Stephanie Venezia. She was schizophrenic, but few people
knew about it. She hid it very well from the public. Her family was somewhat supportive of her. They
would have been really supportive if she could have managed to be normal, in their eyes. Stephanie let
her schizophrenia take off. If she saw something in her head, she would paint it. If she heard people
talking to her at night, she would get up and write poetry about it. That was okay for the family. What
wasn’t okay was that she thought it was all real. It was, but they didn’t know it. Jeff Splifer was about to
say how it was real.
“Let me tell you something, people. A Beautiful Mind won an Oscar. You remember the picture,
right? If you don’t, no big deal. It’s on video. You can watch it. I’m going to talk to you about what van
Gogh went through. I’m going to talk to you about what a million people are going through right now
that are documented in this country. I’m going to talk to you about that character whom inspired the
movie, A Beautiful Mind. It’s schizophrenia.” Stephanie cringed in the front row. She didn’t say a thing
though. Jeff looked at her--he knew he would do this, as far as scanning the audience for certain
reactions--and he knew that she had it. He could see it on her face.
 “I’m going to continue on. If you have any comments...”
“I have schizophrenia.” Stephanie had shyly raised her hand an volunteered the information.
Jeff Splifer expected a gasp from the crowd. He got a fake one. Zotar--now known as Dirt again--gasped
in the community college classroom. He didn’t gasp too loud for Stephanie to hear. Jeff saw the fake gasp
though. He was infuriated and stopped the lecture.
“We’re going to take a break--make it ten minutes--and we’ll come back. Dirt. Think about
what you’ve done.”
“What? I was joking.”
Eddie Macral sat next to him. “I think he was joking teacher. Need we be so serious?”
“I guess not.” He looked at Stephanie. She wasn’t hurt. She was ready for the next lecture and
he could see it.

* * *
While Jeff Splifer’s class took their break, Anna approached the house of Randal Meyer. He had
flown in his dreams since the incident with the priest. He hadn’t flow otherwise and was quite put off by
it. He wanted to fly.
Anna was there for a reason. It wasn’t sex. She wanted to talk to him. “Do you still talk to the
people from the beyond?” she asked him as he opened his door for her.
“No. I don’t. Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering.” There was a pause and she didn’t know whether or not he was going to
invite her inside. “Are you going to let me in?”
“No. I’m not,” he responded to her. He didn’t seem mad. He was bitter ever since the time he
was set up the year before. He didn’t know who was doing it next. It created a strange paranoia in him,
but not that kind that would drive him mad. “I’m not. What are you doing here?”
“I don’t know anymore. I thought you were like the rest, I guess.” She was talking about Alfred
and Bill. Waldo hadn’t been coming around town anymore. He moved to Florida with his grandparents.
Moments passed. The two stood in front of one another. Anna began to leave when she realized
Randal wasn’t going to play with her. “Come on in,” Randal said when he saw that Anna was about to
leave. “I’ll let you in... on one condition.”
“That I have sex with you?”
“No. Strange, but no.”
“What is it?” she wondered aloud. She was thinking about Bill in particular. Things weren’t
going her way. She wondered how it would be if things could be like they were with Bill... so long ago.
“I’m letting you in because...” he began. “Forget about it.” He could see she was still in a dream
state of sorts. She wasn’t thinking of him and it bugged him. “I’m letting you go, okay?”
“Nope. We have to deal. You’re in the same boat with me.”
“Could you at least look into my eyes when you talk?”
“No. Eddie has a friend--he’s a new guy I met--and she doesn’t look him in they eyes. I don’t
think I need to look at you while I talk. Can you deal?” She looked him in the eyes at that time. He was
on the verge of tears.
“I’m going to... go,” he managed. He was emotional. Nothing was going his way. He wanted to
fly but was unable to. He could talk to her about it. It would open new wounds though. Those are the
things that you suppress, according to him. You suppress them and they go away in time... with hope.
That’s what he thought of things. “I’m going to go,” he said again as he collected himself, “So you can’t
come in.”
“I’ll have sex with you,” she said. She didn’t look into his eyes. “I’ll have sex and then we can
talk.”
Randal felt mad. He was getting over it. Feelings are ephemeral. He didn’t know where he had
heard it, but it was lodged in his head.
She was using him somehow. It was a codependency. He relied on affirmation from the public.
She depended on affirmation from him. Sick cycle, she thought. She left. She didn’t say a word. It
didn’t matter to her what had been said. She wanted a rise and she got one. She wasn’t sick in that way.
It was just that the rise she wanted was different from the one she anticipated. She didn’t want to be
alone. That was the bottom line. She could think about the for an hour or two. It was better than if she
didn’t come over at all.
“I’m going to...” Randal began as she made her way down the walk. “I’m going to treat you
better in the future, Anna,” he finally said near the top of his speech.
“The future is now, you son of a bitch,” she muttered under her voice. It didn’t matter if Randal
heard or not. She was going to write Waldo in Florida. Little did she know that he’d be on his way back
in forty-five days.

* * *
Miss Kidman returned to her second-grade class on the day after the incident in the park. When
asked what the family emergency was from the school’s principal, she replied, “Don’t worry,” as in Don’t
worry about it, you nosey bitch. She continued on teaching and all the kids would ask about the rumors.
There wasn’t yet a strong rumor that she had been involved in anything peculiar. Regardless, she had
been befaffled by what was going on. She strode up and down her walkway in front of class during recess.
She didn’t want to go into the teacher’s lounge. They knew she was dating Phil McOaland and secretly
going with Tim Clarke, Alfred’s step-dad when he was alive. They knew all of this and they couldn’t help
but stare. She felt like Jesus, in a way. She knew something that they didn’t. They had rumors about her.
The kids had rumors about them because they were suspicious of any adult in town by that time... with the
exception of Miss Kidman. She was nice. That’s what mattered to them.
After one recess, she called the kids to the center of the room. “You’ve been asking about Zotar a
lot. I’m going to tell you about him.”
Clifford raised his hand and wanted to know something.
“Go on, Cliff,” she said to him. “Ask your question.”
“I want to know what Zotar was up to?”
She didn’t know. She didn’t want to know. Everyone knew that Dirt became Zotar the year
before. He got made fun of and that’s what Clifford was probably asking about. It happened in time.
Zotar--when he called himself that--thought it was rather cool at the beginning. He shed his jock-like
ways and started taking up art. He was riding a wave. He was preaching the liberal gospel and
everything else. Then something changed.
“People oppose you, in life, Clifford.” That’s the best that Miss Kidman could do. “And he
named himself Zotar after something you guys have been asking anyway.”
“Zoton. That’s what you’re talking about, huh?” Nadine wanted to know. “That’s what it is,
huh?”
“Yep. You got it.”
Nadine had had the most serious look on her face before asking and Nancy Kidman was
surprised that it didn’t change after she had given her the affirmative response that she was looking for.
“Then why am I lost?” Nadine wanted to know.
“We’re all lost, Miss Nadine. But no one wants to admit it and those teachers in the other rooms
don’t want to talk about it.” She paused. She said, “Do you ever wonder why they walk so fast to their
teachers’ lounge when they get ready for their breaks? They’re scared like you.”
All of a sudden, no one was scared in class anymore. Then didn’t know how Zoton became Zotar
in Zotar’s head and that didn’t matter to them anymore.
“Zoton’s a metaphor, people. That’s what you need to tell them on the outside, okay? It’s
important.”
“What’s a mettacal, Miss Kidman?” a young girl asked.
“A metaphor--that’s what it’s called--is when something isn’t really true. It’s what we adults do
when we can’t think of answers. It’s ‘pretend,’ okay?”
“Yes, Miss Kidman,” the class collectively said. They nearly got it right this time. They were
getting good.
 * three *
After the lecture in which Jeff Splifer started talking about schizophrenia, a few of the students
went down the hill to a cafe known as Moonbeam. Stephanie was one of them. She was joined by Eddie
Macral, Dirt Cassidy, and a couple of other people that had a mild interest in the day’s discussions. They
weren’t going to stay long. They were going to talk about the implications of what was being said.
Dave Barley was one of the other people to join. He was joined by his girlfriend, Glen Sobner.
Dave was adamant atheist and scoffed at the things that Stephanie had to say when the class came back
from break. Remember, class. This is sensitive stuff we’re going to be discussing, Jeff Splifer had said
when he resumed the lecture. It wasn’t much of a lecture though. It turned into open discussion, mostly
between Stephanie and the rest.
“I want to talk to you, Dave,” Stephanie had said to him.
He didn’t want to talk though and she could see it. He had some whipped cream on the top of his
lip from sipping his mocha--a grande one. “I want to talk to you too, but leave it alone, okay. We don’t
have to discuss it anymore.”
“I agree,” Eddie said. He was surprised. As he drove down the hill, it’s all he wanted to do.
There was an aura of seriousness though. That much he could tell.
Kevin was a jock that played for the school’s football team. He saw Stephanie, hugged her, then
asked where she was coming from.
“Class,” she said. She was happy. He was a good guy. Eddie knew Kevin vaguely from another
class. Dave didn’t know him at all.
“I want to say...” he paused. He was one of the cooler dudes on the campus. A lot of jocks have a
reputation for being stuck up. Kevin was different. He had personality. He didn’t know why.
Eddie had been on a field trip with Kevin from the class he had had him in. He was fun, and he
knew it. We’re both moral guys, Kevin had said to a girl about the two of them. We’re not in it for the
fun. We’re in it for the sex. The people cracked up. It was further from the truth and the people around
knew it. Simple comic relief. Kevin was a master of it.
“What are you guys talking about?” he asked Eddie at the cafe--Cafe Moonsomething, in his
mind. “What is it, Marie?” he asked Stephanie. He didn’t know her name was Steph. He had forgotten
or he was joking again.
“I didn’t know,” Stephanie told someone that was passing by. It was someone else she knew. She
knew a lot of people. She was artistic, people gravitated toward her, she knew it, she played it sometimes,
but most of all, she had heart. Now, after the lecture, she had understanding too.
“I’m going to get up and leave,” Eddie said. His mood had changed. He wanted to talk about
things after leaving class. He couldn’t manage to do so. He knew everyone else didn’t need him. Kevin
wanted him to stay, but that wasn’t enough. He’d leave. He’d go home. He’d ponder.
Dave stood up and left before Eddie could leave the table. He wasn’t mad. It was a mood change
that he sensed as well. They went to their cars. In front of their cars, they talked about all that had gone
on. Eddie told him that he thought Jeff Splifer was right about a lot of things. He talked about the brain
and how psychology and psychiatry both were shifting away from the Freudian model and into something
the Europeans had been teaching for a while. It dealt with the brain itself more than it deal with abstracts.
Kevin approached the two guys as they were talking. “You guys are hosers,” he said to them as
he waved his hand at them in mild disapproval. “What are you guys talking about?”
“The booze,” Eddie said. It was a lie. He didn’t want to be seen as a nerd to this jock. That
could ruin his reputation as anything. Anything but a nerd, Eddie though. “We’re talking about booze...”
Eddie began before being interrupted by Dave. Eddie was going to invite Kevin to a pub down the street.
Dave interrupted Eddie, though, and said, “It’s a lie.” Kevin knew it was. Eddie looked at Dave
with disapproval, Dave noticed it, and Dave tried to play it off. “It’s a lie. We’re talking about gin
rummy. It’s just that Eddie, here, is thinking that gin rummy is a drinking game about drinking gin.”
Boring conversation, but it would suffice.
Eddie thought about Pete Nonarcker. He wasn’t there with them. He was in the class with Kevin
though and he’d know that Kevin was a pretty cool dude. At this point, Eddie really did want to go to a
pub. They wouldn’t go though. God, and Bill on Xeon, would know why. The conversation they had had
in Jeff Splifer’s class had turned in the direction of Bill Swift for a while. Some people knew who he was,
and others didn’t. The people that did know who he was weren’t solidified about what they believed about
him. It’s a strange world like that, or so Eddie was coming to believe.
Kevin left Dave and Eddie. He hopped in his truck and made his way away. Eddie admired him,
not in a homosexual kind of way--he was careful about those things--but he was one of the few people that
he’d actually want to trade lives with if given the chance.
Eddie said to Dave, “Let’s talk about this some other time. Can I have your number? It’s going
to be a long semester. We ought to talk more often.”
“Fag!” Dave said to him and blushed. He gave Eddie his number. Secretly, he hoped they would
have sex someday.
“What the fuck are you guys doing?!” Stephanie demanded. She left her table at the Cafe
Moonbeam and joined them close enough that they could yell back.
“Fuck off, you people. Tell them that, Steph. I’m on your side now... I think.”
The conversation ended at that in Eddie’s mind. She didn’t tell them. She stood around Dave’s
car--a Honda Passport--and talked for about fifteen minutes. Eddie didn’t remember what they talked
about when he reflected on it right before going to bed that night. He’d remember what was said in Jeff’s
class though. It was interesting to him.
* * *
In the mid eighties, there was an asteroid that was heading toward Earth. It was an asteroid with
the name of Donovan. It was named after the scientist whom had first discovered it and people started
calling it Donovan’s Rock.
There was a cult of people, at this time, that had started to form near a large lake in the state of
Minnesota. They were fed up with the world and where it was going. They were led by a charismatic
leader by the name of Greg Lauler. He preached the end of the world and he was a genius--a suicidal
genius. His wife had left him because she couldn’t understand him. He thought too much. He wasn’t in
touch with her feelings. Those were the common gripes that she gave him.
 She left one day without notice. No one would see her again from the family they had formed.
She played on her turntable Bruce Springsteen’s “Hungry Heart” right before she went out the door. Greg
was on a business trip. He was selling vacuums and thinking that his wife would be sooo proud of him
when he returned the following week. He was wrong. She wasn’t proud of anyone but herself. She didn’t
even care that she sent her three children to her sister’s house the day that she left without any
forewarning to any of them that they’d never see her again. She was most proud for that, as a matter of
fact.
Greg became disillusioned with life. He stopped selling vacuums. He started selling the fact that
the world would end soon. When Donovan’s Rock came by, he saw a moment and seized it.
“The great rock, you see... is going to change everyone, people. It’s going to hit the Earth. We
can’t trust the government. We can’t do that... and we can’t trust the media either. They’re both
saying...”
“We know. We know,” a man from the back said.
“I have to tell everyone else, sir.” Greg wasn’t upset. It happened all the time. His crowd was
getting bigger. Some of them heard the same spiel many times. They trusted him, but they knew in
general that he had to keep saying it. There were newcomers all the time. “Will you step up, my friend,
and talk your piece? We call it witnessing around here.”
A lady in the front row nearly tore her garb. Witnessing was a word that she heard when she was
growing up... in her church, about Jesus Christ. How could this man be talking about witnessing? It
applied to Jesus, for Christ’s sake!
“Anyhow,” a different man spoke up. “I agree with what Greg’s doing here.” He wanted to go
on but he noticed Greg getting uncomfortable. He looked on and the crowd was still in the mood. The
lady had even settled down a bit.
A man with an Indiana Jones hat spoke up. “I have nothing to say to you,” he told the man
whom had just spoke up for Greg Lauler. He didn’t know what to do and neither did the man he was
talking to.
“I want to believe you,” the man whom spoke up for Greg said. “I want to.” Greg had found that
you get a good following if you go to mental institutions and talk to the people that were being released.
Those people would really follow. They already had other things going on in their heads that weren’t
quite right, according to him, anyway. He’d follow on to the art district in the bigger towns. He knew
them well because he had been a salesman all over. “Wait a second,” the man finally said. “I know
what’s going on.” He didn’t but felt uncomfortable, nonetheless. He was going to leave and not come
back.
A month later, Greg took a trek with his followers--the most devout of them--and they went to
theme parks, they took a lot of pictures, and the wore Neekay apparel all the time. It was done on
purpose. He was making a statement. They didn’t know it though. His adherents thought that Greg was
saving them from potential disaster. He told them that Neekay was a god on another planet and that’s
how the shoe company was named. They didn’t know it and they didn’t bother to look it up. He said that
if they wore Neekay, that the god would eventually have mercy on his crowd and he would steer the
asteroid clear of the planet they lived on. He did this and had great joy.
The asteroid came and went. It missed the planet. By then, Greg had the crowd--there were
more or less fifty of them that did everything together on a continual basis--and he had a final proposition
to them.
“Do you want to go someplace better than the place where we’re at?”
The man in the Indiana Jones hat--he had stopped wearing it all the time out of guilt that Greg
and others had put on him--nodded his head slowly in the direction of yes. There were no opposers. Greg
knew he had something at this point.
“I’m going to take you to Zoton.” It was a word he had heard on the streets one day when he was
speaking to a palm reader about buying a vacuum or two. She wouldn’t have anything to do with him.
She did have a message though--an unsolicited one. You’re going to take people to a place you never
dreamed of in your wildest dreams. It was true... but he didn’t believe her at the time. “I’m going to take
you to Zoton. We have to go to New York, so get ready.”
The people saved money for Greyhound tickets. Fifty of them made it on the dot, not counting
Greg Lauler. They went to New York, Greg used his lifesavings to rent a houseboat, and they trekked off
into the sea. At the midway point of their journey--they’re expected journey--Greg went to the far end of
the boat, lowered an explosive down with a rope, and set it off through a remote device.
The boat began to sink. They didn’t make it back to the shore. Fifty people made it made it to
Xeon on that day. Greg Lauler made it to Zoton.
* * *
Dave and Eddie became good friends in the months following their class with Jeff Splifer. They
had met Randal Meyer and decided that the three of them could start a musical group. Randal was
inspired by what Alfred and Waldo had been doing, and since he wasn’t good friends with Waldo, he
looked elsewhere to start something that he thought could be really big. Eventually, it turned out, that
Waldo would join the band. He brought to it the name that they would use: Freight Train. It rang pretty
well. A freight train was something that moved. Anyone could jump on and jump off at any time. It was
unstoppable in another way: If you got in its way, watch out, motherfucker!
Randal thought it was a bad name for the band and preferred something that Dave had suggested.
“Let’s just be Eddie and the Whistlers. I don’t mind being backup in the band. If Eddie has the fire, let
him use it.” The thought was shot down but Eddie Macral would later use that name for a solo project
that he worked on.
Waldo wrote poetry and learned a thing or two about guitar and bass while Alfred was still
around on Earth. Randal learned keyboards. Dave and Eddie took a class together about musicianship
and one of them focused on the drums while the other played the saxophone. In the end, they taught each
other music. They would be like the Beatles, or so they wanted to be. If you listened to a Beatles’ tune
and you were one of them, you never knew if it was John, Paul, Ringo, or George that was singing,
according to Freight Train. In the end they learned each other’s instruments and they took turns singing,
like the Beatles.
One day, they went to a festival concert known as Ozzfest. It was headlined by the madman
himself, Ozzy Osborne. They didn’t have good seats. They didn’t have any seats, if you really thought
about it. They were in the grass at a place that was once known as Irvine Meadows. Midway through the
set, they became upset at where they were sitting and decided to try to get closer to the stage in a collective
drunken stupor.
“What’s the worse that could happen?” Eddie asked Dave as he downed some whiskey that he
had snuck in.
“They could throw us in concert prison, dudes!” Wally said to the group. They all got good
laughs and set on their way to the front of the stage.
All got close but they still weren’t happy. By then, it didn’t matter to them. The story wasn’t
going to be how good Ozzy was to them. No. That was not going to be the story at all. They were gonna
get up front--the very fuckin’ front--or they were going to be disappointed and stroke off around a spooge
cookie when they got home. The story had be about them in religious fervor. They were still bonding and
they didn’t even know it.
They got thrown in concert prison, alright. Not all of them, though. It was Eddie that took a
dive toward the front. Randal followed behind in a stampede of what became many people that had seen
their own opportunities to get up front. It is always the first that gets caught though, and Eddie knew it
but didn‘t care. Randal made it to the front, though. He had followed Eddie and one security guard was
not enough to catch two (or thirty, in a matter of seconds) people going in opposite directions. Eddie
made it into a cage (made of regular wire fence on all sides) and didn’t care when he started puking all
over the ground. Waldo saw that Eddie got busted and made a choice. It was a big choice to him, and a
bigger choice to the band when they reflected on it later. I could go up front with Randal and Dave... or I
can go with Eddie and share in his pain--his misery. What the fuck?
He chose the latter. Randal had a good time, as Dave made it with him. When Wally saw a
security guard, he said, You’re a fuck up! then punched him in the ear and said, What do I have to do to
get in concert prison??? The story was a hoot when told later because the security guy was a weak ass to
them. They compared stories afterwards. Dave was doused by Ozzy Osborne when he, the madman
himself, threw water into a crowd. He would later say that he was baptized by him. Eddie and Waldo
didn’t have such a bad time in the concert prison (that’s what they started calling it automatically). They
made fun of a security guy then saw him tear up when he realized that he’d rather put up with their shit
than to lose his job by fighting them with his buddies. ‘Concert Prison’ was the later result from Eddie &
the Whistlers.
* four *

Bucky Holdwater was a young buck on the move. He became a speech writer for Ralph Connors
during his reelection bid in the year of 2004. Butch Jackson took a bow this time. He had enough with
the government. They were going in a different direction than he wanted them to go. That wasn’t all
though. He wasn’t seeing enough of his family. For the second time in a decade, he refused to continue
on as the country’s Secretary of State.
The politics of everything didn’t matter to Bucky. He did what he was told. He had ideas of his
own, but he was willing to wait to have them thrust into the limelight. He didn’t do everything he was
told--he was too smart for that--because he realized you couldn’t do everything you were told. I can’t do
what ten people tell me to do, so I guess I’ll remain the same, was a common lyric that he thought of. It
was from Otis Redding and Bucky didn’t care that he was a nigger in his eyes. He realized he couldn’t
please the liberals. He was going to please Ralph Connors. That’s what mattered to him.
Bucky planted an idea in Ralph’s head during his reelection run at a campaign stop. People love
the state! he said one day. They’re all for anything that’s happened since nine-eleven. It matters to them!
he said. He wrote a speech for Mr. Connors that day that implied that the nation would be better off if
there was an anti-flag burning amendment to the Constitution. Ralph ran on that premise and he won the
election.
During this time, Freight Train was learning their chops. They were getting good at what they
were doing. Dave contributed lyrics about things he had learned at school. Waldo contributed lyrics about
having experiences with two of his town’s legends... and losing them both to death. Randal talked about
the experiences he had with Francine, Anna and others in the songs he wrote. Eddie didn’t care what he
wrote about. None of mattered. He could write a song about tying his shoe laces and it would be just as
good as something that moved people to arms. It was the experiences he was after. He wanted some
brotherhood, and for a period of his life, he finally got it.
Bucky stayed in touch with Randal during the election run. That was the funny part about it. He
wasn’t as significant anymore in the city of Miller but that didn’t really matter to him. He had Ameriway
buddies that got him in the presence of the United States of America. That mattered a lot to him.
Ralph Connors managed to get his Republican constituents to easily pass an amendment to the
Constitution against burning the American flag. There was a funny stipulation to it all. It didn’t just
preclude people from burning the flag. It precluded them from reproducing it without license. In a land
of freedom, it didn’t strike many people as odd.
Neekay was the first corporation that bought rights to the new flag licensing concept. They
would use this to promote their products. In the places of stars on the flag, there would be the swishers
that were associated with the company. People would burn these flags... and they would be arrested. This
went on for two years... until Freight Train finally did something about it. They wrote a song that rocked
the world.

* * *
The song that rocked the world in the summer of 2006 was called “Greg Lauler the Visionary”.
Many people caught the sarcasm off of the bat although most people thought of him as a visionary, during
his time, at the very least. Randal had the idea to write about him.
“We can use his experience--you see?--and we can make it our own.”
Greg Lauler, before he sank on his houseboat with fifty other people, had started to send pictures
of his group to all the news magazines. Time ate it up and put him on the cover. They ate it up because
he was wearing a Neekay sweatshirt. Greg smiled with pride, in the picture. He knew he wouldn’t be
noticed unless he did something like that. Neekay supported Time Magazine heavily, and vice versa.
They paid millions of dollars to have their shoes and apparel advertised in between world events and
current entertainment news. The world ate it up when Greg Lauler did it. Randal had an idea that they
would eat it up again a half generation after it had become public news. He was right.
“What can we do with this?” Eddie wanted to know. He was the guy in the band that questioned
the content of the songs but didn’t do anything to stop it.
“We can use it. People are going to relate to it. They’re seeing the Neekay flags everywhere.
They’ll know.”
Randal thought it was a good idea for a business reason: More knowledge of them meant more
record sales. On the inside, Eddie went along with it because of brotherhood within the band. There was
more though. He hoped people would think about it.
In the year 2008, there was a swell of emotion from what was going on. Law enforcement had
taken the amendment too literally and they were throwing good people in jail. There were housewives.
There were school teachers. There were doctors. There were a lot of people that believed that two
hundred dollar Neekay shoes shouldn’t be worn and coveted by their children. In the end, the swell
changed the world. Ralph Connors’ vice president at the time, Daniel Quartz, was the recipient of
backlash. He was easily defeated. Not by a Democrat. He was defeated by a Libertarian by the name of
Robert Wisdom. He had successfully campaigned that our nation needed to go back to its roots. He was
right. Seventy-five people percent of the people that voted that year thought he was right. He won by
more than sixty percentage points in the polls.

* * *
Stephanie Venezia got a hold of mental illness and turned it into an asset. The conversation that
began in Jeff Splifer’s class helped her do so. She had thought that when she got voice impressions from
the outside, that they were a real thing. She thought that she was communicating directly with stars from
Hollywood and with world leaders from around the globe. She even thought that she talked to Abraham
Lincoln and Mahatma Gandhi a time or two. She was going crazy but her poetry and her paintings kept
her somewhat sane. She sent these poems and some of her drawings to the stars that she thought she was
talking to. In the end, she got a new belief.
Jeff Splifer was fired for what he believed. It would enigma in retrospect to Eddie, Dave and the
rest of the gang in the year 2009 as they reflected on it.
How could you get fired for what you believe? Eddie asked Dave one drunken night.
I don’t know, Dave replied. They were getting ready to call it quits at their hotel. They were on
the road with a band called Destruction. It was a great tour for them.
I mean... We had freedom of creed all along, didn’t we? Eddie asked as he downed a martini.
Waldo had come into the room and didn’t feel like joining in the conversation. He was beat.
Obviously, we didn’t have freedom of creed, Wally finally said. It appeared that Dave was too
perplexed to answer. We OWN this country now, is what Wally added. He was beat though. Eddie could
tell. As Eddie thought of it, he wanted a beer and then some rest himself.
Stephanie got her hold on her mental illness in Jeff’s class. He taught that the brain was like a
nation. Sometimes you have world leaders that speak to one another. That was the conscious mind. He
said that individual cells had souls though. That was the kicker that got him fired. He said he was
working on a thesis that he wanted to print.
“They have souls,” he said that day in which they all went to Cafe Moonbeam to talk. “They
have souls. Some people talk to people in France from this country. That’s what’s going on in your head,
Stephanie. You’re not talking to Catherine Zeta- Jones or her husband. What it is is that you’re a nation
of your own. You’re world leaders--the cells in the brain that control you--are talking to her little people.
They are in her subconscious. Stop writing those letters to her. She doesn’t know that you’re talking to
her. It feels that way, but you’re not.”
“I might be though, right?”
Jeff Splifer thought about it. “I guess it’s possible. It’s not likely though. Do you know how
many things she has to think about? She’s communicating to a billion people right now as we speak.
They’re all around the globe. You’re not special.”
At that, Eddie decided to talk to them afterwards at Moonbeam. The conversation would never
surface between them, but he knew inside that he had a revelation of his own.
Dave fell in love with Stephanie. When Freight Train started to make it big, he asked her out.
Later they would marry. They would be a driving force in the world to come... and neither one of them
would ever hold an elected office.

* * *
* Epilogue *
Lizzy Shulton, the girl who Alfred loved with all his heart and unexpectedly broke up with near
the town square, married a man by the name of Dirt Cassidy. She called him Zotar for the rest of their
days. He was a good man and he was tired of searching. “Zotar” was in her heart. “Dirt” wasn’t. It
turned out that it wasn’t in his heart either.
They had three children and raised them well. She voted Robert Wisdom in the election of 2008
and her husband voted for the Democratic candidate (no one knew his name in the following years
anyway). They had a good life. She worked as a doctor. Dirt--Zotar--got a job promoting bands. They
did well. Zote was good friends with the guys from Freight Train and that helped him out a lot.
The Church of Kurt Cobain never flew again. Clyde Shuster returned from Liverpool after an
unsuccessful attempt to create a Church of the Fab. He didn’t know that the land was a holy ground. He
didn’t know it was a mecca. He didn’t know that people in that town didn’t need him.
He returned to the states and tried to look up Alfred Newman, the young man he had met that
looked for answers. He went to the city of Miller and found that he had died a tragic death. That didn’t
stop Clyde. He erected a church known as the Temple of Bill Swift. It worked for a while. People went
and tried to channel him. He channeled back for a while. In the end, it wasn’t enough. There were
stained glass windows, but they didn’t depict saints. Clyde Shuster thought that he could make some
money if he played on the city’s emotions. The stained glass windows depicted the members of Freight
Train. He thought the he could do this in every town. He thought that the Temple of Bill Swift could
belong to a network of other places collectively known as the Church of Rock an’ Roll. He didn’t know
that people already had their own churches. They were homes where the stars had lived before getting
big. They were places they had been when they were becoming discovered. They were amphitheatres that
they had played in. He didn’t know Graceland was a mecca as well. He knew it was a place where people
went. He didn’t know it was a holy place to the visitors when they went. He was trying to create this. He
didn’t know that religions just happen.
Lizzy returned from work one day to see her husband--she didn’t have to stop because she was
going out of town to visit her mother, anyway--and found that he was talking to Clyde Shuster on the
steps.
“He’s going out of town today, Liz.”
“I know.” She could sense it. “He’s leaving town because he knows that what he did was wrong..
and people don’t want it anymore.”
“At least he’s not getting arrested for it.” It was 2010 and the new amendment of flag burning
had been repealed. Everyone was getting their freedoms back. This man, Clyde Shuster, practiced his
freedom of creed, freedom of religion, and right to free speech. He was being run out of town, but not in
handcuffs. He was being run out of town because people didn’t want him anymore. He couldn’t stay
because he couldn’t afford to stay. The donations had dried up.
Lizzy kissed Zotar on the cheek. “I think I’m going to love you forever,” she said. She was
thinking of him, but she was thinking of Bill Swift as well. She didn’t know it, but he and Alfred
Newman were playing marbles in a galaxy far away.
author’s final remarks...
If you have made it this far, it’s because you skipped to the end, started at
the end, or made it through my fiction. I apologize to you though. I really do. Along
the way, I hope you were entertained. That’s number one in my book. Beyond that,
I hope you were educated on some things in this book, de-educated in other areas,
and persuaded to take action in other places. That’s my purpose as an aspiring
actor. That’s right. That’s all I am. An actor. I act like I know what I’m talking
about. I act like I know what you want to hear. I act sometimes like I know what you
need to hear. In the end, it’s all about balance to me... at this point in my life.
I have a Doctorate’s degree in Communication Studies. I have an Associate’s
degree in the Liberal Arts. I think you could see where they played in to my fiction if
you really took a look.
Long ago, I started to study ecology--that’s the main purpose I’m writing this
last piece--and I had intended to write this book on double-sided sheets and send a
message, even if subliminal to you. I wanted to say, “Save the rainforest. Keep in
mind the feelings of the people from the Pacific Northwest. They’re losing their
forests every day.” I wanted you to check in to things and find out that we only have
five percent of our original old growth forests left. It’s tragic, and I know it is.
Nonetheless, I’m an entertainer.
Only a handful of these manuscripts are being made. I chose single-sided
pages because of the ease of things. I thought about the New York Times and how
much paper they must be wasting every day. They’re doing it on lies, nowadays
too! That’s the funny part.
This is insignificant, people. It really is. I’m going to send out twelve copies
of these puppies and take things whereever they may lead.
Stephen King was an influence on me long ago. I wanted to be like him. In
my mind, I am like him now... but I care about the world. I don’t know if he does
anymore. If he did, he’d write something, lately, that I could read!
I have a saying that goes, “The heaviest burden for declining to rule is to be
ruled by someone inferior to yourself.” I write from the heart. I don’t know if other
people don’t. I just know I can’t read their fiction any longer. It’ll come back to me
though. I know that. I just had to get this piece out there.
God bless. Watch out for those guys from the planet Kliptor. I hope you
enjoyed. Hasta la vista, baby.
Gaud Rockefeller
Destiny Zoton
part ? in a series
?

by
Gaud Rockefeller
2003

?
 Jacket Introduction:

In a world of bliss, no one knows death like someone that

experiences it. Bill Swift is this person. His best friend, Alfred,
uncovered mysteries of the universe before tasting death himself.
They would join one another, but things would not be perfect for
them. Alfred’s goal--you see?--was to regain the trust of his former
best friend from Earth. Bill Swift’s goal was to attain world peace
on the planet he left behind.

Disclaimer: The things and the places in this book are real--some of them are--
but most of them are not. The characters, with the exception of Christina
Ricci, Eric Clapton, and a few others, are phony. They are. Get that through
your head!!! If you don’t like fiction, pick up something else to read... you
d@mnxd mxtherf@ckxr

Government Slogan: Only the powerful will rule the weak... Let’s damn the meek... the ones with heart!

This book is rated NC-17 for graphic language, sexual misconduct, and occasional
bouts with Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness.

So... You’ll be scared, in other words!

? ?
I dedicate this book to my mentor, Homer. Without him, I’d be
nothing.
? ? ? ?? ? ?
?
? ? ?
Introduction...

I was asked to read a second version of Gaud Rockefeller’s work. I didn’t want to do it.
I passed out the first original and I expected that everyone I passed it on to would swoop on it.
I really did. My dad said his eyes were fucked up. My sister Deedee wasn’t able to come in
from Hollywood for a few weeks because she was touring with a new boyfriend of hers. My
friend Dave said that he was working a lot and had other things to do. Eric, another friend,
forgot how to read. I’m kidding. He didn’t. But he didn’t read it like it was a book report that
had to be completed in a few days or else he wouldn’t graduate high school. It’s just an
analogy.
Am I complaining? No. I’m not. It sounds like I am, but I’m not. I’m venting. I hate
television. I believe that if the television had never been invented, people would be playing
music--original music--on every corner. I believe everyone would be writing his or her own
books on a yearly basis at the very least. We have the technology for that, you know?
Instead, Gaud Rockefeller has to compete with ABC. He has to compete with the Man. He has
to compete with a lot of people.
There were times that Gaud would be paid attention to. This was in times of old. He
told me about it. He’s a sad guy now. I know people will eventually read his stuff--I hope they
do--but it’s disheartening. It really is. Marshal McLuhan said it best when he tagged TV as a
cold medium. It tells you what to think. It gives you sounds... and it gives you sight. There’s
not much room for imagination.
Books are real, folks. Good ones are. Are Gaud’s books bad? No. They’re not. But a
TV movie could be made of his stuff and you’d spend a couple of hours getting the same story
as you would reading it for a few hours. You’d miss the texture, though. You’d miss the
insight. That’s what I believe.
Please, don’t wait for this to be made of TV movie of. I’m going to start dating
Christina Ricci pretty soon--it’s already been set up--and I’m going to leave most of you
behind. Just kidding. I wouldn’t do that.
Gaud is not boring though. He’s really not. The first book, he wrote and it was rather
drab to me in retrospect. By golly, I liked it the first time I read it. I read his second piece--
the one you have before you--and it explains a lot. I guess if I have a message, it’s this: If
you liked the first one, you’ll like this one even more. If you didn’t like the first one? You must
be a Koagulate or something! Just kidding.
Greg Laurie, a Protestant minister that I used to follow, said that one reason our world
has gone to shit is that people stopped believing in evil. They stopped believing the devil
existed. They stopped believing in a literal Hell. I don’t believe any of this. I’ve been
enlightened, or so I believe. Gaud does something interesting in this book, though. He takes
a new turn. He tries to convince me, as the reader, that Lucifer is a real being. He tries to
convince me that there’s worse places than Zoton. He tries to do a lot of this. In the end, he
tried to change my mind about everything I previously believed.
He nearly succeeded.
I’m writing this to pass time. Like I said, there were moments that I felt blessed to
have Destiny Zoton before me. There were times that I felt apathetic. Like, what if what he
was saying was true? What if a publisher never gets a hold of him and gets it out to the
masses? What if I’m wrong for having Gaud Rockefeller in my life?
I think Gaud Rockefeller is a cult leader. I think the same thing of Stephen King, by
the way. I think he’s a shyster. I think he’s a hero. I’ve spent enough time with Gaud to see
that he’s everything in the characters he writes about. I think he’s Lucifer too, if you know
what I mean?
I’m going to go. I didn’t have to write this. Gaud didn’t want me giving him bad
reviews. He likes honesty though. He really does. If he gets a publisher, he’ll omit every bad
review that’s read before his book. In this one, he allows them all, and more. “It’s a matter of
the business, son,” he told me. “You can’t screw around with them.” He was talking about
the publishers.
I’m going to go. I’m not in Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, any longer, if
you wanted to know. Gaud’s first book--the Old Testament, to me--cured me of my loneliness.
I’m in the Dead Poets’ Society now. I’ll check out of that in a year or two and then I’ll do
something else. I don’t really know.
I don’t really care.
--Eddie Corona
what the critics have spewed out...

“This is a book that’s not worth reading.”

--The Christian Monitor

“The editing in this junk was just like a pepperoni pizza. Nice and
soft.”
--Pizza Connoisseur

“Blasphemy. Pure blasphemy. But we liked it... sort of.”

--Rolling Stone

“I’m getting sick of Gaud Rockefeller. I think he thinks he’s George

Lucas. He’s not.”
--Reader’s Digest

“The musical CD, attributed to Freight Train, was savage. The writing
in the book was good, but it left us longing for more description.
Three stars, period. Maybe three and a half.”
--Entertainment Weekly

“The book was superb. There were elements of fiction, but I saw my
dad in every scene. Musically, he‘s a genius too. Gaud Rockefeller
knows his stuff.”
--Rush Limbaugh, during “From America With Love,” a weekly
salute to veterans across the country

“This book was primarily educational. I think Gaud Rockefeller gave

up on comedy, the arts, and everything identifiable with goodness.”
--Conan O’ Brien, during a long monologue in which he choked
twice
kind words continue on...

“We couldn’t read it. We heard there was blasphemy and that was
enough for us.”
--The Catholic Bishops’ Workshop Papers

“There is tension all over this book. I regret not having read the first
one first.”
--Cosmopolitan

“The book is full of misnomers about the way the government works.
Rambo should play the part of Bill Swift. Arnold Swartzenegger should
play his buddy, Alfred Newman, for that matter. It’s freakin’
ridiculous.”
--The National Security Agency, in a press release dated August
11, 2003

“The second book, here, is actually superior to the first in many ways.
I give it a thumbs up!”
--Roger Ebert, writing for TV Guide

“If it weren’t for the appearance of the Romantics, Dionne Corona and
Moonchild, and a few others, the CD included would actually suck.”
--Guitar

“If people can get past the fact that Lucifer is in the book, they could
have a good time reading Destiny Zoton.”
--The Humanist

“Bomb Iraq again. That’s what I say.”

--Dennis Miller, during HBO standup comedy
One More Page For the Freaks In Society...

“I am the way, the truth, and the life.”

--attributed to Jesus the Christ, John 14: 6

“Do it to it!”
--Neekay slogan

“All you need is love.”

--John Lennon and the Beatles, in an international broadcast

“God is love.”
--Saint John, the Apostle, in I John 4: 8

“Love is blind.”
--Maxim

“God is blind?”
--Dr. Don Michaels, the professor of philosophy, at a place
called San Quixote Community College

“Then the devil took him up to a very high mountain, and showed him all the
kingdoms of the world in their magnificence, and he said to him, ’All these I
shall give to you, if you will prostrate yourself and worship me.’ At this, Jesus
said to him, ’Get away, Satan!’”
--Mathew 4: 8- 10

“Sit on it!”
--Arthur Fonzerelli, known as the Fonze, in his Happy Days
 Destiny Zoton prologue
On a cool, spring afternoon, a little girl of nine years of age strode past Randal Meyer’s house on
her new Schwinn miniature beach cruiser. She didn’t think of him though. She was on her way to
church, right down the street from him. She thought about the pastor. She thought about God. She
thought about what he was going to say next.
Randal was inside his house practicing his guitar. He was writing a song. He was oblivious to
the little girl. He was oblivious to the church down the street, though he passed it nearly every day on the
way to work. And he was oblivious to what was going on inside the church.
A girl’s wish would come true that day. She was getting ready for a sermon and she heard one of
the better ones she’d ever heard. Randal’s wish didn’t come true. He was coveted by a good friend’s wife
but he was coming to grips with the fact that he was losing touch with everything around him. He’d write
a song about it that day. It wouldn’t make him feel much better. It’d make the girl feel much two years
later. She’d fall in love with him again when he hit the charts with it in his band Freight Train.

*Part One*

* one *

I really don’t know why I’m here, Alfred said. Stephanie could hear him in her head. She knew
that certain things were real. She stopped sending the stuff to Hollywood movie stars. Secretly, she
hoped that some of it got through. She hoped Christina Ricci had gotten a couple of her paintings and put
them on her wall. She didn’t think it happened though.
There was a time that she was convinced that all this was taking place. It was painful. “What do
you want, Alfred?” Alfred was on Zoton. He was separated from Bill. It was ironic. Bill had committed
suicide. Alfred had it in his head that he would have gone to Zoton for before him. Zoton was Hell, for as
far as anyone knew. It wasn’t painful. It was full of void. It was full of longing. “I’m asking you a
question. What do you want?”
I want nothing at all. Alfred, being on Zoton, was not in a good mood. He wasn’t in a good
mood at all. He wasn’t hostile. He was sad. And he wasn’t on a trip. Alfred later learned that Mother
Mary and other saints visited Zoton. Whatever force that was controlling things allowed it to happen. He
didn’t believe he was on Zoton for that reason. There was pain in the air. Alfred couldn’t manage much
more. He was hurt. He was surprised. He wanted to talk to Stephanie. She had already married Dave
Barley. They were going to have children. Dave had yet to promote his new song, “Greg Lauler the
Visionary.” It was still time before Robert Wisdom would initiate the changes that would be necessary to
repeal the flag-burning amendment. He was sad. I want nothing, he reiterated. Nonetheless, he wanted
something. He just didn’t know what it was. How is Daisy? he finally asked.
 “She’s nothing to me,” Stephanie said, and was glad with the question.
I know. I know a lot. It sucks. She’s Republican now, you know? It’s sad.
“Why are you political?” she asked him. He was afraid to answer. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t
want to be political. He knew things. It bugged him. He started to feel like Bill must have felt when
Alfred was still alive on Earth and Bill was delivering him his messages.
I want out, he said. He wouldn’t get out. There’s no turning around in these kinds of events.
Alfred reflected on his home journal that he left behind before taking a few pieces of brick in the
head. He thought about it. He wished it wasn’t there. It was his dad that got a hold of it. He used it at
the beginning and then let things go. Alfred didn’t want it there at all. The reason was that he wanted to
be forgotten. If he was forgotten, he wouldn’t have to think of Earth anymore. He was still wrapped up in
politics, and the funny thing was that he wasn’t old enough to get wrapped up in too many politics at the
time of his passing.
Alfred thought about Daisy. He couldn’t get a hold of her. He didn’t know why. He knew she
turned Republican and he didn’t know why.
Stephanie blew out the candles she had lit. Dave came into the room and they forgot about
things for a while. Dave wanted to write a new song. Alfred, on Zoton, wanted to talk to Stephanie about
her purported schizophrenia. He wouldn’t get his wish.

* * *

Bill Swift was holding his own of Xeon. On Earth, in the year 2005, Phil McOaland was
returning to his old ways. He had been a liberal, on the inside, for a couple of years. He married Nancy
Kidman, a school teacher, and he supported her PTA associations as well as her attachment to Murmur, a
political action group that was responsible for getting petitions signed that would eventually help repeal
the amendment to the Constitution that had recently been passed. She still wore Neekay sweatshirts. She
added to them though. One could say she amended them. She drew, in red ink, a large circle around the
swisher and she had the classical bar that crossed it out. It was classic. It was dumb. It was a statement.
Phil had always turned his head when petty thievery was going on. He continued to work at
Darber and being associated with Alfred in the past changed his attitude on life. He stopped reporting
union activity when he saw it on the monitors. It was easy to do. He had no boss that was pressuring him
to hand over evidence. He stopped the remote viewing too, but it wasn’t by his choice. He stopped talking
to Alfred a year after he left the planet. After that, he lost his ability to see. He could still see through his
eyes. He lost the ability to see through the invisible one that is pictured on your forehead, in so many
people’s minds. He lost these abilities.
This is fuckin’ boring. He heard it clear as daylight. Bill Swift was talking to Phil.
What do you want? Phil was at work, and though no one was around, he dared not speak aloud.
He could have been electronically bugged. That was always a possibility.
I’m just going through the motions, you homo, Bill said to Phil.
Phil didn’t know what Bill wanted. If Alfred was still able to communicate with the two of
them--he was on Zoton, after all--he would have thought it had something to do with union activity. Bill
thought things were boring though. He was checking on Phil. He did things like this on occasion. He
tried to check on Alfred once in a while but the powers-that-be that control the universe wouldn’t let him.
I’m going to go, Phil said to Bill. He thought he could escape him. He couldn’t. Not if Bill
didn’t want it to happen.
Nancy Kidman became Nancy McOaland a few years back and was thinking of divorce. Why she
was thinking of divorce was beyond her. Phil still went through the motions. He said the right things. In
the end, she didn’t know if it was enough. He used to bust union organizers. She thought a part of it still
lived within him. In the end, she was right. She was scared, but she was right.

* * *
By the year 2005, Anna Harcdomm became Anna Swift. She married Bill’s brother, Ned. It
made Bill laugh in the sky when he thought about it. Bill and Anna had had sexual relations and it led to
turmoil that eventually led to Bill’s suicide, though indirectly. It was actually indicative of what was
going on, when Bill reflected on it. He had tried to commit suicide before the sexual relations. The
reasons? He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t put a finger on it. He had mysteries of the universe down pat in
regards to physics, chemistry, biology, and a few other things. He couldn’t understand human pain. He
couldn’t understand it at all.
Ned married Anna Harcdomm. She had been with Wally Fleshman prior to this. Ned wondered
where her heart was at. Sometimes, he wondered if she had a heart. He knew she did though. She was a
little dumb... but smart in some respects. He was confused. In the end, he married his brother. Anna
lived inside of Bill. Bill lived inside of Anna. He wanted his brother still around. Anna was able to light
up a room with stories of him. Ned liked this. He would die knowing he did the right thing. Funny thing
was that he expected it to only last a few months. He wanted to know that he had her at a time though.
That was enough for him. His brother was a little more religious. He wanted that “one and only” thing.
That wasn’t good for Ned. Life was too short. If Anna worked out though? It’s a bonus. That’s what he
thought.
“I have this to say to you,” she told Ned. “I have no underwear on.”
“Fuck you, cunt,” Ned told her. He was mad when he said it but the feeling faded quickly. He
believed in letting stuff out. Don’t bottle it in, let it out, he’d say to people. He believed it. In the end, he
hoped it would keep him with Anna. People appreciate truth, you know? he had once told Bill when Bill
was still on the planet. You could tell them they’re an ape... and if they believe it, they’ll appreciate it in
the end. “Hey, cunt. Come here,” Ned said to Anna. She did. She was reluctant, but she did.
Ned held her tight for a moment. She resisted lightly. Ned thought about Bill in Heaven--he no
longer believed Bill was on Xeon or anywhere else--and he thought that life could be better. Maybe if I
have a kid with her, he thought about Anna. It would happen, at least in his dreams.

* * *
“Government, in its best form...” Stephanie Venezia-Barley said. She was interrupted by a raised
hand in a seminar she was teaching of schizophrenic students.
“You have no idea who you are,” the troll-like student said. His name was Ben Murphy.
“Thank you very much, Ben. I have to move on.” A voice must have told Ben to raise his hand.
She continued on, nonetheless, in spite of Ben raising his hand again, getting fidgety, then walking
around the room after leaving his seat. “In its best form, it is a necessary evil. Can anyone tell me who
said that?” No one responded. A depressed lady looked like she knew the answer but she wouldn’t say.
Her name was Francine Cross. “I’m going to move on then. It’s Thomas Paine...”
“...And he also said that...” Ben said, after rejoining his seat.
“...That it is an intolerable evil... in its worse form. Thomas Paine wrote Common Sense. They
preceded the Constitution. Actually, it was the Federalist papers that preceded it. Thomas’ did too, but it
was a book.”
“I remember, teacher,” Ben said. He was a smart aleck. He had dreads growing because he
refused to wash his hair. He had done too much LSD in his past. People believed it induced his voices.
“Do it matter that...” Ben began. He was making fun of people. He had a knack for it.
“I’m not sure I want to do this,” Stephanie continued. No one heard her but herself. She was
barely audible when she whispered it. “I want to tell you...”
“I know,” Ben said. “The tree of democracy needs to be watered with the blood of tyrants every
now and then. Jefferson. Thomas Jefferson, right?”
“Nope. It’s not what I was going to say,” Stephanie said, but it was a lie or else she was trying to
hold back the truth because of other personal reasons. “I wanted to say that the tree...”
A bell rang. It was time to go. They weren’t in grade school. It was how the night course was
set up.
“I’ll see you all tomorrow,” Stephanie said to the class. “I don’t think this is going to fly,” she
whispered under her voice. The students didn’t leave until she said it. Ben stuck around but didn’t say a
thing. “I’m going to go,” Stephanie said. She thought about Dave. She thought about what he was
doing. She thought about the band. She thought about their dreams, Eddie Macral’s in particular. He
wouldn’t voice his opinions in lyrics. He had a lot to say when he was drunk though. Funny stuff.
Disturbing though, some of it was to her. “I’m going to go, Ben,” Stephanie said when she realized he
wasn’t going.
Ben had started to raise his hand like class was still going on. “I’m going to beat you up!” he
yelled at Stephanie.
“You and what army!” Stephanie demanded into thin air. She didn’t want to challenge Ben. He
was a retard, in her book. I had been a retard once too, she thought then left him in class by himself.

* * *
In the years before Stephanie Venezia-Barley became a councilor for the county of San Quixote in
the state of California, she had bouts with depression. This happened in conjunction with voices that she
had. She used to listen to the voices, she would paint what she could see, she would write poetry, and she
would send her work to the people that inspired it. In the end, she thought she would get a response. She
never did.
Stephanie took a class, before she was Venezia-Barley--it was only Venezia at the time--with Jeff
Splifer. Jeff was later fired for what he taught. It was outside of the state curriculum that was set up for
him. She didn’t find this out until later. He shed light on her though. He was wrong, in her assessment,
of what he believed the voices were. Her husband, Dave, would later tell her that no one has a soul. It’s
all made up. Nonetheless, Jeff Splifer gave her a model to work with.
In the times after she had a conversation with Dave for the first time at Cafe Moonbeam, she had
serious bouts with depression. It happened because of an internal struggle. She had thought that she was
communicating directly with stars, and the like. She had thought that they were doing things for her in
return. They were clearing a path.
Eric Clapton was the frontman for Derek and the Dominoes during the nineteen seventies. She
wasn’t too familiar with him. She knew that he sang a song called “Tears In Heaven” during the nineties
as a solo artist. She had heard of “Layla” as well but was more familiar with the acoustic version than
anything else. A voice came from a man that identified himself as Derek Springoffor. He said that he was
the inspiration for the Dominoes, though he wasn’t directly in the band. Stephanie had stopped sending
her art to people. She thought that they would understand.
“You have to understand, Dave,” she told him during their first date. “This guy talks to me.”
“No he doesn’t. You think he does. I don’t even think he exists.”
“Maybe. Maybe so. But he told me some things...”
“...Like?”
“Well. He told me...” She began and then thought of a lie. “He told me that you and me were to
be together.”
Dave blushed. He bought it though. Deep down, he bought it. In the end, he rationalized to be
that she wanted to be with him and was saying it in a roundabout way... or, it was really happening. After
all, they were getting voices from Bill Swift at the time. Anything could be possible.
“He told me to stop dating you after today,” she said to him. This time, she wasn’t lying.
“I bet you made that up!” he told her. He wasn’t mad. He was teasing. Inside, he knew she got
a sudden voice from her. It intrigued him though.
“So stop making shit up! He’s telling me...!” she began. She was getting hot and didn’t want to.
Dave took it all in. He was fine like that. In the days after their meeting, Stephanie decided to
listen to this Derek character on a whim.
Go into that laundry basket, he said to her. She was passing a laundromat, at the time, and the
basket didn’t belong to her. There’s a note inside one of the pockets that says the date you were born.
Stephanie did it. It was the first crazy thing that she did like this. Writing to the celebrities
paled in comparison. She figured that if she was going to stop listening to the voices per Jeff Splifer’s
revelation, she might as well give one last hurrah.
The note that was in the jeans read, “You don’t belong here, honey. It’s a setup. Please go
away.” It was signed by a fictitious character by the name of Hoser the Loosey. It was a joke. It didn’t say
what Derek had told her it’d say--there was nothing about dates--but she figured that he was setting her
up. Maybe he knew that she wouldn’t have listened to him otherwise.
The next day, she went into a Rite-Aid, per Derek’s request, barked like a dog loudly upon
entering, asked for the manager, then asked him for three kittens painted blue. The manager stared
strangely. He didn’t know what to do. He asked her for her papers. Are you new to this area, son? he
asked her. What are you doing barking like a dog?
I’m not a son, Stephanie said rather madly. I’m not a son. I’m here for my kittens!
In that case... The manager had left and returned with one kitten from the back. It was black
and white in spots. Stephanie was convinced at this time that her powers were true. She stopped trusting
Eric though. She would later find out in 2024 that Eric Clapton was the one that was pulling the strings.
She lost trust in him. She didn’t want to see him again.
“What are you going to give me, if I listen to you?” Dave asked Stephanie during their first date
at a Denny’s. “What are you going to give me?”
“Just listen, pal. That’s all I want.” Stephanie, in retrospect, didn’t consider it a date--not their
first one. Dave did. That was the day he decided to marry her.

* * *
Ned Swift had moved back to Miller from Montana in early 2005. That’s when he hooked up
with Anna. Three months later, they were engaged. A month after that, they got tired of waiting and they
married. Ned knew they would get divorced not long afterward. She wanted a divorce. She wanted a
divorce before they were even married. The reason she married him to begin with was that he was smart.
Maybe she wants some little smart buggers running around. That’s it, Ned had concluded one day. She
wanted that. She didn’t want Ned. He was too smart for her.
Ned thought about Bill. He was still talking to him on occasion. It was few and far in between
by the time that he married Anna. Bill had no jealousy of Anna, and that was the ironic part of it all. He
had wanted her bad, and he eventually got her. In the end, he was glad that Ned Swift, his brother, was
able to share such a lovely lady. She really was lovely. She had slept with half the town, but she still was
lovely. In Bill’s mind, as he observed on occasion from Xeon, he’d always think of her as the fourth
grader that passed him the note that said that she liked him. That’s the way he’d always remember her.
Ned thought about Bill and asked Anna about him one day during dinner. In Montana, Ned had
become a school teacher. It was too much for him. He wasn’t into the children as much as he thought he
might be. He thought he could teach--and he did--but it was too much. Frustration, frustration,
frustration, is what he’d always say. He got a job at a warehouse and didn’t care that he was making a
fraction of his old salary.
“Are you okay?” Anna asked Ned during dinner. This was after Ned brought up Bill’s name but
didn’t go on talking about him.
“Nope. He’s stealing the show.”
“What show?” She was a little mad.
Ned didn’t know what to say. In spite of Bill’s understanding, Ned was the jealous one.
Sometimes Ned thought that he should have hung himself. Maybe he would have become a town legend.
Maybe it was the feelings that led to his suicide that led the Koagulates to pick him as a subject to fly. “I
want to fly. That’s all,” Ned said to Anna. She didn’t respond. Ned looked down at his soup, played with
the alphabetical letters in it for a while, then sipped it like a cat. “Bill used to...”
“Hush,” Anna said. She wanted Ned to be quiet. Ned couldn’t stop thinking of Bill. He didn’t
know that Anna’s words would eventually ease him. They eased him. He was satisfied for the time being.
She stuck her foot under the table and put it on his crotch. That made him feel really good. He didn’t
want to have sex, but she liked him. He could tell.
Ned looked up at Anna. She blushed. Ned finished his soup then went to bed. Anna joined him
a moment later. While he was up there, he got undressed, got ready to take a shower, then started singing
as the water started to pour through shower spout. He felt like shit. He thought the music he was creating
would ease him. It didn’t.
Anna fell asleep on the bed while she waited for Ned. She wasn’t too happy with life.
* * *
“Jesus Christ--you see?---was a schizophrenic.” Clyde Shuster was in Liverpool, England,
starting his new Church of the Fab. His brother had heard about Clyde’s previous experiences outside of
Duckton. He became a believer. He dropped his accounting firm, took some of his life savings, and went
to the heart of the beast where he thought it was. It was a place called Miller, California. He was at the
podium contemplating life and about to give the sermon of the decade, at least to himself and his
adherents, in his mind. “He was schizo, and you have to believe me.” He had started a radical Christian
denomination by the name of Christ’s Brothers and Sisters. He would live to regret it. He lost all of his
money in the passing years. It was something that he never imagined would have happened. In the end,
he was at a crossroads because he didn’t know where his loyalty was held between money and power. He
was learning that he was gaining power in his new church. He wasn’t gaining money yet. He thought it’d
come in time. It didn’t.
“Why?” Mr. Fugallih asked from the front pew about Clyde’s brother’s assertion that Christ was
schizo and he’d have to believe him. “Why... the fuck... should I believe YOU!?”
“Why? WHY??? What do I look like to you, my friend?”
“A piece of shit.”
“Why do you follow me, my dear person?” Clyde’s brother calmed down. His name was Jerry.
Pastor Jerry Shuster. He thought his brother in Liverpool would be proud of him. In all actuality, his
brother would not find out that he tried something so radical for another year.
There was no response from Mr. Fugallih at Jerry‘s question. Mr. Fugallih was an English
teacher from a local junior high school. He didn’t know anything about religion though. He knew what
sounded right though. This, which Jerry Shuster was saying, didn’t sound right.
Jerry Shuster continued his sermon, nonetheless, but he was a bit unpleased at the way things
were turning. Ned Swift sat ten pews back from Mr. Fugallih. He didn’t say anything. He was intrigued
by what Jerry might say. Had Clyde, his brother, not left Duckton for Liverpool, he might have liked
doing his sermons in Miller, Jerry thought to himself as he contemplated his next tale. Later, Clyde
would do his sermons there, but it would be with Bill Swift as the main medium as to what’s ultimate in
the universe rather than “Hesoos Del Cristo”, as many people in town called him.
“I’m going to tell you a story...” Jerry began. He wiped his brow.
“Tell the real thing,” Mr. Fugallih said. “Tell it.” He knew that Jerry was changing his tone. He
wasn’t going to talk about his beliefs on Jesus. If one person spoke up, like Mr. Fugallih did, then others
might follow. Jerry didn’t want any of that. He was going to move on to a story about Sodom and
Gomorrah, though his heart wasn’t into it. He wanted to go onto a course that was a little safer, in other
words. It was the path of least resistance in his mind. In the end, Mr. Fugallih steered him back to where
he wanted to go. Jerry could see it in the man’s face that he was regretful for speaking up. When he said
to tell the real thing, Jerry let it rip the best he could.
Jesus Christ was assisted by aliens when he walked the Earth. He had multiple personalities.
When God took him--it wasn’t God, but rather the dominant force that oversaw the Earth at the time
known to be God--he let him go back and practice his gospel. At the beginning--for about the first
millennium, there was only one church. It was the Catholic Church. It split off at the turn of the
millennium into two branches. And then, the Anglos split off from there. Eventually, the printing press
was invented, free thought was going around like a plague, and new churches were formed.
Jesus had said that he’d never leave his church. He meant it when he said it. It was an honest
statement. Jesus didn’t know why his father in Heaven--so he was called by him--had forsaken him on
the cross. He didn’t know why he was unable to keep his own promise of not leaving his church. He
didn’t know why he wasn’t able to keep them as one.
“Jesus was schizophrenic, I tell you,” Jerry Shuster said in the middle of his sermon. Most the
people in the audience were buying what he was saying. “He had a multiple personality disorder. He
started the Baptists. He had started the Catholic Church. He even started the freakin’ Mormons!”
“Hallelujah!” someone yelled from the back.
“What are you, a Unitarian?” someone demanded of the man that had yelled. She had thought it
was rude that he spoke out. She didn’t know that she meant to ask if he was Pentecostal.
“Jesus takes many forms though....” Jerry began.
The man who had yelled out, said something. It wasn’t audible to Shuster. He knew that this
man had something to say so he invited him up to the mike and let him speak.
The man wore a top hat and had a little mustache, like Charlie Chaplin. One would think that he
was trying to be Charlie Chaplin if it weren’t for his loud colors that he wore beneath his neck in the form
of a tie-dye shirt. “Okay, the man started...” He paused in a moment of nervousness, said, “I can’t do
this,” then he regained his composure. “Pastor Shuster has a point,” he said to the crowd. “Can I call you
Jerry, pastor?” he asked Jerry Shuster quickly, to the side. He shook his head yes, then the man began to
speak again. “I have no idea if the things that Jesus said were true--the miracles and all--I wasn’t there. I
have this to add... You are the man!” The man in the top hat pointed to the ceiling. He was thinking of
Saul Folstiklar, whom had tried to blow up as many things as he could while he was on the planet.
“You’re the man!” he said again. He noticed something strange up there. There were cameras that were
pointing down. He didn’t know that they were being used to sell images on the internet. They never
would be used though. Jerry had intended to sell his sermons worldwide. In the end, it wasn’t because of
the man’s discovery--the one whom wore the top hat--that kept Jerry from refraining. It was guilt. It was
guilt, and the fact that he started to like these people. He would take the cameras down a few months later
and never have any regrets.
Jerry regained the mike from the fucked-up-looking dude in the tye-dye shirt. “Don’t pay
attention to those,” he said to the man in the hat. He addressed him under his voice then began to address
the crowd. “Jesus loves you, people.” He said this and meant it. “Go to your churches. Keep coming to
mine, for that matter. When you think you’re right--and you probably will be--know that Jesus was on
your side at a time!!! Just know that!” Jerry ended his sermon. Thunderous applauds had started to be
heard but the crowd quieted, as if collectively embarrassed that they were listening to something fuckin‘
weird. “Thank you, people,” Jerry ended with whisper. He didn’t realize people could hear him. His
mike was still on and he had thought he turned it off.
Poor thing, the man in the top hat said. It would be the last time he’d show up to Jerry’s church.
It wasn’t because he didn’t like what he heard. It wasn’t even the cameras that bothered him. It was too
much intensity. That’s what he felt. Poor thing, the man said again in his mind. He left, not before
looking up into the ceiling again, then thought, Surfing’s going to be good! That’s what I’ll take up!
* * *
On a night that Lizzy Shulton was having ice cream with Zotar Cassidy at a 31 Flavors in Santa
Monica, California, Nessy, “The Lochness Monster” to many that have seen her before, swam to the
surface of her lake after given birth to two children. Little did people know that there was a male
“monster”. They never surfaced at the same time. Miles to their east, a man was in a car and
contemplated suicide after having to return to his family once again after having his ass chewed at work.
Bill Swift would never meet Nessy. He would never meet the man that was ready to commit
suicide on any given day. He’d meet Lizzy Shulton and Zotar Cassidy years later on Zoton and lead them
to Xeon. They had a good time. No one was sure where lochness monsters went. It was a mystery to the
very end.
 * two *

Lucifer was a fallen angel from Heaven. This was Alfred’s understanding of things before he
passed away and before Bill Swift had started telling him everything he knew about the universe. He was
a real being though. He lived on Zoton. He had been an angel--a being--from another planet. The planet
wasn’t Xeon, and people were surprised to find out in Miller that Xeon isn’t even the best place in the
universe. Bill Swift talked that way. There were better places though. It would take a billion years or
more to get to them. Were they planets? Bill believed that there was a point that life stopped needed
physical locations to exist. He believed, through his talks with Cobain and others, that you could reach a
state like nibbana... or Heaven... or whatever you’d call it. It was the same place. People on Earth would
say that it was a matter of semantics and a few people would argue philosophically that it wasn’t a matter
of semantics. In the end, you got higher and higher in your state of being. Or you became lower, much
like happened to Alfred.
Zoton was not Hell, after all. It was like Hell. It was dreary. Just the same that Xeon was not
Heaven, it was the only place he could liken to it. Alfred was in Hell for all his purposes. He met Lucifer
one day, not long after the sermon in which Clyde Shuster claimed Jesus to be a schizophrenic. He was a
gentle being, in all actuality.
“What is it, Lucifer?” he asked him the first time he had conversation with him. Lucifer didn’t
respond. He didn’t look mean when the question was asked. He could tell, Alfred could, that there was a
mean streak in him. He became infuriated after Alfred started prying with his vision. He wouldn’t give
up any answers. Maybe he’s ashamed, Alfred though. He ate a dough nut. They were readily available
on the planet, as was so many other junk food items. “What is it, Loos?” Alfred asked again. Once again,
no response. Alfred wasn’t scared though. He wasn’t even sure he was talking to the real Lucifer. He
didn’t care. He was bored. He was scared, but not of Lucifer. He was afraid that he’d never reach Bill
again. He was afraid for people on Earth.
“I’ll tell you what it is,” Lucifer finally volunteered. “Me and you...” He conjured an image of
Bill Swift and pointed to him. “We have a problem,” Lucifer said. He wasn’t talking about Bill, though.
He was talking about Alfred. He didn’t care. It reminded him of what prison might be like. He was stuck
with Lucifer and his type. There was really nothing he could do.
Alfred was expelled from Xeon for reasons that he didn’t know. He wanted to be back there. He
didn’t know if he ever would be. On Earth, you’re supposed to get saved before you die. That’s what he
was taught. You’re supposed to die to the real world. You’re supposed to die to material possessions.
Alfred wasn’t sure if he achieved it. He went one step further. He died to the universe. He stopped
caring if he’d end up in Heaven or Hell. For that matter, it didn’t matter to him where he landed in
between if there was an in between. Why did it happen? He wasn’t sure. He just didn’t care.
“I want to summon you, Bill Swift,” Alfred said aloud. He had saw that Lucifer was able to
summon his image. It didn’t mean that Bill acknowledged that they were talking. Alfred tried to
summon him to the point of having direct contact.
I hear you, Bill said from within Alfred’s mind. What do you want? he asked in a frustrated tone.
 “I don’t care... anymore,” Alfred said. The last word wasn’t spoken. It was said within his
mind. I don’t care, he continued, and I want you to give me some answers. Why am I here?
You’re a fuckin’ retard. He heard Bill clearly. It was like doing LSD, from what Alfred learned
of it. He hadn’t done LSD on Earth, but he was told in the beyond that all the blinders are taken off when
you do it. You see the world differently and things are never the same.
Alfred’s blinders were off. It didn’t take an LSD trip. It took him dying and going to the other
side. It took strange instances--the rumor that Mother Mary visited the planet of Zoton, for example--for
him to see things. He didn’t think he’d see things like this in the past.
I feel liberated, Alfred thought. He wasn’t directing the thought toward Bill but he could sense
his response nonetheless. Bill was mad and surprised.
YOU’RE ON ZOTOOON! You fuckin’ idiot. Stop pretending it’s a dream.
Fuck you, Bill. I don’t like you anymore. You just want to control me, anyway. Just like on
Earth.
Alfred thought of a girl that he met on Earth. It was at a concert--the only one he had been to. It
was Winger that were playing but that wasn’t important to him. He was there, he was vibing with her
after smoking a little doobie. Strong stuff, in his mind. Still a league behind LSD, from what he would be
told. They were the only ones in their world. It wasn’t great. He just felt he made a connection.
We never made that connection, he told Bill in his mind. We never made it. I’m sad. Alfred
really was. Lucifer was loafing around like nothing was going on. Alfred was surprised at his demeanor.
It was very humanistic. Maybe even hardened criminals break down after a while. Alfred wondered what
it was that he did that was so bad. He had heard, through his aunt while on Earth, that Lucifer was a
master at music. Maybe I’m with you, Alfred thought. He could tell that Lucifer was thinking the same
thing.

* * *
Stephanie Venezia-Barley was on her way home. She was thinking of her husband. She was
thinking of Randal as well. Randal was a little more free than Dave. She wanted to be with him. It was a
passing thought in her head.
Stephanie thought about Ben Murphy, from class, and she thought about the things they were
teaching. She thought about the times that she had while in Jeff Splifer’s class. She thought about the
cells of the brain and believing, for a while, that they had souls. She thought about the other things that
she talked about in the days after that. She had a conversation with her dad. It was two years before she’s
be married to Dave. It was two years before she had the job in which she looked after people that had
been like she had been: Lost and without a clue.
Her dad had said, “I want you to stop thinking about this mess you’re in.”
It was dinnertime, Stephanie was finishing her spaghetti, and she replied to her dad, “What mess
are you talking about?”
“The one about the voices.”
“It’s not a mess anymore.” She paused, thought about telling him about the resolve she felt, then
passed the bread to him. “Do you want more spaghetti with this?” she asked. Her dad didn’t respond in
answer aside from grabbing the bread and nodding in agreement that more spag would be good.
Stephanie drove home from her seminar and she thought about that conversation. Another
conversation ensued in her mind. It was with Jeff Splifer, himself, one day after her conversation with her
dad.
“I don’t think I have schizophrenia, you know?”
“I know. I can tell.”
“And I’m not lying to you about the fact that I thought I had it.”
“Explain,” Jeff said. He was intrigued. They were in his personal office--a small one--not far
from the class where her initial revelation took place.
“I think I just have an artistic mind.”
“I know that. You’re very talented.”
“I think...”
“...Wait. Let me guess. You think now that the artistic brain cells in your head... or mind...”
“...Yep,” she said. She nodded in agreement. She thought that she was just seeing the world
differently. People that were right-brained, in her mind, were the ones that thought logically to the bone.
Her mind though? In her mind, as she thought of it and explained it to Jeff Splifer, she was getting cross-
communication up the ass. The artist cells of her mind were crying out, Hey bitch! Listen to us! We
have something to say to you! She didn’t listen at first and then she felt powerless to not listen. When
logic would surface--when her right brain would control things--she wasn’t sure what to do. It was the
boring part of her brain. Life was too short to be boring, so she started to listen to any part of it that
would cry out and make some sense of the world.
“So I’m telling you now, Stephanie,” Jeff had told her that day at the end of the conversation.
“I’m not teaching anymore that brain cells have souls because I don’t know. It helps to talk to people like
you, though. Believe it or not, you give me new insights. I really like that.”
Stephanie kissed him on the cheek. She didn’t know what else to do. Jeff didn’t think for one
moment that it was a sexual come on. He went about his business, shuffled some papers before leaving
the small office with her, then offered her a smoke on the outside.
“I don’t smoke,” she told him. She’d regret saying that later. She should have tried, or so she
thought. She should have tried and she should have talked to him further.
“Well. Thanks for the conversation,” Jeff said. He lit up as he walked outside, then waved bye to
her.
Stephanie thought about these things that happed over the past couple of years and thought about
how she’d get across to Ben Murphy and people like him. It’d take years. It took her years. She didn’t
know what else to do with life though. In art, they teach you to write what you know. She was going to
teach what she knew. She was going to apply that concept to the world, if she could. She’d rely on Dave,
her husband, to get the messages across to the masses through his music. He’d listen a little. In the end,
he knew that life couldn’t be so uptight and a rock ’n’ roll crowd doesn’t like to be preached to. He liked
Eddie’s song about tying his shoes. It meant nothing... and it was fun to do. People like fun, he had told
Stephanie one day. She liked fun too. That’s why she wanted to be with Randal someday. He seemed like
a lot of fun.
* * *
Alfred looked down on Phil McOaland and he knew he was getting ready to sell out. I thought I
told you you were a punk ass, Alfred said angrily to Phil in Phil’s mind. He heard it clear as daylight.
Phil was looking at the monitors and getting sick of seeing people organizing in the parking lot after they
ended their shifts. He knew they were organizing because of the visitors that would be seen with them.
They wore union badges. They weren’t afraid. They were stupid, but they weren’t afraid.
I don’t want to talk, Phil said in his mind, slowly and timidly.
Bill spoke up at this time. Recently, Alfred regained the ability to see and communicate with
people on Earth again. Lucifer--the one known as Lucifer to him--taught him. In the end, though he
didn’t know if it was the real Lucifer--the real Prince of Darkness--he learned and had no qualms that it
came from such a person or being. The reason? Bill had turned on him. Bill had turned on him. He
never expected Bill to turn on him. And the people at home? They were forgetting him. He didn’t care
anymore. If it was Medusa that was talking to him on Zoton, he would have listened. If she was telling
him the art and craft of turning people to stone, he may have tried it on a person or two... just to see if it
worked. In the end, Alfred was no Lucifer.
Alfred waited for a response from Phil. Though he knew Bill was communicating with him also,
he had no idea what the conversation was. These things take time, Alfred thought to himself. You’re a
sellout loser, he thought to Phil. Phil didn’t respond. He watched his monitors.
During the eighties, there was an oil company in California--Alfred didn’t know if it was other
places--by the name of Union 76. In his experiences on Zoton, he didn’t know reasons for changes (there
weren’t too many reliable people or beings there) but he knew vibes. He’d feel them, try to figure them
out, then relay messages when he could. He talked to a being by the name of Zaktak one day. Was it a
female? Was it a male? Alfred thought it was neither. Nonetheless, this being seemed to know Earth
pretty well.
Union 76 changed its name to Unocal 76 for a reason, the being said. By this time, Alfred was
getting interested in any conversation. He would later see that this seemingly trivial conversation had
relevance in his real life as he remembered it on Earth. They changed it--you see?--because they were
selling out.
What do you mean? Alfred had wanted to know. He knew sellouts. Britney Spears was one. She
sang about Herbal Essence, a shampoo, like she was having an orgasm.. That disturbed Alfred because he
used to like her. He didn’t believe in his wildest dreams that ANY shampoo could have that effect on a
person. He was wrong. He learned from Zaktak that it did make her have an orgasm... when she signed
on the dotted line and thought about it. Her pussy exploded with enthusiasm.
Zaktak went on to tell Alfred how unions had been a good thing in American history. For that
matter, they used to be a great thing in Christianity in general. Moses had a union... and he took his
people out of Egypt. He withdrew their labor. Jesus had a union of twelve people and they had a goal. A
mission. These twelve spawned seventy-two, who in turn, spawned another four to five thousand people,
who then in turn spawned enough people to change the face of the planet in time. They pooled their
resources, Zaktak had told Alfred--it was new to him--and it could be found in the Book of Acts, if he were
ever interested in relaying the message to people on Earth who needed verification.
The United States, Zaktak told Alfred through telepathic powers, was a union at the beginning.
You remember the Union Army from the Civil War, right?
Alfred nodded yes in agreement.
Do I need to say more?
Zaktak had started a union of species--beings, as they were to Alfred--on another planet and was
exiled. It knew that Phil was heavy on Alfred’s mind, in the past, because it--it was an it to Alfred--could
read his mind. It thought the union thing would be pertinent to Alfred. It thought Alfred could use the
information.
What the fuck are you, Zaktak? There were tentacle-like things coming from what seemed to be a
head and Alfred was slightly afraid of it.
Don’t worry, moron. That struck Alfred as strange but he was no longer scared. He thought he’d
use his powers the best he could and talk to Phil. He did his best. In the end, it was Phil that was the
moron... at least to Alfred, he was.

* * *
The man that saw the cameras in Jerry Shuster’s went to the beach and tried to start a cult. He
was a leader, and he knew it, but he didn’t know how such a thing was done. He wanted that power that
Jerry had in the church. He was too poor to start his own church. But to have adherents? That was the
key.
He saw the waves breaking. He saw homeless men here and there. He thought that they would
be the perfect people. What is the purpose of this all? He thought. He knew the answer though. Power.
Simply power. He had things to say, but that was secondary.
He approached one man--he was black and aging--on a bench. “Do you know who I am?” he
asked the kind man whom looked like he had a little too much to drink that evening. There was a bottle
wine bellow him--Thunderbird, it was--and he knew that he had a lot to drink. He was prodded from the
inside to continue. This man he was talking to--that aging black one--didn’t look like he’d respond, but
there has to be a beginning somewhere, or so the man thought that backed up Jerry Shuster in his church a
while back. “My name is James. My friends call me Jimmy,” the man with the tye-dye shirt said. “Can I
have a moment of your time?”
The man on the bench struggled a bit then retorted aloud, as if woken from a deep slumber,
“What do you want!?”
“I want your time,” James said. He was a little scared at the man’s response. He didn’t know if
he’d continue on. He could tell after a couple of moments that the bum on the bench was intrigued.
“What do you want, I said,” the bum said. “My name is Lawrence. I’ll have a moment of your
time...” he started.
“My time?” Jimmy asked a little startled. “I’m here to talk to you, my friend.”
 The bum lit up a cigarette--Jimmy wondered where he had gotten one since the bum looked like
he had no more than a quarter on him. Surely he’s gotta spend all his money on booze and food, right?
Jimmy thought. He was wrong. He’d later find out that the bum found enough money on the beach to
score heroine on occasion.
Jimmy recollected himself, thought about giving a sermon, then decided to wait for something
else to happen. This man had said that he’d give him some of his time. What could this guy possibly
have to say? he wondered. “Talk on, please,” he finally mustered to the bum on the bench. He was sitting
upright by this time.
“I’m not over you,” the bum said aloud, but Jimmy could tell that the bum was not talking
directly to him. Maybe he was a mental patient whom couldn’t find a job and was stuck on the streets
because of it.
“Fuckin’ loser,” Jimmy said under a soft stench from his breath. He had eaten onions in his
hamburger prior to this and breathed into his hand after he realized that his breath must be as bad as the
bum’s on the bench.
“Fuckin’ loser, huh?” the bum quietly asked. Jimmy didn’t want to acknowledge him. How
could he have heard? Was it that loud. The bum had nothing more to add though. He laid down on the
bench and tried to ignore the man whom had tried to approach him about joining a cult. “WHAT
CULT!?” Lawrence finally mustered. He sat upright again.
Jimmy didn’t register that his mind was being read. He didn’t register that at all. He wanted to
tell him about the world. He wanted to tell him how Jesus was schizophrenic and how he believed that he
was becoming schizophrenic. He was learning that things were different in the world. They were
different than the bubble that he was in. He had learned, in the past before meeting Jerry Shuster, that
Jesus was the only person to ever talk to God. Of course, Mohammed later thought that he was talking to
God, or so he was taught, but it didn’t occur to him until recently that other people might be talking to
God or angels, as well. It didn’t occur to him at all.
Jimmy sat down next to the bum on an adjoining bench. He was startled, not by the fact that his
mind was read because it still wasn’t registering to him on a conscious level, but that things were different
in the world. He thought this bum was going to roll over, hear everything he had to say, and be having a
Big Mac with him in fifteen minutes.
Life was different. That’s what he was coming to believe.
Thirty minutes after initiating the conversation, Jimmy Contrell was sitting with Lawrence
Smythers and he was doing the listening. He listened to a story of hope. He listened to a story of despair.
In the end, he listened to a story of apathy. “They have nukes,” Lawrence told him. “They have nukes.
We can match them gun for gun... but in the end, THEY are the ones that control the nukes. Your
revolution is not going to work. Try to work on someone else.” He felt a bit of pain at this. He could see
he wasn’t getting through to Jimmy. He wanted to add more but he was too emotional to do so. He
wanted to add stories about his mother and how she treated him like an angel. He wanted to change the
tone of the conversation.
Jimmy hugged Lawrence. He thought about becoming a bum at that time. He wouldn’t. He had
too much to say to other people.

* * *
Anna woke up next to Ned and she was thinking about leaving him. Her back was in pain. She
still played racquetball and thought of Alfred and Bill every time she did. She thought about the day that
Bill told her about flying. She wouldn’t quit playing racquetball because of that reason. She gave up her
dreams of ever making money when the pain set in, but that was about it. For all she cared, she’d play
racquetball until she was forty-five. That was a long ways away. Beg Gay would have to do for her. It’s
all she had that she wanted to take.
Ned woke up next to Anna and didn’t realize that she was having thoughts about leaving him.
He was thinking of the band. Freight Train, was the name. Indirectly, it was the progeny of his brother in
Heaven and he knew it deeply. He knew it deeply. That’s what mattered to him.
Anna spoke. “What are you doing, honey?” Her mood changed. If Ned had woken up a minute
earlier, he might have gotten a different response. Something might have happened that resulted in a
fight, albeit a small one. It might have resulted in doubt between the two. Anna pushed her prior
thoughts aside and kissed her husband. She wasn’t thinking of Bill. She was thinking of his brother,
Ned.
“I like you, Anna,” Ned said. He sensed something good about her. He wanted to brush his teeth
because of the smell he could feel. He didn’t. He sat on the bed, thought about Bill for a while, then
thought about Anna next to him. Does she know I love her? he wondered. He wondered, he looked at
her, and he knew. He knew a lot of things. He didn’t believe. He would never use that word. He knew
things, and that’s what he expressed to people.
Anna sat on the bed next to Ned. He thought about the band and he thought about telling her the
ideas he had. He wanted to talk to Waldo. He couldn’t and his heart dropped. Waldo was a friend of
Bill’s. He didn’t share the same beliefs as many people. The people in Freight Train were a progeny of
Bill, he knew it, people loved them because of it, but in the end, it wouldn’t substitute. Not for him.
Anna left the room. Ned presumed she was going to make breakfast. He had insecure feelings
all the time and this time was no different. He wondered when she would finally leave him. That thought
would resonate for a while before getting up to join Anna in the kitchen.
“Can I make some coffee or something?” he asked her. She didn’t respond. She went about
preparing breakfast by washing a frying pan--they only had one--and getting eggs out of the refrigerator.
Ned looked at her, wondered how he got in his situation, then prepared the coffee.
“One eggs or two?” she asked him.
“I’ll have four,” Ned said. He kissed her and she smiled. He was joking about the four eggs but
she made them anyway. He ate all of them and savored the fact that he had such a beautiful woman with
him. If she only knew I was a loser, he thought. He sipped his coffee then saw her out the door. She was
on the way to work. It was early, still, and he’d get ready for work in an hour.

* * *
 Stephanie Venezia-Barley thought about how the sound of “Stephanie Venezia-Meyer” sounded
in her head. It sounded better to her. It was sad. Really, really sad. Her husband was on the way to
making a hit record--she didn’t know it at the time--and it occurred to her that the things that rockers
really sing about are true. The heartbreak. All of it. All of it. It doesn’t just sound good on record. It is
good. It’s good because it’s real.
She pushed the ideas of leaving Dave out of her mind. She had to get ready for another seminar
class with all the quacks. That’s what she had to do. She’d have to see Ben Murphy again--he was the
biggest quack of them all--and she felt bad for thinking of them in a derogatory manner. She was one of
them. Ben could been one of her some day. He could be. He showed promise. He listened. He
remembered. But he still thought strange things that even she didn’t think about.
Ben thought he was going to be the president of the United States of America someday. In her
mind, it could happen but it was unlikely. There was a vice-presidential candidate who had mental
problems when he ran before she was even born. She had heard about him because she kept her ears open
for stories like that. He was found out, the Republicans ran with it, and he was easily defeated along with
his running mate. Eagleton was his name, or so it was lodged in her head.
“What is it, Ben?” she asked with frustration at first sight of him. She couldn’t hide her
emotions. He had threatened to beat her up the last time that they spoke. She didn’t know if it was real.
She didn’t know if she hadn’t been on the job long enough to report something of that kind. In the end, it
didn’t matter to her. She didn’t want to be chickenshit. She wasn’t a male and she was unable to whip
any councilor she had ever had. Nonetheless, she didn’t want to narc on him because she had been like
him. “Do you have something to say?” she asked Ben after he didn’t respond to her initial question.
“It’s wrong,” Ben said flatly. She didn’t know what was wrong. Ben was supposed to be the
president of the United States of America, in his delusions. He was supposed to be filthy rich and he
wasn’t. It didn’t bother Ben. The CIA had stopped him. That’s what happened. In his mind, all of his
failures were because of the CIA. They had wiretapped his phone. They put transistors in his computer.
Everything he typed would be sent to them. It was a conspiracy: “Keep Ben Murphy down. He knows
too much.”
“What is it, Ben?” she asked him again as if not hearing him the first time he spoke.
“It’s wrong that you...” he started, then he shook his head in frustration and took his seat. He
thought about the CIA. He thought about his thwarted plans. He thought about a few other things then
asked Stephanie Venezia-Meyer (it was -Meyer at this time in her head as she drifted off to another place
while the class settled) while he raised his hand, “You don’t know what’s going on, do you Steph?”
“No.” She said in seriousness, but tried to hide it because she was teaching. She was supposed
to know everything, or close to it... at least compared to them. She wanted to ask him what he was talking
about, refrained, and waited for him to continue.
Ben talked for about five minutes about how the CIA had him bugged. He talked about how they
have satellites in the sky that were now able to read people’s thoughts.
Stephanie didn’t believe him about what he might know but she humored him anyway. “Class!
We are talking to a future president of the United States of America.” She wanted to cry, but she wanted
people to listen. She knew that more than anything else, people had to be heard. The jails are full of
mental health patients that were not heard. She would listen to Ben, she would take it into consideration,
and in the end, she would hope that she wouldn’t be threatened again by him.
“I want to tell you about a spy satellite named Zotar,” Ben said.
“I have a friend named Zotar,” Stephanie said with amusement. The riffled Ben and he didn’t
want to speak anymore. Things riffled him that don’t riffle a normal person. He wanted to tell her about
the satellite by the name of Zotar. He was making it up, of course, but he heard the name before. It riffled
him that she interrupted his train of thought. In the end, Stephanie was saddened by this, but there was
nothing she could do.
A colleague of hers came into the room and pointed out that Francine Cross would be late. She
was having car troubles. Francine entered the room a few seconds later wearing a blue bonnet. It
reminded Ben of a chicken that he had seen on TV when he was younger. It was a hag, old lady chicken.
Francine was even wearing the spectacles that the chicken wore. Maybe she’s trying to be her, Ben
thought. The chicken--the one in Ben’s mind--was a hen that had a crush on a rooster. The rooster was
tall, spoke with a southern accent, and stuttered a lot. By the time the bell rang to end class that night,
Francine would confess to doing it on purpose. She felt like that lady hen from the cartoons. It was her
way of expressing herself.
Stephanie thought about Ben on her way home. Was he supposed to be president? she wondered.
She didn’t think so. It made her wonder. She had thoughts like that, but it was of being a movie star. It
never crossed her mind that she’d be first lady of the United States. It was an odd thing.
Stephanie got home and Dave was in bed asleep. Shed didn’t wake him. She thought about life.
She thought about Randal. She thought about Greg Lauler. The band was writing a song about him. She
thought it was going to be a hit. She had no idea how much it would be.
Dave entered the room when Stephanie was leaving the kitchen. He wanted to know what was
going on. He knows, Bill, Stephanie thought to herself. While she fixed a mocha five minutes prior, she
had started talking to him. And he was responding.
“He knows WHAT!?” Dave said. He was mad. He was infuriated and started busting up
furniture. “HE KNOWS WHAAAAT!?” Dave asked again but got no response. He knew it was
happening. The mind-reading was going on again. He didn’t want it to happen. When will the aliens
come? he wondered.
“They’re not coming, hun,” Stephanie said to him. She had remained calm during his tirade.
They wrote a song that night. It became number one on the charts two years later. It was the
only love ballad they would ever write together. It would be the only love ballad they would ever want to
write together. It wasn’t worth it to go through it in order to get to that point.
Dave made love to her. Stephanie thought about Bill Swift the whole time.

* * *
Ned Swift went to work on a day that he and Anna were getting along to his satisfaction. The
insecurity was mostly gone. Nonetheless, he wasn’t happy that he was still working at a warehouse. He
didn’t want to be a school teacher ever again in his life and he knew that he’d have to make his life better
somehow in order to suit his bride to the best of his ability. The only option, the way he saw it, was to
start a union at the warehouse where he worked.
Phil McOaland watched Ned Swift approach Darber’s parking lot through one of his many
monitors. He saw that people were gathering around and he detected a union organizer--a professional
one--mixed in with the employees that were getting ready to start their shift. He had been called a sellout
loser by Alfred in previous days. He didn’t care. Alfred cared for the man at a time because they were
neighbors. Alfred’s death on Earth was caused by him, though indirectly, through something that Phil
had yelled to him prior to the crazy man’s explosion at the Miller Tribune. Phil watched and thought in
pain. He didn’t know what to do. He summoned Bill Swift--he was the more rational of two--in his
mind. Bill didn’t give him any advice. Phil knew that sooner or later, there was going to be a crossroads
and he’d have to make a decision.
Ned Swift approached the crowd of organizing people with joy. He was quickly saddened
because the organizer, Raymond Latche, said something to him that was disheartening. Phil couldn’t read
what was said. He knew that Raymond was in control of the bunch and Ned Swift no longer was.
Ned walked away from the crowd--Phil still looked on through his monitor--and went inside the
Darber building. Phil’s last look at the monitor was seeing Raymond telling a joke. It must have been
funny. He could see people chuckle in the crowd.
Ned got inside and he had second thoughts about joining the union movement. He didn’t know
what to do. He talked to his brother, Bill Swift, in his mind completely unaware that Bill talked to Phil as
well. Bill saw himself as a go-between. He no longer saw himself as Ned’s brother. He had been gone
from Earth for a while and started to adopt a more objective look at things as they stood on his former
planet. In the end, he thought it’d be good for karma.
Raymond Latche continued to tell his jokes. They were about poverty. Some of them were about
the arts. He had them laughing. He had them joining, one by one, in their minds. He was going to
convince them all.
Ned went into the men’s restroom before beginning his shift. He looked into the corner--the far
one--as he washed his hands. They know, Bill had told him. They have cameras all over the place.
Ned didn’t care. What mattered was that he was going to be comrades with his workers. As
things were turning out, he felt left out. He had started the movement and now he wasn’t feeling he was
part of it. It was ironic in that sense.
After clocking in, Ned approached Bill’s office. He didn’t say anything about the hidden
cameras. “I think you know what’s going on,” he said to Phil.
“Oh. I know,” Phil responded.
Ned didn’t know if Phil was going to sell him out. Bill said he might. Alfred, the night before,
warned him that things were starting to change again. “I need to know...” Ned said. He expected an
answer from Phil but got none. He changed his mind and his tone. “Can I have an extra pair of work
gloves? Mine are kind of ragged.”
Phil handed Ned the gloves that he needed or said he needed. “Have fun, Bill Swift,” Phil added.
 What? Phil thought. He left the room. “Fuckin’ dickhead,” he said about Phil. No one heard.
Not even microphones that were stationed in random areas around him. “I hope you hear this too,” he
added. He felt like a coward and he felt lost.
“It’s all about politics,” Phil said to himself as he watched Ned board a forklift.
Ned crashed into a crate of Gatorade on purpose in front of a camera. He thought it would be his
out. He thought he’d get fired and a big headache would be avoided about choosing between his
coworkers and the funny feel that he couldn’t shake about the person that had started organizing him. He
was wrong about the headache. The only thing he had to worry about was Raymond Latche. Darber put
Ned on workers’ comp and Raymond Latche began spreading rumors about Ned being a traitor.
 * three *
Ned Swift approached his pastor, Jerry Shuster, right after he was put on leave by Darber. He
told him about the funny feelings that he was getting from the union organizer that had taken over the
place where he had worked. He told him about feelings of hopelessness. He confessed that it wasn’t an
accident that he broke his arm after slamming into a crate of glass beverages when his frustrations
reached a head. His pastor didn’t condone it too much but he wasn’t will to judge more than he was
willing to listen. He told him, “I’ll tell you something. I know a thing or two about those unions...”
“...Go on,” Ned said.
“I don’t want to say what I know,” Jerry told him.
Ned had already known a lot. He talked to Bill, in his mind, and he talked a little to Alfred. He
didn’t know if Jerry Shuster was channeling these same guys or not. He wasn’t sure at all. Alfred had
relayed the message that Zaktak had told him. It meant a lot. He talked to Jerry Shuster about it.
“Communism--you see?--is a religion,” Jerry said.
“Go on,” Alfred said.
“It’s a religion and...” Jerry went on to talk for about fifteen minutes. He talked about the
paradox that communism became. It was a religion, in Jerry’s mind, that was out to snuff out other
religions. But when existential philosophy was taken into account--it was something that Ned wasn’t too
familiar with--you could see patterns. The holy days. Everything. Holy texts. Sacred shrines. Prophets.
“What’s the holy text of Christianity?” he finally asked Ned. It was a rhetorical question. During his
speech prior to this, he had said that the union organizers are like zealots. “It’s all a matter of semantics,”
he had said to Ned.
“What are you talking about with the holy text, pastor?” Ned asked him. He knew it was the
Bible. There wasn’t any question. He just wanted to know where the pastor was going with his
questioning. It was a leading question that he was being asked. Ned had been involved with cops in the
past during various protests. He knew what leading questions were: How long have you been beating
your wife? Those kinds of things. They didn’t ask if you beat your wife. That wasn’t their way. It was a
leading question.. “I know you’re talking about the Bible, pastor. Where are you going?”
The pastor looked uncomfortable. He didn’t know what to say. If it was his brother, Clyde, who
was doing the talking, he would have spit it out.
“The Communist Manifesto! You fuckin’ MORON!” he finally yelled out.
“Oh. I get it.” Ned was hurt but he didn’t want to leave the conversation. He started to get it.
Now, he wanted to see if the pastor had the balls to go all the way with it. He wanted to see if he’d have
the balls to say it in public during a sermon.
That night, pastor Jerry Shuster spit it all out. He didn’t name Ned. He told them--the
congregation of about seventy-five--that someone had approached him about a godless religion. He went
on to say that Lenin’s body was embalmed. Since the fall of official communism in Russia, it had since
been removed from the site that seemed holy to many. He talked about paradoxes. He talked about the
statues that they made of men. The Catholic Church did the same thing... but they didn’t hide that they
thought they were men of God. They taught that.
 It was going on right before the eyes of people in Russian. They had a day, like the Americans,
in which they celebrated their statehood... once per year. He confessed to his listeners that he didn’t know
that for fact or even what the day would be. He just let them know that he knew.
He drew no responses in protest over it.
“We have Easter--you see?--and we celebrate it ONCE PER YEAR!”
“Hallelujah!” someone from the back chided.
“We have Easter. They have a day... and though I don’t know what it is... it’s religious in nature,
folks. It is. It feels the same to them as a Christian celebrating the resurrection of our Lord and Saviour.”
“Hallelujah again, pastor,” someone chided from the very back row.
“I have this to say, people. Our Lord and Saviour? His name is Jesus Christ,” Jerry said. He was
going to continue without a pause before he saw the first lady that chided the hallelujah shift in her seat as
if ready to leave. “Go on, you skank whore!” he said to her when he realized she wasn’t going to stay.
A doctor by the name of Richie Waterloo smiled and nearly laughed from the third row when the
pastor spit it out about the lady.
“Go on...” he said. He wanted to feel full of energy but he felt it leaving him like a busting dam.
“Go on,” he said without much emotion when he saw that the doctor--one whom seemed to be on his
side--decided to join the old lady.
I’m not going to make much money at this, Jerry thought to himself. He ended his sermon with a
story about Jesus, mustard seeds, faith, and a generic anecdote about TV evangelists.
The man who had nearly laughed at the whore came back and took a seat where she had been
sitting. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he told Ned Swift that night. “I wouldn’t miss it for the
world!”

* * *

Ben Murphy sat in class. He was getting used to not being treated the way he wanted to be
treated. He was still the president of the United States, in his mind. People weren’t treating him like the
president. He said to himself, I’m going to get over this. I’m going to be presidential. How? Be not
whining.. He stood up in class one day--it was a day after he had a revelation of the universe--and he said
to Stephanie Venezia-Barley, “I know what’s going on.”
“Go on, Ben,” she said. She was a bit nervous and contemplated not working there any longer.
She wanted a safer job. She wanted a job that didn’t make her feel so much. In the end, she knew that
she was at the right place because she didn’t want to be a robot more than she didn’t want to feel bipolar.
“Say your piece.”’
“I have this to add,” Ben said. He wasn’t into it though. He was as bipolar as any of the ten that
regularly attended the class. Francine came in. She wasn’t wearing her blue bonnet any longer. “Look at
that duck,” Ben said about her. Why he said it was a mystery to Stephanie. She didn’t ask him to
elaborate. “I want to tell you about the universe, Miss Barley,” Ben said after drawing his attention away
from Francine. “Poor bitch,” he said about her. Stephanie didn’t hear. Ben didn’t say it loud enough.
 Stephanie didn’t respond to Ben’s assertion that he knew something new about the universe. She
was getting sick of it. The spy satellites. Everything about it. Had Jeff Splifer said it, she would have
drooled. She didn’t do that for Ben and it made him mad on the inside. He didn’t want her to fall for
him. He wanted to be respected. He wasn’t respected.
Ben had come across Zotar on the internet. He wanted to meet him. It was easy enough. Zotar
spilled a lot of information about what he knew. Ben wouldn’t pass on the information to Miss Barley.
He was sure of it. She didn’t care, and neither did the bozos that went to her seminars.
“I’ll save it for later, Miss Barl,” he said.
“Save it,” she said. “Let’s talk about the dead.” This intrigued Ben. It was strange. They talked
for a half hour about how the dead still reach people, it was taught in the Bible that they reached people,
the United States was built on the Bible... but she was supposed to suppress that belief as an agent of the
state. “How ironic, huh?” she said to the class at the end of the discussion.
Ben forgot about the conversation he had with Zotar on the internet. He didn’t start thinking of it
again until he boarded his bus to go home. I’m going to win, he said to himself.
Zotar told him that atoms are alive. He said that he heard it from Bill Swift. He said that
carbon-14 atoms take roughly five thousand years to degenerate into carbon-12 atoms. That wasn’t a
revelation to Ben, but he listened anyway. Ben actually corrected Zotar. He said that if you have a pound
of carbon-14, roughly half will degenerate into carbon-12 after five thousand years.
Zotar962: Yeah. I know. I got ahead of myself :)
Troll043: So what’s your point?
Zotar962: A scientist can’t predict exactly what carbon-14 atom
will turn into carbon-12, you see?
Troll043: So you think it’s a choice?
Zotar962: I don’t know. I just know what Bill tells me. He says
that some physicists on Earth claim that they could predict
everything if they knew the unifying principals.
Troll043: What is that?
Zotar962: I don’t know. It’s in my head that way. Just think of
that carbon atom. Think of your life and the will to live. If
you wanted to live, you’ll live longer. You’ll take care of
yourself.
Troll043: So it’s a cult?
Zotar962: No. It’s not. Some of them just can’t hold out. It’s
as simple as that.
The conversation continued. Zotar told Ben about the model that many people have been talking
about since his passing. He said that modern physicists see the smallest element known like ancient
astronomers used to look at Mars or Venus through their telescopes. It wouldn’t occur to them what the
planets were made of. They could be blown to bits. Sand dust would circle the Sun just like asteroids did
for many, many years, likely after two planets had collided with one another. This was Zotar’s
recollection of things.
Troll043: So you’re saying that’s what GHOSTS are made of?
Zotar962: Yep. You hit it on the button.
Troll043: Oh. I see. :( I never thought of that.

Zotar signed off before Troll043 could thank him. He was tired. He didn’t want to continue
the conversation.
Atoms are alive, Ben pondered as his bus reached his stop. I wonder if they know... Nah. They
can’t know that. Ben wanted to know if they knew the mysteries of the universe or if they were as stupid
as a mushroom. Ben didn’t know it, but mushrooms were one of the brightest creatures that the Earth
held.

* * *
Don Michaels--he was the twin brother of Daisy’s husband, Doug--caught wind that Jeff Splifer
had been teaching that atoms were alive in his class. That went okay with him. He was a colleague of
Jeff’s and he taught philosophy. Jeff taught history, and he taught it in many forms. He taught History of
Science 101, History of Religion 202, and History of Western Civilization 91, just to name of few. To
Don, Jeff looked like a goof every time he would open his mouth with one of his new dissertations. He
wanted Jeff down though. He would take him down. He was jealous of him. He was jealous of the men
whom slept with his sister-in-law, Daisy. He was jealous of a lot of things.
Jeff Splifer recanted his statement that individual brain cells had souls. He didn’t know that he
was right in asserting such a suggestion. Nonetheless, his relationship with Stephanie enabled him to see
that maybe brain chemistry was at root for explaining psychological phenomena in which people believe
they are telepathically communicating with one another. Jeff was a work in progress. Don was not. He
was in his late sixties and he was stuck on what he believed. He was old-fashioned. He didn’t believe
there should be a cult following behind every person that opened his mouth with a new idea.
Jeff didn’t know what was going on. He taught about Russia involvement in the fall of
communism in their country. He taught that there was a secret agreement between the United States and
the former Soviet Republics. He taught that there was a compromise. He taught that United States
secretly agreed to hasten their state control of their own citizens in exchange that the Soviet Union
disband, join the capitalist sector (as it was known to them), and they wouldn’t ever have to fully release
their own state control of their own population.
Professor Jeff Splifer wasn’t fired for this, though it was his latest theory and it was based on
some factual evidence that he had acquired through his leads. He was fired because Don Michaels hit the
hot button with the rest of the school faculty. “Brains to not have many souls, for Christ’s sake!” he yelled
one time.
“I hear you!” an old lady that taught English yelled.
“We have to do something about him,” Don said. He thought about how people like Jeff Splifer--
the free thinkers--were sleeping with his sister-in-law and causing his brother heartache.
Jeff was fired. The reason he was fired was that he was teaching outside of the state-mandated
curriculum. It was farther from the truth. Jeff always taught what the state wanted him to teach. He led
people to believe that they should consider other things. In the end, the students he taught didn’t come
out of their classes with the knowledge the state wanted them to have. It was enough to send him to
window P. It was enough to send him collecting state payments of unemployment.
Jeff wrote a book about his beliefs a year later. It cracked the top ten. He didn’t regret a thing.

* * *
Ralph Connors won his reelection big in 2004 pretty easily on the premise that America needed
to be more united. He argued that a ban against burning the national flag--Old Glory, to him--would be
the best way to do it. He had hired Bucky Holdwater of Miller, California, to be his speech writer. Bucky
had been part of Ameriway and he was triple star. This meant that he reached the third of five possible
tiers, according to their accounts. Daniel Quartz was in Ameriway and he was Ralph Connors’ vice-
president at the time. He was a quintuple star. There wasn’t getting any higher than that.
Ameriway was a strong supporter of Mr. Connors’ Republican party. They suggested to Bucky
that he plant the seed in Ralph Connors’ mind during dinner. He did. It worked. His vice-president
concurred that it was a good idea.
“Do we need another Black Crowes incident?” Bucky asked Mr. Connors. He always referred to
him as Mr. Connors and didn’t dare speak his first name in his presence unless told to do so.
“No. We don’t need...” Ralph Connors began.
“They destroyed the FLAG!” Bucky said. Ralph recoiled a little. Had Bucky used that tone in
public, he would have been fired. They were at dinner and only close constituents were present. “I don’t
think we need another lady... with her pubic hair!... coming out of the American flag!”
“Wait. You’re for this too?” Ralph asked his vice-president. He was at the table eating caviar on
salted crackers. It’s the way he liked to prepare himself for a hearty meal.
“No. I’m not,” Daniel Quartz said. “But...”
“They’ll eat it up, Mr. President,” Bucky said. Unlike Daniel Quartz, Bucky Holdwater was in
favor of amending the Constitution. “I think...” Bucky began.
President Ralph Connors was awestruck. He knew the boyscouts--being that he was one in his
youth--are taught to burn soiled flags. It was their way. It was in their credo.. “You’re saying...” Ralph
Connors began to Daniel Quartz, “...that we need this?!”
“No. We don’t need it. It’s a rallying point. It’ll work.”
“By God, YES!” Ralph Connors said. He saw the light.
He didn’t like that Bucky Holdwater actually thought it should be something that should be done.
He kept quiet about it while he ate his meal. Bucky spoke up and elaborated on a plan. “We need to put
in stipulations. They’re riders, and you know about them well.”
“Pork barrel,” Ralph Connors agreed.
“I ask my mom, hypothetically, for a hundred dollars...”
 “...And she gives you five. I know.”
“It’s what I want. We sell them on the fact that RESPONSIBLE corporations can reproduce the
flag. No one else.”
“I got you,” Ralph said, but he was uneasy.
“It’s pork barrel, okay?” Bucky said. He believed it was... but he wanted to see the rider passed.
He knew it would pass. “Imagine a world with Ford logos in the place of stars on the flag.”
“I see,” Ralph Connors said. He was no longer interested.
Ralph’s amendment to the Constitution passed easily. Bucky was given credit, but not to his face.
He was given credit in behind-closed-doors meetings. He wasn’t given credit in public. Were he ever to
reach the fourth level of Ameriway’s program? Yep. He would be told that he had been given credit all
along. He would have to clear a few hurdles first. He would have to chase a carrot on a stick for a while.
They didn’t know how else to control him. They didn’t know how else to keep the ideas flowing.
“I’ll do this for you, Mr. President,” Bucky Holdwater said before the parted ways after a
scrumptious meal. “I’ll do it. I’ll even draft the language that’ll be voted on.”
Bucky drafted the language. He added another rider that would be stricken. It would outlaw the
flags of the former Soviet Union, Iraq, Mexico, China, the Stars and Bars of General Lee, and others
around the world. He secretly wanted the General Lee flag not to be outlawed. It was part of his idea that
something would be stricken down from the group and he‘d say in a meeting, Okay. We‘ll keep the
Confederate flag because it was American... but the rest? No. They have to go. In the end, all of them
were stricken down, although Daniel Quartz later joked that the flag of Mexico should be outlawed. It
was a personal beef with him. He hated his housekeeper. She was from south of the border.

* * *
Bill Swift was on Zoton. He went there for a visit. He wanted to talk to Alfred and he wanted to
do it in more than telepathy. “Something’s going on,” he said to Alfred as Alfred looked at the ground at
his marbles. He was playing by himself. He learned to manipulate the surrounding environment through
his mind enough to the point that he had some semblance of the planet of Earth. “Something’s going on,
I tell you,” Bill said again.
Alfred was distraught and didn’t want to speak. He finally did. “I don’t know who you are,
Bill,” he said to him.
“I’m all you want in life and more. That’s what I need to know.” Bill had started to cry a bit and
tried to hold it back. Tears of salted water didn’t form. They were something else, but they were still
there to see.
“I don’t want this joke of a loser life. Can you get me off of Zoton?”
“Nope. No way. You make your own mess. You’ll clean it up.”
“What mess?” Alfred demanded. Bill stood silent but looked around. Zoton was not as nice as
Xeon. Alfred had no problem with it. Alfred figured that once you were at the bottom, at least you never
had to worry about sinking further. That was one stress that was off of you. “What about you and world
peace, huh?” Alfred asked. He was only half interested. Alfred didn’t have the same aspirations as Bill.
He just wanted to be. He didn’t want any stress. It didn’t matter to him at all. “I care about the world,
you know?” Alfred said in earnest right after he saw Bill put a gun to his head. The gun had popped up in
his hand, just like a cartoon.
Alfred waited for a reaction and got none. He waited some more. When no reaction came, he
went back to his marbles on the ground.
“They’ll always be the same. Don’t you know?” Alfred asked him.
“I know... son. I know.”
Alfred didn’t feel as good about Bill Swift calling him son. He did the first time it had ever
happened. This time, he felt lost and he saw in the eyes of his mentor, that he was lost as well. It was the
first time he saw the look. It wouldn’t be the last.
*Part Two *

* one *

Britney Brown was a lady that was on the move. Her heartthrob was Bucky Holdwater. He had
an eye for money and Ameriway let Britney know that he was climbing up the ladder fast. She had known
his friends. They really weren’t his friends though. They could be called acquaintances. The only person
that he’d call a friend was Randal Meyer. The rest? They could go to Hell: Waldo Fleshman and his
dead buddies in the sky; Dave Barley and his skank ass, nutty wife; Eddie Macral and his wild attempts to
get his band notices; Zotar--he was a trip--and his nutty girlfriend, Liz Shulton; and Anna Harcdomm (it
would always be Harcdomm to him) and her fucked up husband, Ned, Bill Swift’s brother of all people.
They could all go to Hell, Zoton, or whatever they were calling it... except for Randal Meyer. He had a
secret crush on good, old Randal.
Britney had been part of their group for a while. She was nice. She was funny. She was money-
driving, and in the end, it drove her out. They wanted to have fun. They wanted to be released of their
memories from the past couple of years. She wouldn’t have any of it. She wanted success. Success, to
her, was being able to buy shoes whenever you wanted. Three hundred pairs? That was good enough. In
Bucky Holdwater, she saw a vehicle to achiever her goals.
Britney Brown was very attractive. Anna was very attractive, she had heart, and in the end, it’s
what kept her as part of the Miller group. She complained privately that she wanted out, but they all
wanted out... sometimes. Britney wanted out bad. Bucky Holdwater knew it. After proposing the anti-
flag burning amendment to Ralph Connors, he proposed something to Britney. He said that she could be a
CIA operative. She would front as a new investigative reporter manager for Miller’s new paper, The
Inquisitor. People had stopped buying the Miller Tribune because Marlin had been blown up there with a
handful of other people. It was like reading letters from a ghost, once it got started up again (insurance
had paid for everything). Britney was anxious for a change. She didn’t like Alfred. She didn’t like Bill.
She got occasional voice perceptions from them, as people around the town did. They knew her heart. In
her heart was desperation. She didn’t like that they knew that. Bucky Holdwater didn’t know shit or, at
least, he’d pretend not to know anything.
“What’s your offer?” she asked Bucky, in the presence of Phil McOaland. Phil was going
through a divorce with his wife, Nancy.
“I’m going to make you famous,” Bucky said. He was instructed not to talk about Whitewater.
He was instructed not to talk about Watergate. The CIA--a branch of it--hated the liberals in the country
and were out to undermine anything the Democrats did that year. For that matter, they were out to
undermine the Greens, the Peace and Freedom people, and the Libertarians.
“I’m already famous,” she said. She was proud and she blushed. She had sent out nude photos
of herself onto the internet. Response was strong. It was something she was proud of. “I’m already
famous, but if you say I can be more famous...” She was phony at this point and didn’t really care.
 Bucky Holdwater shook his head in disbelief. I can’t believe I’m helping this man, he thought of
the president of the United States.
Phil McOaland dealt them cards. They were outdoors in a pretty nice setting. There was linen
on the tables and a pool nearby, in case anyone got hot.
“I’m going to...” Bucky began. He was at a loss for words. If the aliens were spying on them--
and they were at points--they’d think they were the biggest losers they’d seen in a while.
SOMEONE needs to do something about this! Alfred yelled into Phil’s head.
“What do you want?!” Phil demanded. No one else had heard what Alfred had yelled into Phil’s
head, except that Britney caught a glimpse of it.
She’s a loser. I used to like her. I hate her now. Get her the fuck out of your life if you want it to
be interesting. You had a winner in Nancy. You’ll never get a woman like that, you know? Unless you
start shaping up. Alfred wasn’t mad by the time he had his piece with Phil. Phil didn’t respond. It was a
useless situation.
It occurred to Bucky that the CIA front was not going to work with Britney. She was stupid. She
was too stupid. She wasn’t genuine. She didn’t belong.
“I’m going to go, you guys,” Bucky said in embarrassment. He put a couple of quarters on the
table--there were no waiters there--and then waited to see what Phil was going to do.
Phil did nothing. He slept on the couch that night--Nancy had kicked him out of the room they
shared at a time--and he stroked off hoping she wouldn’t catch him. She didn’t. He was very quiet. Even
Alfred didn’t say a thing to him in his mind when he buzzed him that night. He went back to his business
on Zoton. Phil went to his business on the couch.

* * *
Jimmy Contrell joined a cult in the beach of Hermosa, California. The leader was Lawrence
Smythers. He had told Jimmy that he had been an engineer for the state, many years back. He got laid
off, lost hope in the world, then started walking the streets. He had a lot to teach. A lot. When Jimmy
realized that Lawrence knew more about life than him, he decided to follow him. Lawrence had no
objections. His only objection was that Jimmy had little money left--he had spent the last of it on a motor-
scooter--and there was little left for them to do.
“I’m bored,” Jimmy told Smythers.
“I have no answers, my son,” he said back. He took a drink of his whiskey then continued, “We
all can have a little boredom in our lives, can’t we?”
“What is our purpose though?”
“I have no idea.” Smythers pointed to the heavens above and said, “They have the answers, and I
think you know what I mean.”
They had been dreaming of aliens. Both had been believers in Jesus Christ. They were getting
confused on the issues. It didn’t matter to either. They knew they had a purpose, but they really couldn’t
articulate it. They didn’t feel the purpose all the time. It was the fleeing moments.
“I need a drink of your whiskey,” Jimmy said to Lawrence. Lawrence pulled the bottle back and
Jimmy was surprised. “I need something! I need a drink. I’ll go, if I don’t have a drink.”
Lawrence passed the bottle and Jimmy drank. It would be the last bottle of booze Lawrence
would have for five days. They had started a following and they knew that it would mess things up if they
were always on sip. They knew it. Jimmy didn’t drink ever again in his life.
“I have this to propose, Jimmy,” Lawrence said.
“Go on.”
“You have a lot in your brain.”
“No I don’t.”
“You have enough. And I’m going to tell you that it’s going to work.”
Jimmy was satisfied at that. He thought about going back to Miller and listening to Jerry Shuster
again. Those thoughts were fleeting. He was becoming comfortable in his new environment.
He surfed later that evening and later drowned. He had too much to drink. Lawrence Smythers
never saw his surf board again. It was lost in the ocean.
“Damn shame,” he said when Jimmy didn’t return from his venture. “I kind of like you,” he said
to Jimmy, whereever he may have been.

* * *
Stephanie’s class was coming near the end. In the summertime, she’d be free. Part of her was
glad. Another part had grown secretly fond of the people she’d met. There were some vegetables in class,
but that was expected. Ben was looney--there was no denying that--but he wasn’t boring. He’d be missed.
She wouldn’t tell him he’d be missed--that was a secret of hers--but he’d be missed.
He came to class one day wearing sunglasses. “I want to be like the men in black,” he said. He
got a chuckle from Francine, whom was surprisingly early that day.
“Let’s begin, class. We have some things to talk about.” She covered a couple of things that she
was supposed to cover long ago. She covered the fact that they were to stay on their medications.
Secretly, once again, she didn’t care if they were on their meds so long as they behaved in society. She
had to say what the state wanted her to say. She wasn’t going to be like Jeff Splifer. When it came down
to it, if her subjects were questioned, they were to know that the voices they heard--the ones that heard
voices--were from inside the brain and not outside the brain. They were to know that medication helps
them. They were to know that there’s an increase in the chance of jail and/ or mental institutions if you
don’t follow what’s recommended. It was all part of the rhetoric for her. Some people ate it up and
agreed. Ben sat quietly. He knew better not to talk up. She had spilled her guts in other regards and he
was grateful. He no longer felt like beating her up.
Francine spoke after all the rhetoric was done. She had questions. She had an abusive father and
the admitted to being hooked on a controlled substance, though she didn’t admit that it was cocaine. She
said that her father told her that the voices were from inside her head. She’d have to get over it.
Stephanie recommended art as an outlet. Francine went on to say that Alfred still talked to her in her
head (it was a lie) and that she’d be happy if he’d stop.
“I don’t know what to tell you, hun. I still talk to dead people too...” (People laughed at this.)
“...but I don’t talk to Alfred Newman and I don’t talk to Bill Swift.” It was a lie. She did talk to these
people. “I talk to my angels. I think the state might be flexible in that regard. I’m not sure. I haven’t
worked here long enough.”
The conversation ended at that. Francine was not at peace. She wanted people to believe her.
She wanted people to say, Oh? What does Bill Swift tell you? She wanted that. She wanted people to
ask about Alfred and they didn’t. She was a clueless broad and she’d die that way.
Chicken little, Stephanie thought with some insecurity. Bill and Alfred and said to her in her
mind that they didn’t contact Francine, though they contacted other people still. Alfred wanted to contact
her... but it was like trying to fix something that couldn’t be fixed. It’d be wasting his energy. He didn’t
want that. Chicken little. Is your sky falling, Francine? Stephanie thought, before closing up class for the
night. I’ll miss this place, though. She turned off the lights right after seeing Ben make his way down the
steps. She locked the door and didn’t come back again. They’d have to find a substitute replacement for
the next couple of weeks. It was too much for her to handle.

* * *
Dave Barley began to go to “drum ins” with his wife, Stephanie. He thought it’d be a good way
to pound out the frustration he felt at times. He thought it’d be a good way to connect with her. She
thought it was something to do. It was great for her in the end. She loved it.
Freight Train had started off for a couple of weeks as a five-piece band. There was Waldo
Fleshman, Dave Barley, Eddie Macral, Randal Meyer... and Potsy Wilhelm. Potsy was to be the drummer,
but things didn’t work out. Potsy was evangelical Christian and he knew that Stephanie, Dave’s wife, had
problems with a mental disability in the past. It was sad to Dave because he liked Potsy. He was a good
guy... but he wasn’t very understanding.
Freight Train topped the charts the following summer with a song about Greg Lauler (the
visionary, as he was called in the song). They used a drum machine in that song, and that song only.
They did it for radio. They knew the radio stations wouldn’t play something that didn’t have a drum beat.
They were right... for the most part.
On a day in the summer of 2005--the year before the song about Greg Lauler was released--Dave
had a revelation. They didn’t need to replace Potsy. They had planned to replace him, but when he went
to that drum in, he saw in his mind what could be. The drum in was featured with people playing the
maracas, the bongos, the tambourines, and any other percussion instrument you could think of. There
were even people playing the flutes--they would be the exception to the rule and wouldn’t be kicked out
because it wasn’t the vibe of the place--but they weren’t encouraged to play their instruments in place of
the percussion.
Dave had a revelation that he passed on to Eddie. He said, “We can do this! We can give people
in the audience bongos! We can give them tambourines. A couple of them could have cow bells! We can
go on and on!”
Eddie thought he was high. He didn’t take to it at first... and then he saw the light.
In the summer of 2005, the four remaining members of Freight Train went to an Ozzy concert.
They had a blast. During the trip, Eddie had an impulse to do a solo record because all of his stuff on
Freight Train was rather obscure. His claim to fame, up until that point, was that he wrote a song about
tying his shoes. It got laughs. It didn’t go very far.
Eddie used the Dave Barley idea before Freight Train got to use it. He released a record without
any drum tracks. It sounded good to him. He’d know that it could work in the public.
When Freight Train started getting their wheels in late summer of 2005, they were able to test
Dave’s ideas. Songs were written without drummers in mind. They went to coffee houses at first. Later,
they’d play outdoors in parks. There were a couple of backyard parties. In all of them, they’d supply
drums, and the like. It worked. It worked like a charm. Freight Train was on their way. Their audience
was connected. When Ralph Connors started to gain steam in the political arena about his anti-flag
burning bill, they had a common enemy. They had something to rally behind. Randal Meyer never
disliked Ralph Connors and ever voted for him. The rest of the band saw a man that was a threat to
freedom and personal expression.
“This effects us all, Randal,” Eddie had told him one day.
“It doesn’t. He’s just a man.”
“No, he’s evil,” Eddie calmly said. He sipped some of his beer and was grateful that he was even
playing an instrument. They would have died for this in Soviet Russia, and he knew it.
“I’m going to go, guy,” Randal said to him that day.
“Think about what I said,” Eddie said to him.
“I’ll think. You do, and I’ll think. That’s the way it’ll work,” Randal responded.
“And I’ll make all the money in the world because I have a guy in the band like you. Come
here,” Randal came over to Eddie, he hugged him, then they left. They parted ways.
“Don’t forget what I said!” Randal shouted to Eddie right before going out of sight.
“I won’t, Randal,” Eddie said. Randal couldn’t hear him though. Eddie was at unease because
he thought he was selling part of himself to the system. “It’s gotta work this way,” he said. Once again,
no one heard, except for Bill Swift in the sky.

* * *
Jerry Shuster was getting ready to prepare a sermon for that night in Miller, California. It was
late summer of 2005, and being existentialist that he really was, he was going to talk about football. The
NFL season was around the corner. He was going to talk about the history of the league. He was going to
talk about how there’s always been violence in society and how war heroes were always celebrated. He
was going to say that today’s war heroes are the ones we see on the football field. He was going to talk
about how the sexy women in society gravitated toward these men and he didn’t care if he was politically
correct about it. He was going to talk about Joe Montana’s jersey, and how it was more coveted than the
actually shroud of Turin. He was going to talk about how the pro football Hall of Fame was more of a
mecca than Rome, at least to a good sector of society. He was going to talk about how it was spreading
and he was going to talk about the prophets of the league. He was going to talk about Superbowl Sunday
and how it elicited a stronger response, worldwide, than Easter Sunday. He was going to do all of this.
Once again, he was going to preach about semantics. He was going to say, “Same shit, different name.”
That’s what he was going to say.
Miles away to the east--thousands of miles--it was much later because of time differential as far
as physical time. Jerry’s brother, Clyde, was going to give a sermon of his own. The two brothers hadn’t
kept in contact with one another but they would have been proud of each other if they did. They were
riding waves. They weren’t going to make money, but it felt good and they had hope.
Clyde’s church was in Liverpool, England. It was a place that had the capacity to hold two
hundred and fifty people. On average, it held fifty people. Clyde was somewhat distraught by this because
he was getting the same crowds outside of Duckton before leaving. He wasn’t entirely distraught. He
looked around his church. It was a proud place to him.
In place of Christ in the center and far end of the church was a large statue of Elvis Presley.
Flaking Elvis to his right were George and Ringo--they were wax figures, and very expensive ones.
Flanking Elvis to his left were John and Paul. He thought it was great. Elvis, near the end of his life,
would try to turn the Beatles in to the FBI as being subversive to the country’s youth. It didn’t matter to
Clyde Shuster. He knew that Elvis had been an early influence on the Beatles and to the rest of the world.
That’s what mattered to him.
There were stained glass windows. They featured Muddy Watters, Bo Didley, Carl Perkins,
Buddy Holly, and many other early rockers. On the opposite end of Elvis Presley, near the church’s
entrance, was Kurt Cobain. He was done in clay (Shuster couldn’t afford another wax figure at this point)
and he pointed in the direction of everyone else. It was a religious scene, in his mind. It was a great
scene.
Clyde Shuster’s sermons centered around rock ‘n’ roll. George Harrison had converted to
Hinduism. He took that into account. He remember Alfred, his friend whom had come from Miller,
California, and he didn’t want to be a fake any longer. He wanted to know history.
“Do you know, folks, something that George Harrison said in an autobiography?”
“What, mister?” a girl asked from the second row. She was accompanied by her parents and
Clyde could tell that she was like many of the other people that come. They were tourists. It was a hot
attraction, at this time. The locals stayed away. They had enough of the Beatles. The ones that did like
the Beatles wanted to remember them in their own ways. “What, mister? I’m listening to you.”
“I know doll.” She was about seven-years-old. She looked seven, in Clyde’s mind. He didn’t
know she was a nine-year-old from Miller, California. He had no idea that she had a crush on Randal
Meyer in the past. She had no idea that Randal was someone that Alfred had known. It would have
pleased him to know all these things.
Clyde reached into a pocket, pulled out a lollipop, gave it to the girl, then continued on. “I think
George was getting fed up with fame.” A lady next to the little girl shifted. She didn’t want to hear this.
Clyde was going to have it his way though. He wasn’t going to cater to the crowd. It wasn’t his job, any
longer. “He wrote that nobody bothers Buddhist monks about hiding in the hills and meditating for long
periods of time.” The lady said something but Clyde wasn’t going to be slowed down on her account. He
thought of the little girl and knew it’d impact her years later if she remembered. “He wrote about the
Buddhist monks. I think he felt like one after his retirement from the Beatles. He kept having people say
that he had an obligation to play for them. Did he?” The lady next to the little girl nodded her head yes.
The little girl was becoming uncomfortable because the older lady next to her kept poking her in the side.
The old lady was jealous of the little girl. “So what do you think, hun? Do you want to see your stars tied
to you for the rest of your life?”
The little girl said yes, that she would. Clyde felt he didn’t make a connection. “I want to show
you guys some people.” Clyde pointed around to the glass, stained windows. “These people were who the
Beatles were influenced by. They were before them.” Clyde paused, as if about to say something
sacrilege. “You know? Someone is going to come after the Beatles.” It was a revelation to the little girl
and Clyde could see it. Her father was a big Beatles’ fan and brought her to the place. He was gone, at
the time, on business in the city. He was trying to get rites to some of their music, but he’d later find that
he was in the wrong place to do so. “So, do you like the Backstreet Boys, hun?” Clyde asked the little girl.
He hoped she would say yes, that she did. She shook her head no. It was a disappointment to Clyde, but
it was a revelation, at the same time. “You’ll like someone.”
“Freight Train. That’s who I like. It’s a band called Freight Train.”
“Who’s that, doll?”
“You’ll never understand. You’ll never get it. That’s all.”
“Okay. Very well,” Clyde said. He went on to sermon without interruption. The girl stayed and
the older lady next to her shifted in her seat on occasion.
Clyde spoke about vinyl. “If the early prophets had vinyl, they would have used it. It’s the new
religious text, you know?” The little girl knew. She liked her records--her CDs, they were--more than she
liked the children’s Bible that her aunt had given her--the same aunt that was shifting in her seat
continuously.
“He’s crazy,” a girl said from the back.
Clyde wouldn’t slow down. “Strawberry Fields was a mental institution. How many of you knew
that?” No one did. “So I have you. I know something you don’t.”
Clyde felt good. He felt authentic. He would continue in Liverpool. He’d give it a year. After
that? He’d judge it and go from there.
“I’m going, people. Remember... All you need is love.” Clyde didn’t mean it, but it felt good to
say. The little girl who was becoming so impressed said, “How corny,” but Clyde didn’t hear her. He
didn’t care. Deep inside, he knew he had enlightened them. They wanted him to stay. If said anything
else, he would have gotten the same response, and he was sure of it.
Clyde played “Across the Universe” on the speakers, then left through a back door. Some people
stayed and looked at the art in the Church of the Fab. Others left. None of them were bored though most
were distraught because they felt incomplete.
“I need to come here every week,” the little girl said to herself. She’d never go there again. It
was just a visit she was on.
 * * *
Lawrence Smythers was sad when he saw Jimmy Contrell washed up on the beach. This was
many months ago, but it still ate at him. It was like a cancer.
Lawrence Smythers had refused to continue working in 2004. He didn’t like his job any longer.
He wasn’t a civil engineer, like he had told Jimmy. He was Secretary of State, and his name at the time
had been Butch Jackson. He thought that leaving work and going with his family full time would heal
wounds from the inside. He was wrong.
Butch Jackson had covered civil affairs quite closely, while he was Secretary of State. He became
enthralled by people forming cults in Texas. Those crazy Waco people would never stop. He became
fascinated by a church that had formed in Oregon. The Church of Kurt Cobain, it had been called. He
was fascinated by Mesa, Arizona, and their experiences with UFOs. He was captivated by the people of
Miller, but most of all, he knew that Bill Swift had influence still. It was a strange thing to him. Bill
Swift was dead. He had been dead for a long time.
Butch Jackson never stepped outside of his box. He had been in the military his whole life. He
didn’t know what it was like to see the world in a different way. He hated liberals, to a degree, but he
knew that that was why he joined the military to begin with. He wanted to protect all Americans.
Butch Jackson thought that family life would be perfect, upon retiring from the military. It
wasn’t. His kids liked Korn, the raunchiest band of the century in his mind, more than they liked him. It
was a hopeless situation. His wife? She liked her soaps more than she liked talking to him about his life.
Butch Jackson wanted to make a change. He told his wife and kids that the military had one, last
assignment for him. He was to go to Thailand. He told them that the details of his mission were to
remain a secret and his family respected him. He contacted Bob Gomer, from the Periphery Intelligence
Agency, the CIA’s big and unknown brother, and he set up the cover. The CIA itself was to believe that
Butch Jackson was in Seattle, Washington, on assignment to cover and watch the Canadians to the north.
Bob Gomer, and only Bob Gomer, knew what Butch Jackson wanted--what Butch Jackson needed--and
it’d be to step outside of his box. He needed to see life through a different lens. He needed a lot of
things. Bob Gomer suggested that Butch step in different shoes by going to Russia and posing as an
American that was setting up a new business. Butch was black though. He didn’t need a whole other
nation looking at him strangely everytime he walked by them. Butch knew exactly what he wanted. I
want to be a bum. I want to be a homeless bum. It’ll teach me a lot. Maybe I won’t think they’re such
bums afterward.
I doubt it, but I know just the place, Bob Gomer told him. Hermosa Beach. Butch grew a large
and puffy beard, put on some over-sized eyebrows, learned some homeless lingo, and he tried out five
different kinds of whiskey and brandy, just to find his flavor. He found that Thunderbird would be his
ultimate choice. It was a cheap wine.
Butch Jackson enjoyed his assignment a lot. He didn’t have to report back to anyone. He learned
a lot from the people on the streets. People didn’t recognize him. He was able to step outside of himself.
It was great.
Jimmy Contrell passed away, and it was a shame. Butch Jackson, under the name of Lawrence
Smythers, didn’t expect to start a cult. He did, though. It was Jimmy’s idea. It was that natural thing for
him to do.
Lawrence--Butch--had read a collection of novellas long ago written by Stephen King (under the
guise of Richard Bachman) and it was called The Bachman Books. Stephen King explained, in an
introduction, that the reason he wrote with a pseudonym at a time was because he wanted to know if he’d
be successful at it. Lawrence was a lead. So was Butch, when he was Butch. Stephen King found that he
sold books. They weren’t as many as when he was writing with his own, popular name, but they were
enough. He cited the Beatles and the fact that they wanted to play in a small club with disguises on to see
if they’d still get the same response. Butch Jackson, now in the guise of the fictitious person of Lawrence
Smythers, got to test it out for himself. He didn’t believe the Beatles ever did. That was in his memory.
Butch Jackson was a leader. He didn’t want to be a leader when he took on the requested
assignment of being a homeless bum. He found that leadership found him. It must have been in his
blood, or so he reckoned.
The anti-flag burning amendment was catching steam, as summer winded down. Lawrence’s
new friends, absent Bob Gomer and Jimmy Contrell, were following him in ways he’d never imagine. He
thought about The Princess Bride. It was a movie he watched long ago. There was a pirate in the movie
that took on a first mate. Eventually, the first mate became the pirate. He took over his identity. The
cycle would continue. When the new pirate was tired of reeking havoc across the land, he’d find a new
first mate who would take over for him, and so on.
Lawrence Smythers, formerly Butch Jackson, knew that Jimmy Contrell wanted to start a cult. In
ways, he was the first cult leader of the small beach. He passed away, Lawrence took over with great
steam, and he was now seeing that it might continue forever. He knew that it was a good thing.
Objectively, it was a horrible thing for the government. From a personal standpoint, nothing felt better.
There was a guy in the group by the name of Anthony Rupp. He had been a ‘Dead fan and
claimed to have followed them everywhere. He burned flags, whenever he could find them, and cited
Ralph Connors as the reason. “He’s not going to take away my freedom,” he said to Lawrence Smythers
around a trash can fire.
“I know. I hear you,” Smythers said. He still wanted to fit in. He didn’t want to have it revealed
that he fought for the flag for most of his life. It didn’t even occur to him that it was freedom of speech
and expression and Anthony was going through. It was treason, in his mind. He wouldn’t say a thing.
He was going to ride the homeless thing out for as long as he could. He’d quit in the autumn when it got
colder. He might be ready for his family by then.
Andy Parteak wanted them to keep talking. He knew the Neekay flags would be coming soon.
They signed a contract with the federal government as the first licensees of the new concept. “I can’t wait
for that Neekay flag to come out. I’m going to wipe my ass with it.”
Anthony laughed. He didn’t know what to do next.
Lawrence Smythers wasn’t sniffed out. He had a good enough aura around him. It mattered to
everyone involved.
“I’m going to say something else,” Andy said. “I’m going to kill you...” he ended there. He was
planning on saying that he was going to be assassinating Ralph Connors, after wiping his ass with the
new Neekay flag. He was tackled by Anthony Rupp. It wasn’t friendly though. Those things happened
on the beach. It was chaos... but they loved it.

* * *

Zotar Cassidy married Lizzy Shulton at the end of the summer of 2005. It was a blast. He didn’t
have a job yet, but that was fine. He worked delivering pizzas, actually, but that didn’t count to him... or
her. He was on his way. He knew it. She knew it. Freight Train knew it.
Freight Train played at Lizzy’s and Zotar’s wedding. She was in the middle of medical school
and she supported them through a trust fund she had inherited. It wouldn’t last long. That was fine with
both of them. They had time. That’s what mattered.
Zotar promoted Freight Train but he didn’t need to promote them. Word of mouth got strong and
Freight Train was signed not long after performing at the wedding. Zotar liked promoting. He liked the
idea that music changed people’s life. He believed it was his calling to promote more bands... like Freight
Train.
Zote kept touch with a mental patient by the name of Ben Murphy. It had been only internet
experience for a while. He learned that Ben had a lot of ideas. He had a lot of aggression, too. That was
key. He jokingly told Ben one day, on the internet, that he should channel his frustrations into music. He
knew Freight Train. He thought he could hook Ben up with other musicians. He did. They flew... for a
while.
Ben talked to Zotar about other things besides music. They concluded that biologists had it right.
Modern biologists, in the country of the United States of America, were right about evolution. Life started
off as single-celled. It evolved from there. Single-celled organisms became multi-celled organisms. The
most primitive ones were in the ocean and were two cells thick. The reason they were two cells thick was
because they all needed food. If there was a cell that was smashed between layers of other cells, it would
starve. This was before a digestive system was evolved.
Zotar and Ben believed something deeper though, and it stemmed from Zotar’s relationship with
Bill Swift in the sky. You don’t have schizophrenia, Ben, Zotar had told him one day. I get voices too. I
just don’t tell the government about it. They don’t need to know. It doesn’t effect my life in a tragic way.
Learn that, and you’ll be better off.
They believed, because of Bill Swift in the sky, that atoms were alive. They extrapolated the
belief that single-celled organisms evolved into something much higher, eventually becoming multi-celled
beasts that were all around the Earth, and they took it to a new level, creating a hypothesis of their own.
“They say that DNA and/ or RNA was around in the primordial ooze, right Ben?”
“Yep,” Ben said. He was sipping a wine cooler. Bartels and James Berry. It was his favorite.
“They say that crystals magically form. I mean...”
“...Yeah. Like snow flakes.”
“Yep. Bingo.”
 Ben went on to say what was on Zotar’s mind. “You’re saying that IF the atoms are alive, like
Bill says they are... You’re saying there was a choice, and maybe that’s why no two snow flakes are
exactly alike.”
“It’s more than that, and you know it.”
“I know. I don’t know what you’re saying, but I know. There’s more to it.”
The schlaclak--the smallest known particle in the universe but not yet known on the Earth--has a
life. It joined with other schlaclak beings, or so Zotar’s hypothesis went, and formed colonies. These
colonies would eventually become photons. They would later become protons, neutrons, and electrons.
But electrons are not the smallest thing in the universe, and that was known other places in the universe.
“A colony of schlaclak might eventually become a proton. A few protons might join together
with other schlaclak colonies known as neutrons. The possibilities are endless,” Zotar said. He wouldn’t
tell his aspiring bands his beliefs. He didn’t need to. He had Ben Murphy, and so long as there was one
crazy person out there that would listen to him, it would be enough.
He thought about Lizzy. Lizzy listened. She was in medical school and he didn’t want to bother
her with these other possibilities. Eventually, he would, she would laugh him off, and they’d make love
afterwards. Good love.
“A colony of schlaclak, right? Just like the dirt that forms the Earth, right?”
“Very much so.”
They drank coolers. It wasn’t something that Zotar liked to do too often. They gave him
headaches. When he was with Ben, he didn’t care. It would do.
“I wonder... How are miracles made, Ben?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think the schlaclak can disband whenever it wants? I can’t disband my cells by consciously
thinking of it...” He paused and Ben knew what he was going to say. “Unless I blew myself up like that
poor sap that went into the Miller Tribune.”
“Yep. You got it. Miracles happen. They just don’t happen too often.”
“By definition, what is a miracle?”
“I don’t know,” Ben told Zotar. “But I think Bill Swift had a glimpse of it. I think his schlaclak
was in cooperation with all the schlaclak all around him.”
“I get you.”
They finished their wine coolers, went to their respective houses, then didn’t think about it again
for a while.
“I have you now, Lizzy,” Zotar told Lizzy that night. “I’m going to make it.”
“I know,” Lizzy said. She was happy with him. Her faith in him was strong.
 * two *

In the fall of 2005, Stephanie Venezia-Barley began working as a school teacher. She taught
third grade and was two classes down from Nancy soon-to-be-again Kidman. She was afraid at the
change but she knew it would be good for her. There were times that she was turning her back on the
people that were like her from the summer seminars. There would be times, like she had on the first day
of school, that she knew she was in the right place.
She bumped into Nancy. “Hello. My name is Stephanie.”
“I know your name,” Nancy said to her. She didn’t really want to talk all that much. “I know.”
“Do you know I slept with Jesus?”
“You’re going to do fine here,” Nancy said to her. She had an attitude change.
Stephanie looked around. She looked near the principal’s office and saw flags waving. It was
the first Neekay flag that she ever saw live. They had been on TV. They were appearing in commercials.
It looked surreal to her. There was an American flag--a traditional one--that flew high. Below it in
descending order were the flags of California and the flag of Neekay. “What a trip!” Stephanie said to
herself. She looked at the kids filing in. They had the bug too. They were wearing Neekays--a good deal
of them were. Some of them wore Neekay headbands and others wore the Neekay swisher on their wrists.
It was unreal to her. “I have work to do,” Stephanie said, before opening the door to her homeroom. “I
have some work to do.”
“What are you talking about?” Nancy asked Stephanie right before going into the door.
Stephanie looked shell shocked. She didn’t know what to say. “I’m going to tell you something about this
school,” Nancy began to say.
“I know already. It’s happening,” Stephanie told her.
“What are you talking about, hun?” Nancy pulled a Neekay swisher from under her shirt. It was
held there by a string--a small rope, actually--that was black and looked like a large shoe lace.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about???” Stephanie growled. She was angry. She didn’t
know what to make of Nancy.
Nancy took the Neekay swisher from her neck and put it in Stephanie’s hand. “You’re better off.
Keep it. It’ll keep you from getting fired. If you don’t wear the shoes? Keep this. Show them once in a
while.” Then she whispered, “They just want to know you’re not a communist.”
“What if I am?”
“You don’t belong here then,” Nancy said to her.
“Do you think so?”
“No. I fuckin’ don’t. I know the rules. That’s all.”
“I’ll keep it to myself, then,” Stephanie said. She was scared. There was a beast out there.
Neekay was the tip of it. The beast was in corporate America. It’d be a wave. She could feel it. She
didn’t have freedom like she thought she had the day before.
“Keep it,” Nancy said then went to her room.
“I’m going to,” Stephanie said. She didn’t know what to do.
 Stephanie went home that night and wanted to cry. She laughed instead. It was ludicrous what
was going on in the world. She was making no money directly from Neekay but she felt she had to be one
of their facilitators, nonetheless. “This is going to go far,” she told Randal that night on the phone. She
was in joy. “Greg Lauler the Visionary” was being recording and remixing would come soon enough.
“It’s going to go far. I can feel it!”
“Go home,” Randal said. “I mean, hang up. I have work to do.”
She was at home and didn’t know what to do. Dave was in bed. He was pretending to sleep. He
didn’t want to deal with her. She woke him from a pretend slumber, kissed him on the cheek, then
crawled into bed herself. “Fuck you, Nancy McOaland, or Kidman... or whatever you are,” she said under
her voice. “Fuck you then, Alfred, too.” She wasn’t getting any responses in her mind. She was
surprised.
Nancy Kidman--the soon-to-be Nancy Kidman--slept at Doug Michael’s that night. She didn’t
want to see Phil. Phil wasn’t ready for her. He was changing. He was becoming his old self.

* * *

For the first fifteen hundred years after the birth of Christ, the Christian church was relatively
together. It was one. In the mid-fifteen hundreds, the printing press accelerated an eventual change that
was going to take place. It wasn’t the only reason that people started to rebel against the Catholic Church.
Mother Mary was overloaded. It was as simple as that. People had heard that they could pray to
her, she’d listen, and she’d pass on the messages to the divine gods that lay above her. It wasn’t
completely like that in the end. She couldn’t handle the load. She was a being that was living on another
planet, but she couldn’t partake in everything going on in her former world even if she wanted to.
Alfred was a mess on Zoton. After the summer seminars with Stephanie Venezia-Barley,
Francine Cross started to try to reach him again. Alfred wasn’t concerned with her. She was washed up.
She was lonely. She was useless. She didn’t have much power.
But she had a lot of resiliency.
Alfred started to question things on Zoton. He couldn’t get through to Phil McOaland all the
time. Instead, he’d get through to Cruz Franks, his former neighbor on Earth. He’d get through to him
and he didn’t want to get through to him.
He wanted to get through to Daisy. She was turning Republican. Republicans can be good
people--they were the party of Lincoln, at a time--but they started believing in their own bullshit so much
that it was out of control. A good Republican, in Alfred’s mind, was one that believed that if you worked
hard, you deserved more than the guy next to you if he wasn’t working as hard. If you built three houses
and he built one? You deserve roughly three times as much in life.
The CEO of Target--it was a popular merchandise store on Earth when Alfred was alive--made
more in a day than the average worker at one of his warehouses made in a year. Bottom line, this was
disproportionate in Alfred’s mind. He had been told something by Zaktak, the alien, about something
written in The Nation, a liberal paper on Earth: “People need to pay attention to the Doug Jones. Not the
Dow Jones.” In other words, CEOs were getting paid huge money for killing people’s dreams. The Dow
would jump when they’d lay off a thousand (or ten thousand, in some cases) people. It’d jump... but
profits would soar. Why? Because of slave labor around the globe. The American jobs would be
replaced.
Alfred cared about all of this but he was becoming apathetic. He told Bill that he was becoming
apathetic. He couldn’t shake it no matter how hard he’d try.
Francine started to try to contact Alfred after she ended her summer seminars. She was looking
for meaning in life. She was looking for a rooster... and Alfred was just the guy. She was looking for a
stud. He was the stud, in her mind. He was the stud but she failed to see that she wasn’t virile any longer.
She wasn’t virile. She was an old maid. She wanted to dedicate her life to Alfred. He wanted to dedicate
his life to the rest of the world. Women and children first, he had told her when she finally got a hold of
him through a tacky seance. Women and children first. You’re an old hag, lady. Turn around. Don’t
look back.
Alfred believed that it was best that way. He felt that way. Cut ties early. Nip things in the bud.
Paradoxes happen in the world. People are attracted to truth. No one else, most of all Randal
Meyer, would tell Francine that she was a used up hag. No one. Alfred did. He was wrong about his
expected results. He thought that by saying that she was a used up hag, she’d look elsewhere. He was
wrong. She looked to him over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over
and over and over and over and over and over again. She didn’t care what he had to say. She tried to
convince herself that he was wrong. He wasn’t. He knew nature. She was in denial.
Francine would die in denial.

* * *
Dave Barley and Eddie Macral were driving back from the Institute of Creation Research, just
outside of San Diego. They had a curiosity. It was long since believed, in Miller, that aliens were out
there. It was long since believed--not just by the Scientologists--that human life and history was a little
different than most people were raised to believe it was. A friend of Freight Train, by the name of Zotar,
was teaching some weird and new stuff to people around him. He didn’t want to live in a bubble any
longer. He was confident in his belief that aliens had an intimate relationship with humans since the
dawn of time on Earth. He was confident. He didn’t know what else to do outside of saying that people
had to take a lot of it on faith.
Dave Barley and Eddie Macral were raised in fundamentalist churches. They were taught not to
believe in science. They were taught that modern science was the instrument of the devil. Nonetheless,
they were young enough in their adulthood to rebel and question. They experienced Bill Swift and Alfred
Newman a time or two in Ouija. It was good enough for them. They had secrets that were revealed.
They had candles that flickered on and off. They had a door that slammed shut for no reason. There was
no reason to believe that something wasn’t out there.
In the end, it was something that Zotar brought Eddie and Dave that spurned them to do
something about deciding the nature of the universe, once and for all. If Zotar was right, there was
nothing to worry about. They could keep talking to Bill Swift and Alfred Newman so long as they wanted
to be contacted. If Zotar was wrong? They were going to quit the band.
Zotar brought them a book by the name of Structure of Scientific Revolution. It was written by
Thomas Kuhn. It explained how scientific revolution takes place. It’s like watching the grass grow. In
other words, if somebody discovers that the Earth revolves around the Sun--as somebody did--it takes
generations for it to be taught to the masses. The reason? Pride. Zotar told Eddie and Dave that he
didn’t believe the word pride was written in there explicitly, though he could be wrong. It’s just the way
he took it. It’s the way he remembered it.
Old people don’t like to be wrong... and old people control the world. If someone is teaching the
world that the Earth is flat and he has been teaching (“he” being the operant word since we’re talking
about history here) that the world is flat for his whole life? Well, it’s a lot easier to debunk would-be
myths. The Earth being round? What a novel concept! But Columbus wasn’t the first person to know
that the world was round, contrary to popular myth. The ancient Greeks through trigonometry , many
years before Columbus would sail to a place that would be known as the New World, would discover that
the world had an arc to it. They knew the world was round but they didn’t have methods to prove it
outside of their mathematical skills.
The Structure of Scientific Revolution showed how people fought against new thoughts. It took
generations for new paradigms--the way people view the world--to form and take foot in the collective
consciousness of the masses in general.
Eddie Macral and Dave Barley had both been taught that the Earth was flat. Actually, they
weren’t taught that the Earth was flat. They were taught that it was only six thousand years old and that
science--Christian science--proved the same thing. Ninety-nine percent of all accredited biologists taught
that evolution was fact. They knew that. They believed it was part of a conspiracy to turn the world
atheistic.
“Don’t worry about what you find there,” Zotar said to the two. “I want to see it myself. I’ve
seen their stuff on the web page. It’s goofy. They have coloring books where rams are butting heads with
dinosaurs. It’s comical in that way... If you can, bring back one of those books. I think my sister’d like
to color in it. It ought to be a hoot.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Zotar,” Bernard said. His real name was Barny, but he was going by
Bernard since Jeff Splifer had dubbed him as so.
“I want that book,” Eddie said. At that, he decided to go to the Institute, with or without Dave.
“I’m going. Simple as that,” Dave said. At that, they were on a quest.
They discovered things while at the institute. They had discovered that scientists--the ICR’s
scientists--were teaching that one way the “old Earth” model could be debunked was by comparing other
scientists ages of Moon rocks. If dated with carbon-14, a radically different age was given than if the
same rocks were dated with uranium or something else. When Zotar was told of this--he was ready for
many of the assertions that would be made--he told Dave and Eddie that it was like measuring a trip to the
mountains by holding out a ruler and having the passenger quickly count the many feet that went by as the
car sped along its path. “You don’t do that!” Zotar said to them. “Of course carbon-14 is going to have a
different date for the Moon rocks than uranium. Carbon-14’s half life is five thousand years! Uranium
has a half life that is in the hundreds of thousands of years--I don’t know it off hand--but it’s way
different.”
Eddie and Dave looked at him a little strangely, mostly for not knowing the exact facts. Eddie
knew what was up though and started to speak before being interrupted by Dave. “You’re saying...”
“Go to Hell, Dave. You’re an idiot,” Eddie said. Dave was a piece of shit loser sometimes. This
was one of the instances. “It’s like, Zotar...”
“Bingo!” Zotar said.
Eddie’s language wasn’t condescending. Dave had been talking like he was insulted.
It was like measuring the length of a quarter with a trip odometer. The Creation Scientists were
too stupid, prideful, or naive to know any different.
“There’s a lot of stuff though,” Zotar said. He had known a girl by the name of Donna Gaelic
that knew someone that had a degree in science and in theology. This man wouldn’t lie, she had told
Zotar. Zote recalled it and relayed the message to Eddie (Dave was starting to leave). “There’s liars in
that church, you know?”
“I know... Zote.” Eddie was mad. He was mad. No one was taking it seriously. This was a life
event and no one was taking it seriously.
Eddie went home and told his mom what he had learned. He said to her, “You know?”
“What, son?” his mom reluctantly wanted to know.
“They’d be better off just saying that it too faith to believe in God. They’d be better off saying
that God could have planted the fossils and everything else. ‘Thou shall not lie.’ What ever happened to
that, mother?”
“I don’t know.” His mom truly did not know.

* * *
Britney Brown was a major disappointment to Bucky Holdwater and his Republican constituents.
She couldn’t get done for them what they wanted her to get done. In the end, it was okay with Bucky.
He’d be fine. He liked Britney, and so did the rest of his colleagues. She just wasn’t up to the task.
Francine Cross had a father that lived in nearby San Quixote, California. It was the states fourth
largest city. Actually, it was only the fourth largest city in southern California, but Francine and her father
never took that into account. They didn’t like their neighbors to the north. They were full of bureaucrats,
in Sacramento mainly, and a bunch of fags in San Francisco. Francine’s father, Lloyd Cross, didn’t care
for these people. He was a staunch Republican, and when his daughter began to abuse cocaine and hang
out with liberals (she dated a black guy, for a while, when she was in college), he disowned her. He wrote
her out of his will and stopped giving her money.
Lloyd Cross was involved in the CIA and knew that his daughter was in trouble. Further, he
knew an opportunity when he saw one. No one liked Francine too much, and he knew it. He’d turn it to
his advantage. He was waiting for a period when she would hate her detractors just as equally bad as they
hated her. She wanted to be a hippy, at the beginning. In the end, it was the feeling of limbo that fucked
her world. Lloyd knew a saying--it was a Biblical quote, actually--and it went:
And unto the angel of the church of Laodiceans write; These things saith Amen, the
faithful and true witness, the beginning of the creation of God; I know thy works, that
thou art neither cold nor hot: I would thou wert cold or hot... So then because thou art
lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of my mouth.
It came from Revelation in the third chapter. Lloyd remembered it well and saw himself as the
Lord when administering pain to the people around him. He was quite rich. His daughter would never be
the same.
Bucky Holdwater dismissed Britney Brown as a candidate to front as a CIA spy in the guise of an
investigative reporter. He would soon come across Lloyd Cross. Lloyd had a lot to say. He knew his
daughter could do the job. And if she couldn’t? She was expendable. He was ready and willing to get rid
of her. She was his seed. He wasn’t proud of her. If she didn’t connect with her conservative roots now,
she never would.
It would be a test. If Francine was successful, Daniel Quartz was going to secede from Ralph
Connors’ administration in a keen and even flow. No one would notice what was really going on. The
Democrats, according to Lloyd’s logic, were going to be co-opted to the fullest extent. Maybe in 2012,
Daniel Quartz would allow himself to lose to the Democrats so that none of the American public would
know what was going on.
“It’s going to be a PRI, you see?” Lloyd told Bucky during their first meeting.
“The Mexican party. I know.”
“We’re going to have control.”
“And your billions are going to make sure that things stay this way?”
“They don’t even have to know who I am.”
Bucky thought about it but looked uncomfortable. The PRI had ruled Mexico for many decades.
At the end of the twentieth century, they eventually lost an election. It had been that one president of
Mexico would choose his successor. It went on like that for a long time.
Bucky and Lloyd were having lunch in the hills of San Quixote at a fine restaurant. Bucky
sipped his soup and waited for his entree. Lloyd had his salad plate pushed to the side and then started
eating from it again. Lloyd’s daughter, Francine, came into the room wearing a summer dress. It looked
like she expected to be married anytime soon. It looked that much like a wedding dress except for the
flowery patterns. She approached Lloyd, her father, and tried to give him a kiss on the cheek. He brushed
her aside then said, “Not now, hun. We’re going to make a plan for you.”
Lloyd set up the front for Francine Cross. It wasn’t to happen in the small town of Miller, after
all. It was going to happen in San Quixote. No one would know what hit them. If all went right, no one
would know except for Bucky, Francine, Lloyd, and a few trusted people in the Connors’ administration,
most notably, Daniel Quartz. No one would know what hit them... and if they ever found out, Lloyd
would lose a daughter. “What a waste,” Lloyd said as he ate.
“What?” Bucky asked.
“Nothing,” Lloyd said with a distant look. “I was just thinking of politics.”
 “Oh. Pass the beer,” Bucky responded with. It was Heineken. Good stuff for the rich... or not so
rich. Good stuff, but tasted like skunk.
 * three *

Nancy McOaland became Nancy Kidman again in December of 2005. If she had her way, she
would become Nancy Michaels a year later. She took a liking to Doug. She took a liking to his brother,
Don. She didn’t care which one she’d marry, but she preferred Doug. He had the young, fertile wife.
There had to be some reason she was with him.
Nancy threw a Christmas party with Daisy Michaels at there home. Phil McOaland took off for
the east coast. Nancy wasn’t sure if he’d be seen around town as often. He was stung by the divorce and
she was thinking that he’d like a fresh start elsewhere.
Ned and Anna Swift showed up to Nancy and Daisy’s party at Christmas. It was rather
uneventful thought it was quite nice to have the spirit around again. There was mistletoe hung up around
every doorway and everyone got a chance relive youth for at least a little while. The eggnog was spiked
with rum but it wasn’t flattened to the point that no one wanted to drink it. The Christmas presents lay
around the tree and everyone thought about the first time that Santa came into being. Christmas carols
played in the background and no one knew they were on. They felt them though. It was a good time.
Ned and Anna went home at two in the morning that night. There were children that were
staying at the Michaels’ house. They were the grandkids that Doug had from a prior marriage. Ned and
Anna wanted to go home and they were inspired to start a family of their own.
Ned had a lot on his mind as he approached the walkway to their house. Lloyd Cross had bought
the county newspaper, the local television station, and two radio stations. He was worried, but it was
Christmas. He didn’t want to think of these things.
“What is it, Lloyd?” Anna asked Ned, right before reaching the screen door.
“You feel him too, huh?” Ned asked her. He was disappointed that they had to go through these
things. He was even starting to get a little mad.
Anna pushed Ned away. Ned didn’t take any offense to it. He opened the screen door, unlocked
the wooden door behind it, let himself in, went to the fridge and retrieved a cold beer, then sat on the
couch and began to mope.
“I’m not taking this,” Anna said aloud. Ned didn’t think he was being directly talked to. She
was probably talking to one of the spirits in the room.
It’s funny, Ned thought. It’s Christmas... and we’re still getting this shit!
Ned drank his beer. He’d talk about his hopes and fears on a later date. For that matter, he may
not have to talk of his hopes and fears. If Anna had been talking to Bill Swift in her mind, there would be
no need for conversation.
The CIA was taking over and Ned Swift knew it. Bill knew it better. It was in the guise of
multimedia. They were going to get Ralph Connors’ vice-president elected president for the following
term.
Ned took a gulp of beer. In his mind, he could see his brother, Bill, holding up a beer as well.
This one’s for you, bud, Bill said. Ned laughed. It sounded like a commercial, but he knew it was not.
“So be it!’ Ned said, then downed the rest of his stuff.
 Anna didn’t talk to him for the rest of the night. Ned was going to have to fight... or he was
going to have to accept the inevitable.

* * *

In January of 2006, Robert Wisdom was approached by Lloyd Cross. Robert had been a
successful businessman. He was a small businessman. He was in a class that communists called the petty
bourgeois. He was neither here nor there, in other words. He wasn’t a corporate raider, but he didn’t
work wages either. He was a “mom and pops” owner. He feared corporate America. He owned a small
chain of burger restaurants and resented the fact that McDonald’s and Burger King could snuff him out at
any given time. They had backing. If they wanted to sell burgers for ninety-nine cents for a month, they
could do it and survive. If Robert were to do it, he’d go under. He didn’t have multi millions backing
him--let alone billions--but he did turn his first million the year that Ralph Connors got elected in the year
2000.
He didn’t like Ralph Connors. Ralph was of the old school of thought. He believed that if you
gave tax breaks to the very rich, the money would trickle down to everyone in America, Robert Wisdom
included. Things didn’t work that way in the modern world. When the super rich made money, they took
their profits overseas. It was a global market. The common American no longer saw their money back.
Instead, it was given to third world countries--and it turned out that not that much was given to them by
comparison of what they might be worth--and it was put into Swiss bank accounts. Forbes ran articles
every year about the richest people in the world. They were billionaires. Robert Wisdom knew it wasn’t
true though. America was the lone superpower in the world. There were trillionaires in the world, but the
Swiss had no obligation to report them. When you have the keys to the bank, you can make your own
rules. It’s like printing your own money, or Robert Wisdom was led to believe.
He was approached by Lloyd Cross. Robert had run for mayor of San Quixote as a Democrat in
2004 and he won. He had future aspirations of running for governor, but he wouldn’t be disappointed if
he never reached that high. It was his dream. It’s all he wanted. Just a dream.
In 2006, when Lloyd approached him, Robert was thinking about leaving politics. It was getting
too heavy for him. He had thought just to serve one term anyway. He wanted to do his service, move on,
then feel proud of himself later on. He even thought it might be good for business. It was.
Lloyd asked Robert for a moment of his time in early 2006. It was two days before Dr. Martin
Luther King Jr.’s holiday but Lloyd wouldn’t bring him up. “You know, Robert. I have a plan for you,”
he said to him.
“I know who you are. You just bought every media outlet in this town. Let’s hear it.”
“I’m buying all of America, Robert. You just don’t see it.”
“You’re a pidley billionaire. What are you going to do with America?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“I’m mayor of the city. I have to keep secrets.”
“I want you to run for office...”
 “...I already have an office.”
“No. Not an office of this state. Well. That’s not exactly right. I want you to be president one
day.”
“I will be. With or without you, God-willing, I will be president... if I choose.”
“No. You don’t get it. You don’t understand modern politics.”
Robert Wisdom took a sip from his chocolate shake. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Money. Bottom line. I own things. I’ll never have my face in the paper though.”
“Not in a bad way. I understand.”
“You don’t get it. You don’t get elected unless it’s for me. You see? I’m in the CIA, too. You
have to keep that a secret though, okay?”
“And if I don’t?” Robert asked. He started to smell a fish.
“I down you. Simple as that. I eat you up. I send my daughter here with investigative
reporters...”
Robert looked around. The place was spic and span.
“...and I send government agents. They find mice. They spread rumors that you...”
“Wait. I see. Coercion. That’s what you’re talking about.”
Lloyd changed his tone. He got serious and said, “Let’s not be fools, Ralphy.”
“It’s Robert, you jackass.”
Lloyd changed his tone again. He put up defenses. “I say I’m in the CIA. The government
knows me as a media baron now. Before that, they knew me as an investor. You start yelling that I’m in
the CIA...” Lloyd let Robert figure out the rest.
“I like you, Lloyd,” Robert said. It was earnest that he spoke with. “Why are you doing this to
America?”
“I don’t want to. I have constituents, you see?” Robert began to ask about the constituents and
had in mind to ask if the constituents were more important to the common American. He didn’t say a
thing. Robert blurted, “My daughter almost married a nigger! For Christ’s sake! Don’t you see?? We
have to protect against this stuff. We need to control them. I’m the man to do it.”
“I don’t care if my daughter married an n-word, you faggot. Get out of here.”
Robert Wisdom drank the rest of his shake as Lloyd made his way out of the door. “You’ll regret
it,” Lloyd said to Robert just before leaving. He had turned his head to say it and conked his head on the
way out when he failed to see that the hydraulic-powered door was closing on him.
“I’m crazy,” Robert said to himself as he sat alone. He was thinking that this man that had come
to talk to him was treating him like he was crazy. “You’re the crazy spoof!” Robert yelled at the door.
“They’re being sold out, the Democrats are,” he said... and he began to think.
Robert changed his political affiliation the next day. He registered as Libertarian and never
looked back. His picture was on the front page of the San Quixote Telegram living section the next day.
Robert laughed when he saw it. The title of the article was called “The Genius of the Century.” He’s
obviously trying to coax me still. I see.
Robert wasn’t coaxed. Even when his Democratic constituents tried to persuade him to come
back into the fold, he wouldn’t do it. He was on a mission. And he was independent now. Nothing felt
better in his life.
In 2008, this independent feel rubbed off on voters. He won in a landslide: The office of
President of the United States of America! He was happy with himself.

* * *
The month after Lloyd Cross approached Robert Wisdom in one of his eateries, Freight Train
released their first single. It was called “Chain Reaction”. It was a cover of a Journey tune. Freight Train
liked Journey and hoped they would be like them, with a little more of an edge. They figured they were
paying their tributes. The rock ‘n’ roll gods, if they existed, would look down on Freight Train and bless
them with riches, if not sex, love, happiness, and everything else that was expected. They were wrong
though. There were no rock ‘n’ roll gods looking after them. Not even Alfred on Zoton, or his buddy
Lucifer, could or would help them. Not even Bill Swift on Xeon, and his buddy Kurt Cobain, could or
would help. In the end it was Robert Wisdom.
Robert Wisdom had security cameras in all of his establishments. He had microphones too.
These were to protect him against potential robbers. He never knew it’d be an asset in bribing former CIA
members to come forward about conspiracies against the left and “little people” in general. He had this
asset though. He used it.
H. Ross Perot had run for president in 1992 and in 1996. He lost both times pretty handily.
What he was able to do was to set an agenda. He was able to thrust into the minds of every voter that we,
as a country, needed campaign finance reform of some kind or another. In 2000, Ross decided not to run,
but his party kept on. It was called the Reform party. It was led, at the time, by Pat Buchanan and by
another man that later defected back to his Natural Law party roots. Pat lost the election in 2000--it was
Ralph Connors’ year--but he vowed to return America to its heart and its roots. Pat learned, as did Ross,
that the real player in government is the media. For all practical purposes, it was the fourth branch of
government, though not written into the Constitution. If Congress wanted something done and they
didn’t have the support of the media, in general, they would be blocked. Public pressure and everything
else would stop them. Freaks would be tagged, and no one wanted to be labeled as a freak.
Robert Wisdom was a millionaire. He didn’t own two million dollars. He was a millionaire by
the classical term: he had roughly one million dollars at his disposal. It wasn’t enough.
In 2006 on Groundhog Day--Freight Train intentionally released their record on this day in lieu
of one of their favorite movies of all time--Robert Wisdom got a hold of Ross Perot. “I’ll be happy to help
you,” Ross told him. Robert had explained that he, in a rush, registered as a Libertarian. “Anything to
shake the system,” Ross came back with.
Ross Perot was still a millionaire. He still had aspirations to make a mark on the world. He
knew it wouldn’t come through politics... not in the traditional way, at the very least. He’d need help from
the fourth branch of government, though unofficial: Media.
Robert Wisdom’s plan was to make a movie. It’d be a b-rated movie, by industry standards.
They wouldn’t hire Steven Spielberg, or any of the rest. The story would carry them.
 Jeff Splifer was halfway through his book at this time. He had heard of Robert Wisdom in the
articles that the San Quixote Telegram was writing about him. They praised him... in the beginning.
Once word got out that he left one of the two PRI institutions of America--the Democratic party, in this
instance, and it wasn’t phrased that way in the paper--they started to slam him. They wouldn’t attack him
with health inspectors. Robert Wisdom was a smart man and made sure the right people in the
government, most notably the CIA, knew that he had a copy of a tape in which Lloyd Cross, formerly of
the CIA now, tried to bribe him and coerce him into action against his will.
Jeff hooked up with Robert Wisdom before Robert contacted Ross Perot. He told Robert that he
could have a complete movie manuscript done by May. If he were lucky and working hard, it could be as
early as mid-April. Jeff was on the ball. It turned out that early April, Robert had a manuscript in his
hands.
On Groundhog day, Ross talked Robert. Freight Train’s CD was being released that day. It was
called A Shot In the Wind. As things would turn out, Freight Train would lay most of the tracks for a late-
summer release. Jeff Splifer wrote the book for it. The movie starred Susan Serandon and Tom Cruise. It
wasn’t a b-movie after all. Ross was able to pay them the nominal fees that they requested. He would
make his money back and then some. Tom and Susan agreed to the movie on principal. It was about flag-
burning. It was about changing the world. It was set in the future. As things turned out that summer, it
may just as well have been set in the present.
On Groundhog Day, Robert said to Ross Perot, “I have people lined up. I want a part in the
movie.” Ross nodded yes. “I want to be president. I can change people.”
Robert Wisdom looked so presidential that he rode it to the office. When “Greg Lauler the
Visionary” came out in July, it took America by storm. Doctors were getting arrested at universities for
teaching their youth to burn Neekay flags. Teachers were getting arrested at elementary schools--Nancy
Kidman was one of them--for demarking the Neekay flag. She would spend a week in jail and come back
to her summer class to find that she no longer had a job. Ross knew what was going on. He financed
anything Robert Wisdom wanted to do. He, in turn, financed Tom Cruise, Susan Serandon, and the host
of other people that thought that what was going on in the world was wrong. He was right. America
would side with him. He was right. Robert Wisdom won his election. He was never more wrong about
Robert Wisdom in another regard.
On Groundhog Day of 2006, Robert said to Ross, before they parted from one another, “I need to
tell you something.”
“You need money right now, right?”
“No. I have money.” He quickly added, “It’s not a lot. It’ll get the ball rolling.”
“What is it? I’m intrigued.”
“I need to pass a pro-hemp amendment as soon as I strike the anti-flag burning one down.”
“WHY?” Ross wanted to know.
“We need to return...”
“...Say no more” Ross said. “I don’t need to know a thing.
Ross didn’t think that Robert would go through with his crazy idea of trying to legalize hemp.
Robert knew that the founding fathers had been hemp farmers. He wanted it to be like 1776 in the world
all over again. He wanted that bad.
Ross wanted a third party to win an election. That would be his legacy.
 * four *

In March of 2006, plans were still being made for the upcoming summer. “Chain Reaction”
wasn’t taking off well. Neither was the album that it was on. It didn’t matter to Freight Train. They were
getting local air play. They were getting local air play and they were developing a local following that
was exceeding their expectations. Randal Meyer had been reaching for something a little higher ever
since he had the sleep in with Francine Cross on the day that Alfred Newman died a couple of years ago.
He had a strong intuition. He believed that before the band hit it big--they were all sure that they were
going to make it and it was a matter of time--they ought to devote some time to God... or whatever it was.
Randal was still agnostic. He wanted to believe.
Jerry Shuster invited Freight Train to attend a service through Ned Swift. Ned was a regular
adherent to his congregation. He brought Anna when he could, but he was happy going by himself most
the time. Ned invited other people from the community on the night that Freight Train would come. He
invited Zotar and he invited Zotar’s new friend, Ben Murphy. He invited to wife of Dave Barley,
Stephanie, and he invited Eddie’s new girlfriend, Christy Priddy. All of them came and more. Daisy and
Doug Michaels made it. Nancy Kidman came with Tim Clarke, Alfred’s former step-dad and Nicole
Newman’s ex-husband.
The service began with a few kind words from Jerry, “We have to bow our heads, at this moment”
He looked around to see that most the people bowed their heads. Tim Clarke looked straight up at him
and mouthed a couple of words that Jerry couldn’t understand. “Our friend, Jimmy Contrell, has departed
us, O Lord. He steps into Heaven tonight. We knew him months ago. We have received word from his
relatives that he is no longer with us. HE DIED ON THE WAVES, ASSHOLES!” Jerry yelled. The crowd
busted up. They came to know Jerry in that way. Tim was in shock. It was the first time he was at one of
his services. Nancy Kidman (a year later, she would become Nancy Clarke) gasped when she heard that
Jimmy Contrell had passed away. She was sitting next to time. Jerry invited her up to speak.
“You have to say,” she began. “We don’t need this horseshit,” Nancy said. She was talking
about their preacher. It was her first time in Christ’s Brothers and Sisters as well.
A man from the back--he was actually a late teen--yelled, “Sit down, you fat whore!”
“That’s the way I like it,” Jerry politely said to Nancy, not loud enough for anyone to hear. He
wasn’t mocking her. He liked free speech. It was as simple as that.
Nancy gave the microphone to the teen who yelled at her. “‘We don’t need this,’ she said.” The
teen was calm. “‘We don’t need this,’” the teen repeated. “What do we need, you fuckin’ cunt!?” the boy
yelled to her.
She had contemplated tears. Now, she was simply awestruck. “Is this what you mean by God,
Eddie?” Nancy asked Eddie Macral, in the third seat. Eddie went up to speak.
“My God, folks. Take that as a pun, you atheist losers. We need to band. We don’t need to run
and fight. We need to band!” Eddie made a motion with hands of his fingers interlocking. “We need
this.” He gestured to his fingers in front of him. “We need THIS!” He flipped off Tim Clarke, at this
time. Tim had nothing to say but he was becoming infuriated.
 “Let’s go,” he said to Nancy. He took her out of the back entrance to the church. “We need to
slow down!” he yelled at her. He was no longer the friendly “Homer Lard Ass” that he claimed to be with
people. He was an angry man. Nancy was crying beyond belief. Eddie came outside and tried to comfort
the two of them. “Let’s hear what he has to say,” Tim said to Nancy.
“I don’t have a thing to say. You’re welcome inside though. They like you. Passion is what they
want around here.”
“Just like in the garden. I know,” Tim said. He was talking about the Garden of Gethsemane but
the people that were spying from the doorway--there was about eight of them--thought he was talking
about the Garden of Eden. “In Gethsemane, people,” he began.
“You’re welcome in our church,” Jerry Shuster interrupted. He had never been so solemn in
front of a group ever.
Tim wanted to cry. He didn’t. Freight Train performed for the crowd that night. They didn’t do
well. They didn’t have a good sound check and they had feedback all over the place. It got rave reviews
from Nancy Kidman, though she would later say to Tim Clarke, her future husband, that it sucked. She
lied. It was okay with her. It really was like that passion in the Garden to her, and it didn’t matter what
garden. It was strange. Freight Train was on their way.
Jerry Shuster’s congregation steadily declined after that. He wasn’t as strongly convicted that
freedom is what people needed. He started preaching gospels that were more typical of the surrounding
churches. In the end, he was drowned out. Freight Train wouldn’t forget him though. Neither would
Ned Swift. Neither would Nancy Kidman.
Tim Clarke went home that night, popped open a can of beer, drank strongly from it, and didn’t
think twice of evening he experienced as he watched late night television.

* * *
May was hot in Hermosa, California in the year 2006. Lawrence Smythers was glad that he was
at the beach. He was glad that things were mostly over. He planned to stay until July. He hadn’t checked
with Bob Gomer in a while. He was enjoying things too much. It felt nice to be looked out for. He knew
that if he wanted to end it on any given day, he’d call up Bob, they’d debrief, then a plan would be set in
motion that would allow him to see his family again.
Neekay started selling miniature flags for twenty-five cents a piece. They were made of fabric.
They were made of cheap plastic. They were no more than three inches high, including the cheap little
pole. The Neekay emblem--a swisher that looked like a spiral--was put in the blue area where stars would
go. Neekay didn’t want to be too anal about things. The flags were small enough as it was. They didn’t
need fifty little swishers all over it. One would do. It was remind people--the older people--of the
original flags that flew way-back-when--the ones with the seventy-six surrounded by thirteen stars in a
circle. It was going to create nostalgia.
Lawrence Smythers had a good following leading into the summer of 2006. He passed on the
news of the passing of Jimmy Contrell to everyone that was new. He made up stories too. After all, as
Butch Jackson, he hadn’t been homeless for a single day in his life... unless you counted field
assignments. He made up stories of working at local engineering plants and being laid off. He made up
stories that Jimmy Contrell was a CIA agent and that’s why he knew so many peculiar stories about the
government.
At the beginning, Lawrence tried to steer his tribe away from burning the flags. He’d talk often
about it. He could see it in his head. He could see his wife. She’d be so proud that he converted a bunch
of homeless bums onto the ideas of Americanism. She’d be proud. He wouldn’t tell her right away that
he was homeless. He’d feel it out and when the time was right...
Lawrence looked around one evening and saw his buddy, Andy Parteak burning one of the small
Neekay flags. “I don’t know what you’re doing!... Andy!” he told him. There was no one else around this
time except for Andy’s close buddy, Anthony Rupp.
Anthony put his arm around Andy and Andy shoed it away. “I don’t need you,” he told Anthony.
Anthony wasn’t queer and neither was Andy. They both needed each other though. There were few
women on the beach--not that they could touch--and sometimes humans just needed that slight, little
touch. Andy continued to burn the flag ‘til it was a nub. “I don’t NEED this EITHER!” he yelled. No
one responded and Andy started laughing the best he knew how to laugh. It was fake laughter, but fake
laughter was better than no laughter, in his book.
Lawrence stood speechless. Andy planned to go to the boardwalk, buy a bigger Neekay flag, and
burn it in public where everyone could see it. It’d take him an hour or two of bumming or searching for
fallen coins. It’d be enough for him. He wanted to go to prison. He was scared, but he was sick of living
on the beach. The people there were horrible, and he hated to say it. He wanted out. Hot three meals
every day, he thought to himself. In front of Lawrence, he just wanted to look tough. He wanted to be
rebellious. He was tempting fate. He had no idea what prison would be like, but where he was at, could
things be any worse? He wondered this then took off toward the boardwalk without saying a word.
He got to the boardwalk and felt out of place. He collected two dollars immediately from an old,
haggardly lady wearing a blue bonnet and peculiar spectacles. She looked like someone. It was the hen
from the cartoons he watched when he was younger. For three seconds, Andy had genuine laughter and
he thanked her. “I have money to spend. Can you get me something?” he asked the lady.
“My name is Francine,” the lady said. “What do you want?” The lady appeared a little desperate
to Andy, but he didn’t really care.
Andy pointed to a small shop across the walk. “That flag.” It was a large Neekay flag of three
feet by five. “That one. That would do.”
“You don’t wear sneakers. Why do you...” she began. Andy didn’t want anything to do with her.
He was wearing flip flops.
“I’ll get the shit myself,” he said. He dropped the lady’s money on the floor, made his way across
the walk, and casually yanked down the flag.
“Sold!” the keeper said.
“Sold, what?” Andy yelled.
“It’s yours. Keep it.” The store keeper wanted to say something else but was distracted by
Lawrence. He had come to save Andy and he was going to use his “powers” if it really came down to it.
He knew codes. He knew legal lingo. He would tell cops that he was a fifty-one/ fifty, and if that didn’t
work, he’d go into detail about codes that would practically give away his identity. He didn’t want to do
that. “The man has the flag,” the store keeper told Lawrence. “It’s his to keep. Do you have a problem,
sir?”
“Yes, I do,” he said. He wasn’t talking to the keeper though. He was talking to Andy.
“Thank you!” Andy yelled to the keeper as Lawrence pulled him toward their encampment.
“I don’t know what to say. You’re going to get fired!” the bitch in the bonnet said to Andy in a
rude and interrupting fashion.
“Fire me, whore!” Andy said to the hag in the bonnet. He knew what was going. He was in the
CIA now. He had been abducted.
Lawrence sent Andy away that night, fifty-one/ fifty. He called Bob Gomer and told him the
situation. He was a powder keg about to explode. More than that, it was that Lawrence was a powder
keg. He didn’t relay that message to Bob, though. “He’s a powder keg, Bob!” That’s what the actual
conversation was like.
Bob sent special units to get Andy. He’d live in peace for three days. Mental health heaven. He
knew too much.
Bob cooked up a special identity for Andy--Andy was told that his fingerprints matched someone
else’s--and Andy was sent to the Pacific Northwest. He had a bank account with five thousand dollars.
The CIA didn’t work this way but the PIA did. If he used it, he used it. If he acted up and told people that
a CIA informant (this was the way that Andy saw Lawrence) was working on the Hermosa Beach as a
body double for the former Secretary of State, he’d be shot. It was as simple as that.
Andy burned his last flag on Hermosa Beach. He used the five thousand dollars to clean up, get a
place to live, buy a small vehicle for transportation, and he worked for Neekay for the rest of his life.
* * *
At the time that Andy Parteak was settling into the Pacific Northwest--he went to Evergreen
College in Washington for a while to try to enroll but was rejected and was sent south by his spirit to
conquer a beast in Duckton, Oregon--former Secretary of State, Butch Jackson, was sent to Vancouver,
B.C. by Bob Gomer and his staff to debrief, get caught up on issues pertinent to him, and prepare for a life
or real retirement.
At this time, Jeff Splifer’s book was hitting the shelves and on its way to becoming the number
nine selling book in the country. Jeff had intended to write a more serious book. When he spoke to
Robert Wisdom and he knew that his book would be made into a movie, he changed a lot of things. The
spirit of things were still strong... but he made the president of the United States into an axe murderer that
worked with an accomplice. He knew that Hollywood would have it no other way. Boring things fade.
The ONLY crime in Hollywood was to be boring... and Jeff knew it. He knew that it didn’t matter what
they said of you in the press. It mattered that they said anything at all. “There’s no such thing as bad
publicity,” he told Robert Wisdom and Ross Perot during a meeting. “If they don’t talk of me, it’s a bad
thing. You can trust me on that.”
People that read were a little more sophisticated. They knew that they didn’t need a president
with such sinister motives. Jeff Splifer’s president became one that went from getting things done
through legislation... to one that chopped up his buddies, if they stood in his way. He had an accomplice.
Jeff’s book hit the market in June of 2006. At that time, production was in a mad heat at the
studios. Hilary Duff signed on as the president’s daughter. Her name was Missy Sylvania, daughter to the
most powerful man in the universe, Robert Sylvania. He didn’t try to hide that he was promoting Robert
Wisdom as his presidential model. It would be cathartic. Eddie Macral of Freight Train had a song as a
solo artist that talked about the need for tragic drama on audiences in a song. It was from the Aristotle
model. Three parts tragedy, one part comedy. That was the model he worked with.
The book didn’t differ much from the final product, except for giving additional insights as to
emotions, and so forth, of the leading characters. If you read the book, you’d know what was taking place
between the scenes. It was an action movie though. It wouldn’t rely on such an elaborate backdrop and
character development throughout the story. It was great... and it felt great to write.
Jeff included caricatures of people that he wanted to take a dive, in the book. There was a model
of Daniel Quartz, Robert’s future running mate. He was killed in the first scene, except that he was
congressman and not the vice-president. Ross Perot assured Jeff Splifer that his producer and subsequent
casting agent would get a great look-alike. In the story, Donald Quilter, the character that resembled
Daniel Quartz, was masturbating the pornography that he was trying to outlaw. Tom Cruise played a
character that was Robert Sylvania’s right-hand man. He was in the government as a spy. When
president Sylvania would take a trip, an alibi would be established. Tom Cruise played Rocco Munchetti,
former boss of the mob in Brooklyn. He was given amnesty for crimes he didn’t commit but was being
tried for. His exchange--the reason he agreed to the amnesty--was that he got to kill that people that kept
him down for so many years.
The book, and the movie that was being produced, was called Buzz Saw. Rocco Munchetti got to
kill who he wanted. President Robert Sylvania got to smile with glee.
It was a caricature movie and there was no doubt about it. The violence and the theme were so
ridiculous that no one could take it seriously. People got it though. They understood. They saw in their
leaders exaggerated versions of who they really were. They understood the rage of Rocco. They
empathized with Robert Sylvania and his wife Betsy whom was played by Susan Serandon. The teens that
snuck into the R-rated movie understood the dialogue between Hilary Duff and Susan Serandon. They
understood the teen angst. At the same time, they saw a queen in Hilary and wanted to be her. He was
kept in the dark about the responsibilities of the murders. In the end of the story, she found out and killed
her father. It was a great tale. Everyone laughed at the end when the movie finally came out. Hilary was
wiping the knife that she just plunged into her father’s chest with her fingers. “You next?” she asked
Rocco when he came into the room.
“I don’t want any piece of you,” Rocco said to her.
Hilary started to cry and they were genuine tears. That’s what sold the movie. It was genuine. It
was method acting in its highest form.
The movie wasn’t supposed to end with Hilary crying. It was supposed to end with her stabbing
Rocco, and credits rolling up. It was the only major change in the movie from the book.
 Hilary cried, Rocco--played by Tom Cruise, of course--went to comfort her. “I know a way out,”
he said. He was near tears himself but he was improving the scene.
Hilary regained herself and stabbed Rocco lightly in the hand. Tom Cruise had to have five
stitches because of it. “OUW!” Rocco yelled.
“You should have died earlier,” Missy Sylvania said (she regained her character). “You should
have died!” She threw the knife at him, and though it missed by a couple of feet, editing skills made it so
it plunged in his chest. “I beat YOU!” she said. She looked into the camera and winked. Editing
allowed it and everyone was furious that the movie ended. There were still unresolved plot lines about her
mother played by Susan. There were unresolved issues about that... and people just didn’t want to watch
it end.
Robert Wisdom played the president in that movie and though he was killed off, people loved him
at times. He killed corporate raiders. He killed homeless people. He killed old ladies and young babies.
He killed dogs and made it look cool. He killed a lot of people. In the end, people got it. The president
was getting shit out of his system. It was as simple as that.
People didn’t see Ralph Connors in Robert Sylvania when they read the book or when they
watched the movie. Ralph Connors had led two successful military conflicts in his time as president... but
they didn’t think he’d have the gall to do things himself.
It was strange. It was really, really strange.
In June, before the picture was released and while Andy Parteak was settling into his new home,
Robert Wisdom said to his wife of twenty years, “I get to kiss Susan Serandon, you know?”
“I know,” Eileen Wisdom said. “You get to kiss a lot of people now.”
“It’s not going to stop, you know?”
“I know,” she said, but she was disappointed. “Do you want another Monica Lewinski trial for
this country?!”
“No. No, no, no. But this country wants a human running it, for God’s sake. I am human!
They’ll relate to me.”
“Thank you,” Eileen said. She was serious. She had gotten up from bed, but she was glad that
her husband was on his way. She’d be on her way too. The movie and the office of the presidency would
pay for a lot of shoes. It would take her a lot of places. In the end, it didn’t matter. She wanted her
husband. He was honest with her when he could be. She thought he was a gentle man. She didn’t
understand a thing about human nature though. She thought he could turn off his hormones at will.
Robert Wisdom became a descent president. It turned out that he was better at turning off and on
his hormones than he’d ever imagine. Pussy was around him all the time and he told his wife about it. I
think about you, though, he’d tell her. She was satisfied.

* * *
“Chain Reaction” peaked at one hundred and forty-three on the charts. It was from Freight
Train’s debut release. The bend didn’t care. In July of 2006, a re-release was given of Freight Train’s
debut, self-titled album. It wasn’t a re-release in the classical sense. The reviews on the original release
were bad. Some people called it “electronic noise”. It was something that the Beatles’ early music was
called and Dave Barley was glad for the association. It was called a “shit sandwich” by another reviewer.
Randal Meyer caught that one. He said that Spinal Tap, a band that originated as fiction, was given that
review for their release of Shark Sandwich. Reviewers weren’t too original but they were plenty. Led
Zeppelin had gotten their name from a review of an early show that they had done. “This band is going to
sink like a lead zeppelin,” someone had said, hence, the band changed their name and became the greatest
heavy metal act--arguably next to Aerosmith, Kiss, and Black Sabbath--of the nineteen seventies. Either
way, a reviewer had said that listening to Freight Train was like holding a bag of wet mice. No one
remembered where that one came from, but they thought to re-title their album Wet Mice as a tribute. In
the end, it wasn’t good enough. Freight Train was going to live--this is what the whole band agreed to--
and they wouldn’t be swayed.
What eventually happened was that class acts of the rock ‘n’ roll field eventually piled up and
wanted to be on the soundtrack that was being released when the movie came out. The book was already
hot. Dionne Corona--her father and grandfather were members of Mexico’s Corona Extra beer--took her
Moonchild Experience and wrote a song for the band: Planet 39. No one got it. She knew that there had
been alien sightings--a lot of them--in Freight Train’s home town. She wrote a song for them. Though no
on in Buzz Saw saw a planet besides Earth, it made sense to put in the movie. It happened at a strip club
when Rocco Munchetti was hunting down the congressman, Donald Quilter. He wore black glasses and
drank peach schnapps. He downed his drink when Dionne sang about drinking magic berry wine, in her
song. It went good with the movie. It probably went too good. Rocco Munchetti thought he was magic,
after that scene.
Freight Train teamed the Dionne Corona and Moonchild. They teamed with the Romantics--a
heavily covered eighties band--and they teamed with obscured artists from here and there. Eddie Macral’s
nieces sang on the soundtrack, as did Twink, a popular musician in England, for a period, but whom never
caught a complete a ride in the United States as he dwindled in obscurity. The only person that seemed to
know of him was Henry Rollins. He covered one of Twink’s songs. Rod Stewart and other people knew
of him as well. After the release of Buzz Saw, the whole nation would know who he was. They’d know
Freight Train, too.
Freight Train’s original album did catch. They were the predominant contributing band on the
soundtrack. It would be enough. Once they were heard of, no one figured they should buy the original
album. After all, all their music was on the Buzz Saw Soundstage, the name that the soundtrack took on.
As Jeff Splifer’s book took hold of the top ten in August of 2006, movie posters and trailers could
be scene for the upcoming accompanying movie. It was at this time that Freight Train decided to release
their second single, “Greg Lauler the Visionary”. Once again, it didn’t catch with good reviews. People
were on the side of Neekay and the song seemed to take shots at Neekay. Randal Meyer knew what to do.
He promoted the band as being in team with Neekay. “If you can’t beat them, join them,” he said. The
band took pictures with Neekay sweatshirts on. Their instruments were in the background. Instead of
holding them, they held weapons. Eddie Macral held a machete and his face was painted black and white,
as if Halloween was around the corner. Randal Meyer stood him and simulated a cutting motion with an
electrical chain saw to Eddie’s neck. Waldo Fleshman held batteries with wires attached. He pretended to
be about to touch them to water. It was the comic element of the shoot. Finally, Dave Barley held his
wife. He was choking her. Red paint dripped from his eyes as if he was crying blood.
They wore Neekay shirts in the shoot and it couldn’t be emphasized enough. Time Magazine had
run articles of Greg Lauler in the nineteen eighties when he sank his ship with fifty other adherents. They
ran a picture of him on the front cover with a gleeful smile and an Neekay sweatshirt. They ran a front
cover similar picture of the band, Freight Train. There was blood--what appeared to be blood--beneath
the photo and a caption that read, “Is America Ready for Another Bout With Blood?!” It was a great
article. They were portrayed as corporate-friendly, though no sentence singled them out as so. They were
safe. They were the new Jason, Freddy, or Michael Meyers. They were safe. That’s the way they were
portrayed.
Eddie yelled the first time he saw the photo. They didn’t take the one in which he believed
Randal was behind him, ready to cut his neck off. They took a photo--the one that was eventually
chosen--of Randal with his arm around Eddie. His hand was dangling to the side with the chain saw.
“NOT SCARY ENOUGH!! THIS IS NOT GOING TO WORK!”
“It’ll work plenty,” Randal said. He smoked a cigarette then the band got drunk together.
Stephanie Venezia-Barley stayed sober. She was afraid she’d start hitting on Randal or Eddie if
she got drunk enough.

* * *
Bill Swift talked to Alfred Newman on Xeon. Alfred managed to get off of Zoton. He tried to
convince Lucifer, or whomever it was that he thought he was talking to the whole time while there, to
come along. Lucifer couldn’t... or he didn’t want to. He was a loner when Alfred found him and Alfred
reckoned he’d be a loner long afterward.
“We have work to do, you know?” Bill asked Alfred on Xeon.
“No, we don’t. You have work...” Alfred began to say. Bill wouldn’t have any of it.
“You need to pay attention to me, Alf. You really do.”
“You called me Alf. Is that supposed to mean that I’m an alien now?” Alfred joked.
Bill didn’t want to continue. He summoned the image of Chelsea Clinton on Earth. “She’s a
beauty, huh?”
“Yep. You bet your ass! She almost married Waldo, you know?”
“I know,” Bill reluctantly said. In the papers on Earth, it reported that she was hot and heavy
with a Brit from the school she had attended in Oxford. “She’s a beaut,” Bill agreed.
Alfred started playing marbles in front of Bill. It was his release. It was his way of getting back
to his inner self. It was his cushion.
“I don’t like those marbles,” Bill said.
Alfred shoved them at Bill. “Here! You have them.”
Bill took them. Later he played marbles with Alfred. It wasn’t fun at first. Bill would get the
hang of it. When they were done, they thought about world peace on Earth. They both thought of world
peace and the things it would take to achieve it.
*Part Three *

* final *

“On September eleventh, two thousand two... No. It was two thousand one--that’s it--there was
a bombing. Two planes crashed into the World Trade Center,” Ralph Connors spoke to a crowd of fifteen
hundred in Nebraska during a campaign stop. It was March of 2008 and primary season was coming into
full swing. He had no one running against him and it was supposed to be a cakewalk. He was there to
promote his choice of successor.
Ralph paused to look around. Barely audible, someone said, “Tell us something we don’t know!”
He was disgusted. He was in pain. He never fully recovered from the monologues that took place in the
year after Buzz Saw hit the screens... and Freight Train hit the air waves in conjunction with another
progressively laden band by the name of Destruction.
“I’m going to tell you something that you don’t know.”
“Go ahead!” someone yelled. It was a bearded man of about forty.
“I... didn’t... do it!”
“Fuck you all,” the bearded man said. He was in the minority now. The crowd hushed. They
didn’t suspect anything foul with Ralph Connors. The media started to have a field day with him. He
couldn’t shake the scenes of seeing his vice-president die on screen. Well, it wasn’t his vice-president, he
reckoned, but her sure looked like him.
“I didn’t do it, you motherfuckers!”
“That’s the way to go, George!” someone yelled.
“It’s Ralph. Treat me with respect and I’ll do the same to you.” Ralph Connors got a hold of
himself. He started believing in himself again. “I’ll tell you what,” he said.
“What?” Tim Clarke said from beside him. Francine did her work at home. Tim Clarke was a
staunch Republican. He wasn’t going to be shaken. Ralph needed people around him he could trust.
There was silence in the crowd while they waited for Ralph to spill what he was going to say.
Ralph appeared nervous. In a few short months, it would all be over. He’d be out of office. He was
campaigning for his vice-president right now.
“I started the Chicago fire. There!” he said. He got some laughter. He hoped it would be more.
There was tension in the air. “I have this to say too. I have herpes.”
“Get out of town,” somebody said.
“No. I do,” he assured them. They started to calm. Ralph was outside of himself. He didn’t
care. He was taking a chance. The papers wouldn’t print that he had herpes. He’d deny it the next day
and say it was a joke. He was in Republican country. “I have herpes. If you don’t respect me...”
Someone threw a beer--it was the bearded man--and it nearly hit Ralph in the face. Security
started to swoon around the bearded man. They took him in. He did five years in jail. Ralph wouldn’t
see him again.
 “Like I said,” he told the people. They were starting to leave.
“We support you,” a lady in a flowery dress said. “We’re strong, Ralphy.”
“Don’t call me that!” Ralph said outside of the distance of his microphone. “Here’s George H.
W. Bush!” Ralph Connors finally said. He passed the microphone to a man wearing a tie--a red one
stripped with white--and a blue suit.
George Herbert Walker Bush didn’t have a thing to say. Daniel Quartz, off to the side, was
getting ready to speak and was feeling quite comfortable. It was because Ralph Connors was going down.
He wouldn’t have to live in a shadow. Win or lose the election, he wouldn’t be known as “Ralphy’s Boy”
any longer.

* * *
In June of 2008, Richard Gelding had his party’s nomination wrapped up. Everything left was a
formality. He had been approached by Francine Cross. She was doing a story on Richard and his
campaign in California. Richard told her things, off the record, that she later relayed to her father. Lloyd
Cross had been relieved of his normal CIA duties but the blood still ran thick with them and him. He was
approached by Bucky Holdwater about “advisory” commitments. Lloyd agreed that he’d keep his ears
peeled. His daughter would do work, and if she was successful, there would be no sour taste left in his
mouth about his departure.
Richard Gelding had no idea who he was talking to when Francine interviewed him. He thought
he was talking to a scrubby, old lady that was just trying to hold onto her job in journalism. He had no
idea that her father set the job up for her. He had no idea that she still spoke with CIA operatives, and
that wasn’t counting her father. He had no idea that the paper was a front. Suspicions wouldn’t even be
raised by Richard or by anyone on his staff when the San Quixote Telegram published articles about him.
She left out the things he didn’t want the paper to print. He thought she was a good lady.
Francine found out that Richard Gelding was homosexual. Actually, he was bisexual since he
traveled around with his wife. She found it out by joking with him. She told him a joke about a man--she
called him “Ralphy” and Richard laughed even before the punch line was thrown because he understood
him to be the president, himself--and how Ralphy was caught in quicksand.
Go on, Richard had said.
He was caught in quicksand and kept sinking deeper and deeper and deeper. She had a gleam in
her eye when she told it. She gained his trust, she could feel it... and there’d be no turning back. He
sunk--you see?--and...
He got caught up in a wave of...? Richard tried to guess. He thought she was sending him a
secret message.
Just listen to the joke, she had said. She said that this queer, Ralphy, was sinking and kept
asking people for help as they passed. “Blow me,” one man had said. “Fuck you, faggot! I ain’t no
queer!” Ralphy had said. Another man came, Francine explained, and the same result happened. “Blow
me,” the other guy said. “Fuck you, faggot!” Ralphy responded... ‘Til there was just one more and
Ralphy was nearly suffocated by the sand that was creeping in his nose.
 You don’t know a thing! Richard cried.
You’re gay. I know. Francine was on LSD. She was reading him. She wore rose-colored eye
glasses and Richard couldn’t tell that her pupils were unnaturally dilated. You’re gay... but I won’t tell
your wife.
Don’t print it, either! Richard had said.
She didn’t print it. She knew him though. She knew the buttons to press.
Richard celebrated in the June summer and he was going to give it a break for a while. He won
enough delegates to win his party’s nomination. It was a relief. He spoke to his wife that night about the
weird experience he had had in the weeks prior to wrapping up his nomination. “She had these glowing
eyes, you see?”
“Don’t you know a thing about tripping?” his wife wanted to know.
“It’s not that. She was stupid. She approached me like I was homo.”
“You’re not. I can’t tell,” she said. She was uncomfortable though because she knew he was
homo. She never caught him. She knew his tendencies... and he ran on an “open gay marriage” plank. It
wouldn’t stop there. His wife could feel strange things brewing. She had the party’s nomination wrapped
up, though. Behind every great man... was a beautiful woman. She believed that. She was going to
support her husband no matter what he did.

* * *
Bill Swift had wanted to be a journalist when he walked the Earth. His brother, Ned, wanted to
work out his relationship with Anna. He had dreams to buy her a house on the hill. In 2007, his workers’
compensation ran out and he was left looking for a job. He didn’t want to be a school teacher any longer.
He didn’t want to work in a warehouse again. He wanted to do something that would bring better pay and
be less of a hassle on his body and mind. He talked Anna into moving to Los Angeles on a whim. He was
going to apply at the LA Times. He was going to apply at KCBS FM. He was going to apply to anything
that would get him a job that would remotely cover what Bill had wanted to do when he was alive.
Ned got a job at a tabloid paper. Though it was national, it didn’t fulfill Ned on the inside. He
was happy, but he knew things could get better. His wife, Anna, started walking the streets at night--she
was very beautiful--and she made money as a call girl/ hooker. She was proud of herself. Ned thought
she worked as a waitress. She didn’t want to betray Ned--and he wasn’t the jealous type that would check
up on her--but she thought she was just getting from here to there. She saved her money in an account,
and she figured that one day, she would spring it on him: she had a rich uncle that gave her a part of his
fortune. It was a lie. It would do.
Ned worked for the National Global Star. It was a break that he was willing to work with. In
time, he’d be a serious journalist--these were his aspirations--but the National Global Star would give him
a break and they would start him off.
Ned and Anna lived in a poor section of Los Angeles--it was rebuilding, actually--and they still
talked to Bill and Alfred Newman on occasion in their minds. Ned wouldn’t ever write directly about
what he experienced with Bill--that would be too personal--but he did write roundabout messages that
they would send. Bill said that the Earth was going to have a cataclysmic end in the year 2024. Ned
didn’t write about that. He said that the Earth would end in 2074. It suited his viewers--he called them
this--and it suited his conscious. He wrote about Zaktak on occasion. A little fiction mixed with fact can’t
be that bad, can it? he asked Anna one night. She didn’t know what to say. She let him figure it out for
himself.
He wrote about everything. He wrote about a spiritual relationship between former First Lady,
Hilary Clinton, and former First Lady, Eleanor Roosevelt. It was old news to some, but Ned claimed it
still had validity in the world. He wrote about a lot of things. In the end, he wrote too much.
Bill Swift let Ned know that Francine was reeking havoc on his former town of Miller. He said
that she was using her journalism to front for the CIA. Of course, Bill and Ned were CIA informants by
default. Through their uncle, Francine’s father Lloyd, they were blood-related to the CIA. This didn’t
stop either of them from rebelling against it. They didn’t want to be experiments. They didn’t want to be
guinea pigs. They didn’t want to be looked after.
Ned wrote a story in July of 2008 that aliens had taken over a printing press in San Quixote. It
was a lie but Ned’s editor loved the story. He said that mutants were ready to take over the human race.
He said that any news coming out of San Quixote couldn’t be trusted. He knew it couldn’t be trusted and
he let the aliens do the talking.
Ned wrote a story about aliens. Few people remembered what really went on in the San Quixote
area, more specifically in Miller, and it was chalked up to myth. It got under people’s skins though. It got
the attention of Butch Jackson, now retired, and it got him riled up to the point that he called Jim
Blackstone and Bob Gomer to talk about it.
“There’s nothing there,” Bob Gomer assured Butch Jackson. “It’s art. He’s a master of it.”
“No. He’s not! He’s not! He’s a dropout loser...”
“...He graduated. We already checked him out. It was his brother that never went to college
because his death.”
Butch Jackson didn’t have anything else to add on the subject.
“Let’s be American,” Bob said. “I’m tired of chasing ghosts. Oh. That guy that you sent to the
Pacific Northwest? He’s doing fine. Things work out.”
“I know,” Butch Jackson said. He was wearing his decorated military uniform. It was something
he liked to do when he felt insecure. Butch hung up the phone on Bob Gomer. “Retirement, my ass!” he
said. No one was around to listen.
His wife came in the room with a plate of cookies. “You want one?” she asked him.
“No. They give me heartburn,” he said. He shoed them away but he was grateful.
She could tell he was grateful and then tried to comfort him. “They’re going to win, you know?”
she told him.
“It’s like a dam. I keep trying to...” He wanted to say that he kept trying to stop the leaks but he
knew it wasn’t true. He was a battler. He was a military man. He had no one to fight. “After a half
century of fighting the Soviets, we have them!” he said to her.
“No, it’s not true.” He blushed. He knew he was wrong or he knew she loved him in spite of
himself.
“I love her, you know?” Butch Jackson said into the air.
Bill knew. Bill Swift knew he loved her. He was listening from above. He’d tell Ned. Ned
wouldn’t take it lightly. He’d say that it’d cycle again in the future. Then what? he wanted to know from
his brother. Then what?

* * *
Amongst the many secrets of the CIA is a substance known as Supplement 342--“S342” for those
who know it well. It is based on viho, a tribal herb that is used by the Desana of the Amazon Rainforest.
It allows out-of-body experiences. In the movie The Emerald Forest, the Desana tribe is not directly
mentioned but inferences were made to this capability that one can see through the eyes of others, most
notably animals, if given the right medium by which to produce the results. The CIA admitted to having a
remote viewing program at a time but they dismissed it as ineffective. They never admitted to having
S342 as an aid. Most people within the CIA didn’t know about it. It was too sensitive of a subject.
Phil McOaland, now living permanently on the east coast, learned remote viewing techniques the
hard way: Practice, practice, practice. Viho is the steroid of the mind. It pumps you up in ways that
nothing else could. Few Americans know that seventy-five percent of all pharmaceutical drugs come from
the Rainforest. They don’t know that we send anthropologists in the guise of wanting to help in order to
extract information and substances. In most cases, it’s a physical cure that’s warranted. People can
accept that. If people were told that this seemingly fictitious drug of viho existed, it would be laughed off.
Besides that, it wouldn’t be allowed into the public in general.
Nancy McOaland when she was Nancy McOaland tried viho once. Francine Cross had it at her
home. Francine was desperate for new friends. She had been trying to sleep with Nancy’s then-husband,
Phil. Phil had encouraged Nancy to have an open mind. She did. She tried the viho and was set on a trip
around the world. She became a believer.
Francine Cross didn’t use the viho that often. She wasn’t wanted around town. She was rude.
She was abrasive. She was upfront. She was in-your-face. She was not wanted, period.
When she did do the viho--she had it in natural form and not in the S342 refined form--she went
around trying to make friends. She was like Casper the Friendly ghost... except that she wasn’t friendly.
She had approached Alfred Newman, when he was still alive, and he was writing lyrics about a hosebeast
in his life (a hosebeast is a relenting ex-girlfriend and he got the term from watching a classical movie,
Wayne’s World). The hosebeast, of course, was Francine. Viho not only allowed you to see outside of your
body. It also enabled you to nominally act in the world you chose to go into. While Alfred was writing
his lyrics, she would push his pen. He didn’t know what was going on. He believed in ghosts, since Bill
had passed, but he didn’t know what to make of it. He continued on... and his pen would be shaken again.
This got Alfred madder. He didn’t want anything to do with the hosebeast. There was a lyric in a song
that he loved that went, “Yeah, I let you shape me though I feel as though you raped me cuz you climbed
inside my world and in my songs.” It was by Guns ‘n’ Roses. It was from a song called “Locomotive”.
Alfred didn’t want to be shaped... but he had no way of getting Francine away from him.
 Francine stopped using the drug, for the most part. When she started covering Richard Gelding
on his run to the United States’ highest office, she felt she had to use it again.
Where are you going? she asked him. It was foreign to him. It was the middle of August and his
party had its nominating convention coming up in a week. Where are you going? she asked again.
Am I going mad? he wondered.
No. It’s me. From the paper. I can help you.
There was no response from Richard Gelding.
There was no way to concretely prove the things that she was seeing to her superiors. In the
CIA, there are instruments that allow for fairly accurate accounts of what people think and feel. The brain
emits waves. This much is known in public. There are ways that a paraplegic person can communicate
with the outside world with the aid of computers if he or she is unable to speak. The person looks at a
screen--a computer screen--and looks at certain letters for a given time. That letter registers at the bottom
of the screen. Simple words are there as well: The, it, he, she, they, are, is, and so on. It works because
electrodes are put strategically around the head. Each letter and word has a background that is pulsating
at a slightly different rate from everything else on the screen. The electrodes pick up the brainwaves, they
relay them to their processor, then words and sentences are formed. It’s as simple as that.
Modern psychiatrists in the United States--most of them--will tell you that brain chemistry is the
dominant force in what goes on in people’s minds. They are wrong. It’s physics, but they don‘t know it,
or even believe it, because they are eons behind much of the rest of the universe in their technological
equipment . Also, if they weren’t so stuck on their headstrong contemporary paradigm, they would see
that the same waves that escape the same aforementioned electrodes in the prior anecdote actually fly into
the air. The substances are smaller than photons, which are essentially light particles with matter, but
they are still much larger than schlaclak, a substance that only certain members of the PIA knew about but
were sworn not to share information with anyone outside of the agency. If one of the scientists working
for the CIA--but obviously sworn to secrecy, as well--was able to publish his findings about the smaller-
than-photon particles that he knew of, he would easily win the Nobel Prize for a modern physicist. If he
were to talk about schlaclak, being that he was leaked the information, he’d be laughed into oblivion.
Francine reflected on what she was taught from her father, many years back, and combined it
with what she learned from Alfred through Bill Swift. She thought to check in on Richard Gelding again
but thought against it. She wanted to know why she wasn’t liked. That was the bottom line. With all her
knowledge and experience, she should be liked by someone.
She wasn’t liked by a soul.
There are a million waves going through you, right now, Richard Gelding. You don’t know what
I’m thinking, but I do. I want to meet you. I want to marry you.
Richard heard her, thought he was crazy for a moment, then ignored her the best he could. He
was on the campaign and nothing was going to stop him. Crazy bitch, he finally allowed himself to think.
Brain waves take off from the head and spread in many directions. Some people have a keen
sense of observance upon picking these waves up from other people. The prophets, in ancient times, used
them well.
 A million waves are going through you, Richard Gelding. And I’m the only one...
...You get it? Richard screamed inside. He was summoning a friend that he talked to on occasion
whom was lost in Vietnam. You get this? Tell me.
His friend didn’t respond.
A million waves, Richard. There are car phones... There are television stations. There are radio
stations. The only one you’re in tune with is mine! Relent. Give it UP!
Richard didn’t relent. He made speech that night about a crazy lady he had met in a mental
institution. He thought about Francine the whole time. His point was that we, as a society, needed to give
them a chance. She was a decent person, in his story. In real life, he wasn’t sure if she was.
Relent, Richard, she said to him that night before he went to bed.
Crazy person, Richard thought. He got up, got some water, then went to bed without thinking of
it for the next few nights.

* * *
Richard Gelding had a successful Democratic National Convention. People thought he could
win. He was a man of the people. His strong suit was in the environment but he had constituents across
the political spectrum. The only people suffered his wrath were the ultra rich whom only wanted to get
richer. That was the problem he had with the world.
Richard Gelding was the victim of circumstance. He didn’t care that Robert Wisdom was on his
tail--he announced his candidacy in late March, earlier that year, at the same time that it appeared
Richard would be the man to beat in his own party. Richard even had the endorsement of Hilary Clinton
early on whom chose to stay a United States senator for the time being.
Robert Wisdom knew that he would take a good chunk of the liberal base that Richard Gelding
would rely on to win presidency. But Robert Wisdom was a fiscal conservative. He wasn’t for the
“voodoo economics” that the Republicans had used since the Reagan era. Reagan was popular for many
things. Maintaining a balanced budget wasn’t one of them
After the Democratic National Convention, Robert Wisdom ran a thirty percent in the polls. He
was that popular from the film he made two years prior. He was that popular for promoting Freight Train.
He was that popular for being on talk shows. He was that popular for workshops that he would do. He
was that popular for a lot of reasons.
The Democrats and the Republicans had a choice that year: They could debate Robert Wisdom in
a three-way debate--or a series of them--or they could ignore him and chalk it up to sleaze. They chose
the latter.
“We don’t need this smut in our house!” Ralph Connors said while campaigning for Daniel
Quartz. “We don’t need it!”
Francine worked for the CIA but was known as an investigative reporter. Her job, for that year,
was to make sure the Republicans won. They would win by electing Daniel Quartz... or they would win
by convincing Richard Gelding to come over to the darker side of politics and betray all the rhetoric that
he spewed out.
 The Republicans had a choice. There were those in government--not many of them--that knew
that the CIA was trying to court Richard Gelding. He could keep some of his issues. They didn’t care
much about the fag issue. “Throw ‘em a bone,” Ralph Connors told Richard in a meeting that was
supposed to be centered around the debate issue. “Throw ‘em a bone. Let them have their fag California
and even give them Hawaii or someplace else. We can live with that. You can’t repeal NAFTA though.
You can’t do that. And go into debt. Blame it on our administration if you want. Say it was out of your
control. We have banker buddies to keep happy. They make the world go ‘round. You think we couldn’t
have stayed out of debt if we wanted to? No. It doesn’t work like that.” Ralph got closer to Richard
Gelding as he leaned over to him and said in a near whisper, “I have three billion dollars in the bank right
now! It’s all protected by our military.”
“Say no more, Mr. President,” Richard Gelding said. He didn’t want to hear more. He didn’t
want to know about the accounts where the money was stored.
“A laundering machine, man. I tell you Richard. You don’t have a tape player on you, do you?
We’ll say it was doctored. I have people that do that, you know?”
Richard didn’t want to hear that much more.
Richard slept with Ralph Connors that night. He had gained his trust. Ralph Connors no longer
cared. He burned an American flag the next day--an American one, and not just one of the cheap Neekay
ones--and he called up Francine Cross. “I think you know what to do.” He handed over the tape that was
used to record he and Richard sleeping with one another. They had exchanged anal sex with one another.
It was a heated thing. The Lord of Sodom and Gomorrah wouldn’t be proud. Ralph Connors would be.
He was on his last leg. He didn’t care what became of him.
“I know exactly what to do with this, Mr. President.” She saluted him. Ralph cried in joy.

* * *
The Republicans and Democrats chose collectively not to include in televised debates the
presence of Robert Wisdom, and his running mate whom formerly assailed from Roswell, Ben Murphy.
They called it a joke. They called it a mockery of the system Some people were outraged. Most of them
weren’t.
On the day after the first televised debates between Daniel Quartz and Richard Gelding, Francine
had a surprise of her own. She released the tapes to the public. Robert Wisdom went from a dark horse to
the leading horse. The country didn’t want hypocrites. They could be held in denial, like believing some
wars were fought for idealism rather than logistics, but some things were undeniable. They couldn’t vote
for Daniel Quartz, though he had nothing to do with the released sex tapes. They couldn’t vote for
Richard Gelding.
Robert Wisdom would win nearly by default. He was the product of Generation X. Though most
voters were older, he rang with them. They had children. They had teenagers. They had young adults
that they related to. It was a generation in turmoil. They saw Robert Wisdom as a leader of that
generation, though he was really older than most the people he truly jived with. They saw Ben Murphy as
a candidate--a vice-presidential one--that looked like them. He wore his dreadlocks still. He spoke
straight from the heart. He didn’t pretend to have all the answers... but the ones he did have answers for
made a lot of sense. “We have nowhere to go, people... but up,” he said. He got cheers from the crowd.
The media tried to collectively save Daniel Quartz and Richard Gelding, for a while. Francine’s
little paper, relatively speaking, was a driving force in getting things changed. The CIA couldn’t deny
anything. By this time, even Butch Jackson was glad a change was being made. “We don’t need another
PRI in this country, Larry,” he told Larry King in a late night interview. “A change in blood will be good
for us.”
“And if you’re wrong?” Larry asked.
“Is our country not strong enough to take it?” Butch retorted.
Larry cut to a break then. CNN eased into a clip that showed massive crowds supporting Freight
Train at concerts... and they all wore Neekay shirts (the band did, not the people in the crowd). They
didn’t stop cheering, though, and no flags were burnt during their shows. Larry thought it was very
ironic.
* * *
Voter turnout was lopsided in November of 2008. People who hadn’t voted in many elections
came to the polls. People that would vote Republican and only Republican were too scared to leave their
homes. For that matter, they were too embarrassed to send absentee ballots in the days before.
Robert Wisdom won easily. He got seventy-five percent of the vote. Daniel Quartz, though
relatively unscathed in the video scandal, received fifteen percent of the vote. Richard Gelding still
received a whopping ten percent in spite of himself. The true homosexual population still supported him
and showed up in groves. The rest of the country that considered themselves to be remotely liberal voted
for the man that would eventually win.
* * *
Lizzy Shulton, the girl who Alfred Newman loved with all his heart when he was still on Earth,
married Zotar Cassidy way before the shit hit the fans. It was years before, actually. She had kids with
him. They attended Jerry Shuster’s church for a while. After the election, Jerry left town and his brother
his brother Clyde took over for him. Clyde hadn’t known that Alfred had been killed. He was saddened
by it but he didn’t let it bother him too much. He took over his brother’s church, but he made some
changes.
“We’ll call this one ‘The Temple of Bill Swift!’” he said upon opening it. The Beatles’ church
was nice. He didn’t feel at home. There were mostly tourists there. It never grew to the size of his liking.
He wanted a small-town feel again. He got one in Miller. “We’ll call it ‘The Temple That Saves Lives!’”
he yelled and got cheers from everyone around him, Lizzy Shulton included.
The country was entering a new phase. The Cold War was long over. The “War Against
America” was coming to an end as well. People didn’t know it as this until years later. It was historians
that started to put that tag on the era.
“The war against America is coming to a close,” Francine Cross commentated on her TV
program. “It is near the end, folks. My father--can I call him that?--was on speed for much my life...”
There was shuffling in the background when she said it. “He was on speed,” she continued. “He was part
of the War on Drugs as well. Ain’t it quaint!?” she yelled, then slammed down her microphone.
She was arrested that day. Treason was what she was arrested for. She was tried, protected by
the ACLU, and forgiven of her sin a year later. She did no serious time.
“The war on America is coming back, you know?” Lizzy said to Zotar. They were attending The
Temple of Bill Swift on a regular basis. “It’s coming back. A year? What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I like hotdogs!” he said.
“They’re not American! They’re from Frankfurt, Germany! Neither are hamburgers for that
matter. They reside in...”
“...I know. Hamburg, right?”
“Yep.” She wiped some ketchup off his face. “We don’t have to do anything any longer. What is
American to them!--” She pointed to the television. There were debaters on an early morning talk show.
“--is not American to us! Burger King and McDonald’s. Is that choice? Is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Burger King and Pepsi! I mean, Coke and Peps’...”
“Shhh.” Zotar put his fingers over his lips then tried to kiss her. She wasn’t done.
“I have nothing to do now! I have nothing. I’ve been fighting this fight, don’t you see? I’ve
been fighting. WE WON! I’m supposed to be happy though, right?”
“Yep.” Zotar was a little taken back. “I don’t have a thing to add.”
A year later, Clyde Shuster began preaching against things that were against Lizzy’s liking. She
didn’t like to go there any longer. Her husband still went.
In 2010, Clyde had enough. He wasn’t making much money. He was going to give another place
another try. Maybe it’d be Graceland. Maybe it’d be Duckton again. Maybe he’d go to Liverpool and try
to buy back the place he had just sold. He didn’t know.
He visited Zotar--he was one of his better friends in town--and told him about his quandary.
Zotar agreed with him that he should go. They thanked God, Bill Swift in Heaven... or whereever he was,
Robert Wisdom for the returned freedom, and they thanked Lizzy. She had come up the steps and she was
gorgeous, even after three children. She still had the glow. She didn’t hassle Zotar about his continued
trek to see what was beyond the beyond. He didn’t care at this moment that she was taking off to her
mothers. It would be a vacation.
Lizzy came home and kissed Zotar on the cheek before she left. It’s be something he’d remember
for a long time. She knew Clyde Shuster was leaving town. She was glad. She was more happy that she
had her husband. It’d last for a long time. In a world that was wrought with divorce, they were ones that
made it... until their deaths in the year that the world exploded.
Jerry Shuster was long gone from Miller at the time his brother was leaving that town. He set up
tent in a town called Millions (there were hundreds of people that lived there). It was outside of Mesa,
Arizona. A lady by the name of Stephanie Knickerbocker ran a gas station all by herself. Her father had
passed on and it was her legacy. No one knew she had been a rock star. She changed her appearance that
much. The people that did know... didn’t care. They weren’t from Hollywood. If you wanted to go to the
desert to escape things or just to return home, it was okay.
 Mesa was a place that was looking for answers, but the surrounding towns were more in turmoil.
The “big city” of Mesa learned to cope with the aliens. The small towns didn’t.
In Millions, Jerry Shuster saw a chance to connect again. He set up a tent and let things fly. If
the Mesa area wasn’t good enough, he would move to someplace different.
“I’m going to tell you about Revelation, folks,” he said. There was a crowd of a hundred people.
Jerry was willing to cater to what he believed the crowd would believe. He would do this until they were
hooked. And then he would slam them with the hard facts. “I’m going to talk right now about chapter
sixteen. It’s the sixth bowl. Was it a literal bowl that the Apostle John was talking about?” Jerry saw that
people in the crowd were nodding their heads in yes. They agreed that it was probably a literal bowl.
Jerry knew he had his work cut out for him. “Last week, we were talking about the cows outside...”
“...What cows?” a man from the front asked. He was scrubby, looked like he was full of pride,
and he wore overalls.
“The colored cows, you know? The orange ones, the pink ones, the spotted ones with green here
and there.”
“That’s not in the book,” the man said.
“Of course it’s not. We were talking about it though.”
“Go on. I missed your service.”
“Saint John wrote his book from prison. It says so in the Book itself. Let me read, ‘I John, who
also am your brother, and companion it tribulation, and in the kingdom and patience of Jesus Christ!...’”
Applauds were heard at the emphasis of Jesus Christ’s name calling. “‘...was in the isle that is called
Patmos, for the word of God...’” He paused, looked around, spat to the side, then said, “‘...and for the
testimony of Jesus Christ.’” There was a silence the second time that Jerry Shuster said Jesus’ name.
Maybe the people didn’t interpret his spitting action the right way. He wasn’t really sure. He came to
conclude as he read that Jesus didn’t have to do any of it. He looked into the crowd and he saw confusion.
He saw pain.
“I want to tell you about those colored cows, pastor,” a man said that was near the other guy with
overalls.
“They were horses, in the Book, but I made a mistake,” Jerry said. It was his style to sermon,
interact, sermon some more, interact, et cetera, until it was all done.
“They were cows. I’m pretty sure. You showed me the light.”
Jerry didn’t finish his sermon the way he planned to finish it. He was going to ask the crowd if
anyone had gone to prison. He was going to ask if they wrote differently in prison because of the guards,
deputies, whathaveyou, that read the letters in between. He was going to ask, If you were in a Soviet
prison and you thought Americans were going to save you, might it be cleaver to write stories about
eagles and bears? Might it be? The eagles would symbolize the United States... The bears would
obviously pertain to the ones in control of the Soviet homeland.
Jerry wound up talking about Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. He said that in the nineteen
seventies, four students were shot at Kent State University in Ohio. They were protesting peacefully (if
you were to ask the majority of the people that were there to witness) and state troopers opened fire on
them. The students were defenseless. Four of them were mowed down. “Crime. Crime, crime, CRIME!”
Jerry said, and had to contain himself to go further.
“They were there for a reason,” a bushy-haired man said from the second seat over from the man
whom previously spoke. It was like the people in the front were taking turns. The man held back,
though, the reasons he thought they were there, so Jerry continued.
“Rock ‘n’ roll is a religion, folks!’
“Amen to that!” Stephanie Knickerbocker said. She was formerly Stevie Nicks. She put on dark
glasses after yelling out her comment for fear that she’d be found out. She knew most people wouldn’t
care too much.
Jerry went on to say that modern man’s texts were made of vinyl rather than papyrus. They were
now made of something else--whatever CDs were made of, and Jerry didn’t have the exact answer for
that--and the crowd laughed joyfully at his ignorance and his acceptance of it. He went on to say that
Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young changed the world when they made a song of the Kent State incident and
released it less than a month after it happened. They changed it incrementally. “You can do the same,
folks. Don’t do what these people are doing.” Jerry pointed to the cops that were seen at the side
entrances/ exits. “They don’t know what’s going on. They were told I’m a freak. I am. But...” The
crowd began to swell again. “By golly!” Jerry collected himself. “I’m an American freak!”
The crowd roared with thunder. Jerry didn’t ask for donations on this night. He would live the
rest of his life this way. If he had money in the bank, he would skip town sometimes without even asking
for a dime. If he was going broke? He’d hammer down. He was even keel, in the end. It worked out
alright.
Stephanie went home that night and prayed through an ice crystal. It wasn’t good enough to stop
the world’s doom in the year 2024.
* Epilogue *
In a world of bliss, no one knows death like people that experience it. Bill Swift tasted death, as
did Lucifer and Alfred Newman. No one knows death worse than a person in denial and without any
friends.
Francine Cross hung herself in the year 2011. Her father never forgave her for selling out his
Republican party. No one in town--Miller, that is--forgave her for her unrelenting hitting on young boys.
No one forgave her for anything. In the end, it was that she never forgave herself.
“You’ve got to believe in yourself, or no one will believe in you,” Bill told Alfred on Xeon...
while they played marbles!--upon hearing that Francine would be joining them soon. He knew she’d be
joining them. It was in the stars.
“You’re talking about Ozzy, aren’t you?” Alfred asked him.
“No. I know it by experience, son,” Bill said. He knew it by experience pretty bad.
He watched the follies of people on Earth for the past few years. He was born a Catholic. He was
taught that you get one marriage, and when that was done, you embrace widowship if that was the case.
“‘Til death do you part,” he was taught. He held on to it tight.
Bill couldn’t forgive himself, while on Earth. He had an affair with Anna Harcdomm, his
brother’s future bride, and he slept with Daisy Michaels. In the end, he wanted neither of them, but at the
same time, he wanted both of them... and whoever else would come and fill his cup. He wanted them all,
but he didn’t want to want them all. He was conflicted.
When he saw that Francine finally died her lonely death, he saw himself, but from the outside. It
was an extrapolation. He knew that you had to believe in yourself--you had to respect yourself--or no one
else would. He didn’t need a song to tell him.
“So I have this to say,” Alfred said. “That little girl still rides around Randal’s house at night--
she’s fourteen or fifteen now--what’s going to become of her?”
“I don’t know. She’s lost.”
“He doesn’t even live there any longer,” Alfred said.
“Freight Train. They’re the key. She’ll live inside of him. He’ll know her. He’ll remember her,
and she’ll know it.”
“And then die, right?”
“Yep. They’re coming. In 2024, they won’t even know what hit them!”
“And the hemp that...” Alfred began.
“...I know. It’s a problem.”
“The founding fathers didn’t think so. It can be used,” Alfred said. “It can be used for sheets,
rope, energy, clothing, you name it!”
“They won’t accept it.” Bill conjured an image of a front-running candidate for the Republican
party. “Neither will they...” He conjured an image of a struggling Democrat. “They’ll never think like
you.”
 “Is it their downfall?”
“No. It’s mine. I’m done with that planet.”
Alfred slapped Bill’s hands in joy. “We won! We’re over!”
Jesus Christ spoke to Zaktak on another planet. It was no better than Xeon but it was nowhere
near the quality of Zoton. “It’s your destiny, Zaktak. Zoton is your destiny.”
“No it’s not, sir. I go there, get ideas, then I’m done with it.”
Alfred never knew how these things were done. He didn’t know how aliens communicate with
people on Earth. Bill learned. It was because aliens--most of them that they came in contact with--lived
much longer lives, sometimes as long as twenty thousand times longer. They had time to learn other
languages from different places. Kevin Costner’s character in Dances With Wolves learned a tribal
language in months. Aliens--most of them--were more intelligent than Earthlings. They could pick up a
language in an hour.
Zaktak spoke to Jesus Christ. “Do we really have to end the world?”
“No. We don’t. It’s in Revelation, but that’s not the end of it.” Jesus looked a little surprised
that he had nother more to add. “I don’t have control, regardless what they think. I’d like to end it--I
mean, end the end of it. I can’t. Will they get their New Jerusalem? I don’t know. Weirder things have
happened.”
“Weirder things have happened, huh Jesus?”
“Call me Hesoos.”
“Okay. Weirder things have happened.... Like what?”
“There were eras of miracles on Earth. The Red Sea parted. These things happened. The living
schlaclak that makes up everything... It gets suicidal. It busts up. Simple as that. Miracles can happen!”
“Like the Reds winning the World Series over the Sox...” Zaktak began.
“No. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jesus said. He was going to joke that it was more
like the Miracle On Ice. He didn’t though. Zaktak was getting mad. He’d leave. Jesus would go to his
mother in a place he believed to be Heaven--that’s where she lived now--and he’d forget about things for a
couple of decades. He’d let the Koagulates take care of things. If they cared enough, the world would be
saved. Otherwise? What could he really do? He wasn’t on good terms with his father any longer. Jesus
was a loser, in his eyes. He was supposed to set up a church on a hill. It was supposed to be seen by
people around the world. In the end, the Catholic Church came close. They had nonbelievers though.
They had that, and they had their human nature. Nothing was every going to be perfect. Nothing was
ever going to be good enough for Yahweh. Never.
Allah stepped aside and observed things. Jesus and Zaktak looked like two little ants trying to
solve a problem. He contemplated squashing them and sending them into another dimension, but he
refrained. He was a peaceful being, for the most part.
about the author...

Gaud Rockefeller is seventy-five years old. Some would

say he’s seventy-five years young. He has three children:
Naomi, Stephen, and Dorf.
He wears funny clothes because it makes him feel good.
He is currently working on a non-fiction biography of the late
Malcolm X. When he is finished, he plans to reconsider
whether or not a third installment of the Zoton series needs
to be made. Other options he is considering is retirement, or
short-story work. This was completed August of 2003 on a
hot, summer day.
Hasta la vista, baby! Gaud would have liked me to say
that!

--the editor-in-chief, Ellis DeAngelo

Manifest Zoton
part III in a series

by
Gaud Rockefeller
2003

?
 Jacket Introduction:

In a world of bliss, no one knows death like someone

that tastes it. Edward Hand, Bill Swift, Alfred Newman, and
others have departed from Earth. Even Saul Folstiklar did,
and so did a bitch by the name of Francine Cross. They were
jerks. Simple as that. People come back from the dead
though. It’s simple and has always been believed by some
culture or another for as long as people have had religions.
More people die, then sequels are written about them!

Disclaimer: The things and the places in this book are real--some of them are--
but most of them are nonsensical. The characters, with the exception of Ben
Affleck, Al Gore, Renee Zellweger and a few others, are spurious to say the
very least. Get that through your head, please! If you don’t, you might wind
up like my buddy, Eddie Macral. You don’t want that, mxtherf@ckxr!

Eddie Macral’s most popular lyric: They’re comin’ man, there’s nothing you can do... I
guess all I have, is to tie my shoe!.. tie my fuckin’ shoe!

This book is rated G because everyone should know about it. In other words, don’t let
your children get it. They’ll probably scribble shit all over the place.

This will please all the monkey spankers... and the chicken chokers around the world. I
was born a spider monkey myself. I know what it’s like to be choked!

? ? ?

I dedicate this book to no one. It’s best that way.

?
? ’s? ’s?
? ?
people have spoken up...

“I get it! I finally get it! Gaud Rockefeller is not paranoid! He’s just
stupid and can’t keep his mouth shut!”
--Jim Bannister, editor of Conspiracy Reader

“Never, since A Beautiful Mind, has someone tried so hard to try to

make schizophrenics look good. Never, since Cybil, has someone
succeeded in making schizophrenics look really dumb. Gaud
Rockefeller has really done a job here.”
--The Conservative Corner Newsletter

“What are schizophrenics? Really! I mean, we’re all schizophrenic a

little, aren’t we?”
--The Liberal Press Reporter

“This is art, man. This is the way it should be. It’s not like this
anymore. The spooge... You name it. This has it all. It’s not scared.
This is a book that is not scared.”
--Hustler Book Review

“The data in the box is all messed up. Syntax error! Syntax error!
Don’t you get it?”
--Computer Programmer’s Workpaperz

“I used to watch the Naked News. That’s where I got all my stuff.
Gaud Rockefeller comes along and educates me in a perverted way.
I think it’s neat.”
--Ricky Swanckerd, self-proclaimed illegitimate son of former porn
star John Holmes, to the comedian and host of The Nightly Buzz, Roni
Blanchard
“Both hot and cold at the same time. I think it stunk but it was great
in parts.”
--Road & Track
bombshells will be released...

“It was Bambi, essentially. Bill Swift is the nice, ol’ hero throughout
most the book and Al Gore is the mean old hunter that couldn’t get a
thing right. He’d be the hunter, I guess. That’s the way it goes.”
--Abraham, a bimonthly magazine about political issues

“Big Macs are good. I like them with dressing on them--the French
kind--and I smear it around on the top bun.”
--General Sam Mildener on Late Night With Conan O’ Brien

“The end was a whimper. That’s all I know. I’ll wait for the movie to
come out. My dad told me that it was no good to read.”
--Hilary Duff on a talk show with Jay Leno

“There’s a scene where Dick goes into Pussy--essentially a large cat on

steroids that has supernatural powers--and comes back a changed
man. This happens in a dream of Dick’s--he had run for the
president in 2008--but it’s the funniest part of the book. Everything
else kinda sucked.”
--Laughter Magazine

“Everything was going good. We, at The Nation, were surprised to see
that such insights could be made. And in this third episode of the
Zoton series, Gaud goes into left field. I think he was pandering to
the Hollywood crowd with their fanciful endings. I think most my
constituents at this paper feel the same we. It sucked at the end.”
--the Editor-in-Chief of The Nation, Ripley Taurasi
Introduction...

I must confess something. I want nothing more in life than to sleep

with Hilary Duff. It goes further than that. I’m supposed to be here talking
about the book that I just read. I’m going to skip that part for now. I’ve been
in mental institutions. I’ve been in jail. I’ve been a lot of places and I’ve
been interviewed by the president’s Secret Service four times in my life. It’s
been strange. I’ve been to Arkansas. I’ve been to Venezuela. I’ve been a lot
of places. I don’t talk to people about this stuff. Why? I don’t really know. I
have a fear that if they found out what was inside of me, they’d take off
running. But me? Sooner or later, it’s gotta crack. The dam will break. The
levee will break, and Led Zeppelin knew this a long time ago.
What am I saying? I AM FUCKIN’ Gaud Rockefeller! That’s right. No, I
am not sleeping with him. You might have thought that when I wrote that
statement. No. Actually, you would have thought it when you read it, right?
Nah. I’m not sleeping with him. I am him. I want Hilary to know that..
For the rest of you? No. I’m not Gaud Rockefeller. He’s an old dude
that gives me stuff to read. Hilary is sixteen now. Actually, she’s almost
sixteen at the time that I’m writing this. I hope to get rich from this Gaud
Rockefeller shit. I really do. What would I do with my wealth? Go into
politics! That’s right. No. It’s not. I would write enough though. I would do
a lot of things. I would produce movies if given the shot. I really would. And
when Hilary turns eighteen? Fuck! I’d be in the running, man!!!
Nothing like that is going to happen so I’ll continue with what I’m
supposed to do. I’m supposed to tell you about Gaud Rockefeller, yaddah,
yaddah, yaddah, yaddah. He saved my life from being boring, tisk, tisk, tisk,
tisk, tisk. I was going to kill myself before reading his inspirational material,
et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. This stuff will change the world, of course, of
course, of course! Either way, I’ve said my part concerning what I was
supposed to say! Will Gaud Rockefeller be happy? I don’t really know. I
don’t care. I really don’t..
Hilary will marry me someday. Right? That’s my wish.
 Enjoy the fiction, though.

--Eddie Corona

Manifest Zoton prologue

On a breezy, winter afternoon, Lizzy Shulton was getting ready to take off to her mother’s house.
A girl of fourteen years of age was passing by on her motor scooter--it was a Honda Elite--and she didn’t
know who Lizzy was and probably wouldn’t care too much if she did. She knew of her husband though,
Zotar, but she didn’t know where he lived. He promoted Freight Train, at a time. She was on her way to
see a rock ‘n’ roll concert but it wasn’t Freight Train that she’d be seeing. They were far out of town, at
the time. She was going to see Destruction. They were buddies with Freight Train. Randal Meyer would
have to wait another day to see her. She had a crush on him again. He’d know who she was if he seen
her. She was sure of it.
Destruction didn’t play that night and a young girl’s wish didn’t come true. There were
electrical shortages across the state and it would wind up causing the cancellation of the night’s concert.
Randal Meyer’s wish would come true that night. He was on tour in New York City and he was going to
have sex with Stephanie Venezia-Barley. Dave, her husband, didn’t care. They weren’t able to have
children and she was a good lay, anyway. He knew it from experience.

*Part One*

* one *

“Imagine a camera fixated on a white balloon as it breezes through the evening sky,” Jeff Splifer
said. In the year 2012, he regained his job at San Quixote Community College. Don Michaels, the
philosophy professor who had him fired, was dismissed the prior year for sexual assault on a teenage girl.
A man raised his hand in the front row. He was about thirty-three years old, looked like he
needed a shave, and probably could have been mistaken for a janitor if he weren’t sitting there in class.
“Which way is the wind blowing?”
“Don’t matter,” Jeff said. “That’s right. I said, ‘Don’t!’ You can have them fire me for it!” Jeff
was still mad at the path he took. Buzz Saw was a hit movie for him, as well as being a hit book. His
follow up, Where Are We Going?, didn’t do so well. It cracked the top hundred, but it didn’t leave him
with the feel that he could rely on journalism, from the outside, for the rest of his life. He was left
appealing the decision that got him fired. In the end, he won. He didn’t win a lot. He merely got his job
back with no back pay, but it would do.
 A man shifted in the third row and looked like he wanted to hack.
“The balloon--you see?--is placed in such a way...” Jeff looked at the original man whom asked
what direction the air was blowing. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t dare.
“...that it is drifting. Light does that.” Jeff paused and waited for answers. He didn’t wait for questions.
He waited for answers. He wanted someone to speak up and say, Light doesn’t drift!, an answer. He
wanted someone to say, Light moves, but can we call it a drift?, a rhetorical question to him, and just as
good as an answer.
Jeff got nothing from the crowd of people so he continued on. In the past, his classes would be
near full. Now, they were practically empty because word of mouth had yet to form. People didn’t know
he was back. He didn’t find out he’d be teaching again until two weeks prior to his initial speech in front
of the shifting man and the one that looked like he might be a custodian on his off time.
“Light drifts, people. Just like the balloon.”
“What if I shot it?” the custodian-looking man said.
“You got the point there, sirry. You got the point!”
Jeff went on to explain that schlaclak was like that. If you fixated the camera on the white,
drifting balloon, you would not notice a speeding bullet as it passed by. That’s what Jeff was going to
explain to the class. Whether or not the custodian-looking man was joking or not, he got it on the head.
Light can be disrupted. For the matter, it can be passed like a preschooler riding a trike as it’s being
passed by a NASCAR driver at full speed. That’s the analogy he used. The custodian-looking man had
nothing to say at that. As a matter of fact, he yawned.
“You see? We have freedom back in this country!” Jeff explained. “In the past, I might get fired
for teaching what I am. Today? I feel free. I’m not going to worry what they have to say. Now your
assignment is to learn about Newton, okay? You know what I mean? I’m not going to ask about
schlaclak. I’m not going to do that. And if one of you has a problem with it, you write the governor and
tell him. It’s out of my jurisdiction now. If they have a problem, tell them to fuck off, okay? I’ll write
another book. That’s what I’ll do.”
The custodian-looking man didn’t know whom Jeff was. “Who are you? You act like you’re
some kind of big shot.”
“I’m not, okay? I changed the world. I acted like Vishnu would have, okay? If I didn’t do it,
someone else would have.”
“What did you write that was so important?” he asked him.
“The syllabus.” Jeff passed it around and the remaining nine people in class got a laugh.

* * *
There were more or less seven eras of miracles on the Earth that Jesus was aware of. He passed
on the information to Zaktak. When Alfred Newman visited Zaktak on Zoton, he learned of it then passed
it on to Bill Swift when he got back to Xeon. The Koagulates knew that the Earth was coming to an end.
They weren’t going to be responsible for the change. It was going to be cataclysmic and it was going to be
out of their hands. It was like looking down from a tall hill, seeing two cars speeding toward one another
from opposite ends, knowing full well that they were on a collision course, and not being able to do a
thing about it. Unless...
The leader--a leader, it should be said (the Koagulates were a rather laissez-faire kind of group)--
came up to Bill Swift and told him about possibilities. “They Earth can be saved--I know you’re a leader
of free peace on your--and you can be part of it.”
“What?” Bill wanted to know.
“It’s simple. You go down there--you go back to Earth--and you save the son of a bitch. It’s that
simple.”
“How?”
“You see...” The Koagulate leader--the chosen one for the time being--said that there were eras
of miracles on that planet. In other words, what really happens is that the world is not at peace. In other
words, the schlaclak that make up all the molecules--the protons, and so forth--get mad. They get
discontent. It’s like a nation reforming itself. The United States, up until 2012, had enjoyed relative
peace. There was never a serious threat to its national security. Germany? They had plans, during World
War II to take over the world. They were going to take half of the United States and Japan was going to
be allowed to take the other half. What happened instead was that Germany lost, they were split in half,
and then they reformed. It’s as simple as that. “During war, it’s chaos,” the Koagulate leader said to Bill.
For all practical reasons, there are no nations--not for the ones being bombed, and so forth. It’s every
person for himself. It’s as simple as that.”
Bill wanted to speak up but opted for listening instead.
“During the era of miracles,” the Koagulate leader went on to say, “The schlaclak is at war. It’s
at war with itself. It doesn’t pay attention to convention. It doesn’t matter what alliances it had. If it
were part of hydrogen proton, it would break up if the other schlaclak involved wasn’t on full board. It’s
as simple as that.”
“You’re saying you want me to involve myself with miracles.”
“No. You do what you’re told. Simple as that. You do your job, your Earth will be saved.”
“What about miracles?” Bill wanted to know.
“I’m more intelligent than you. I’m sorry for glossing that over.” The Koagulate leader took
time to consider how he’d say it. “What you consider to be a miracle on Earth is done like clockwork in
other parts of the universe. You know what a miracle is, Bill?”
“No. I don’t,” he said. “But I do know that I’ve seen them on occasion.”
“You’re not getting the point. A miracle, to me, is the universe creating itself. Besides that, I
don’t really know of one.” The Koagulate leader looked down on Bill as if he wanted to cry. “You’re not
going to succeed, you know?”
“WHAT” Bill demanded. “What?” He calmed down. “Why are you sending me there?”
“Because you want to go. To give them hope. They need hope, you know?”
“And I’m going to die...”
“...anyway,” the Koagulate leader said, then sped off.
Bill learned what was to happen the following day. He was to take Alfred Newman, Edward
Hand, and Saul Folstiklar--the one whom blew up Alfred to begin with--and they were to go back to Earth
on a speeding craft. Before they did, the Koagulates would enact their power. They would convince the
schlaclak within the bodies of the four would-be heroes to change. They couldn’t do it permanently. It
was like setting up an interim government. For that matter, it was like starting a new corporation. In
other words, you had to choose. What would it be? Were you a corporation that made milk? Were you
one that was going to make cars? Were you going to print magazines? Obviously, the smart people would
like to do it all. Realistically, they can’t. They have to choose.
Bill had a day and a half to choose his specialty on Earth. What would his miracles be? (He still
called them miracles in spite of the fact that the Koagulate official he had talked to called them
commonplace events in other parts of the universe.) What would Alfred do? The Koagulate leader said
that they should choose something that wouldn’t leave a mark. In other words, their world would be
saved--it could be saved by mathematical probabilities--if they maintained a balance. They couldn’t create
a worldwide scare. This would cause governments to become paranoid and potentially use nuclear
weapons against one another if they didn’t understand that the miracles were coming from beyond. One
nation would think that another had a new, secret weapon. Paranoia would or could cause disaster.
The miracles had to be strong enough, on the other hand, to have impact when needed. And...
Bill couldn’t reveal his identity to anyone one Earth, outside of a few selected and trusted people. His
appearance would be slightly changed. It wouldn’t be changed to the point that his mother in Heaven
couldn’t recognize him (Ned Swift, Bill’s brother, still believed that they all were in Heaven--the ones
who passed away--no matter what planet they claimed to be on). His appearance would be changed to the
point that, once again, a worldwide panic wouldn’t ensue. People knew of Bill though it was suppressed
in many memories.
As for the rest? Alfred would do the same, as would Saul and Edward. Saul happened by
chance. He was an evil man on the planet Earth. Sometimes these people are the best heroes. The
Koagulate leader in control of the project took that into account. Guilt rode Saul. That guilt could
potentially save the planet.

* * *
“Do you know who I just got to talk to?” Ned Swift asked Anna. They were having a cup of
coffee. It was afternoon, but it was their habit.
“No. Tell me. An alien?”
“Better! Patricia Richardson!”
“Patricia who!?” Anna asked. She nearly tipped her cup.
“Patricia fuckin’ Richardson. I’m a journalist. I get these special privileges,” Ned reminded her.
“Patricia who?” she asked again. It didn’t ring a bell. She got up to leave when she saw that he
wouldn’t answer her. He had been excited. The exciting feel turned to one of dismay when he saw that
Anna didn’t want anything to do with the conversation. She took off to the bathroom, Ned followed her,
and she took off her clothes, ready to take a shower. “Patricia who?” she asked again when Ned didn’t say
anything. Water was running, Ned could barely hear her, and Anna felt stabbed. No blood came out. It
was like voodoo. “I think I know who she is, Ned. She’s your new girlfriend, huh? I just met her in the
shower!” She felt another stab to her midsection and knew it was a form of voodoo.
Anna believed she’d live.
“I used to jerk off to her. That’s all,” Ned said. He returned to the cup of coffee he had been
drinking. When Anna returned five minutes later wearing a powder blue bath towel, and not much more,
he said, “I used to jerk off to that lady. She says she talks to Bill Swift. Actually, she called him Ted Swift
at first. I think she was confused. I’m not really sure.”
“What does that prove that she knows?”
“Watch!” Ned went to the TV and turned it on to a live broadcast of the evening news. “There
she is!”
“That’s a hippo, Neddy. That’s all it is.”
“No. They’ll start talking about her. It’s innuendo. That’s all it is! I tell you! They have codes
for her that you won’t believe.” Ned paused. He said, “She’s a key player, dear. She knows what’s going
on. She told me!”
Anna got a little serious. “Do you believe her?”
“I don’t know... yet. I don’t know. I like her. I got a good feel for her. I didn’t have sex with
her...”
“...But you would have. I know.” She was disappointed.
“I used to jerk off to her!” Ned said.
“She’s the one from Home Improvement. I know the show now. I thought it was the lady from...
Ah... I can’t make it up. It just popped in my head. That’s all.”
“I used to jerk off to her every day! Everyone used to jerk off to this lady--Pamela Anderson was
on the show for a while--and I used to...”
“...I know.” She came to Ned and pinched his cheeks in an affectionate way. She loved him. He
could feel it. It made his job a lot easier. “What if she says to go to bed?” she asked him. “What do you
do?”
Ned took off upstairs. He didn’t want to answer that question. Deep inside, he knew what it’d
be. If there was privacy, he’d take her in a chance. He’d do that. He’d risk the few years he had with
Anna--Anna the Beautiful--and he’d do that.
“You only live once!” he yelled from upstairs. “That’s all I’m telling you, Anna!”
“Good. I’m a whore!” Anna meant it. Ned didn’t want to hear it. He had suspected it for a long
time.
“What’s for dinner?” he yelled from upstairs.
“Uuhhh!” she yelled to herself. She was frustrated.
Dinner was good that night. Anna looked at him with googly eyes. Secretly, she was proud of
her husband. She knew she got a stud.

* * *
Ned Swift printed a story that Patricia Richardson had told him. It was about Daisy Michaels--he
knew Daisy Michaels and his brother had actually slept with her while he was on Earth--and it was about
how she was summoning powers from the Earth strong enough to move things. She had started off in the
Republican party after Bill Swift died. She wanted power. She came across something more. She
wouldn’t need politics. She would only need herself.
The story that Ned Swift printed was about Catherine Zeta-Jones. Catherine Zeta-Jones was a
movie star--a good one--and had no idea what was going on in Miller, San Quixote, or certain sections of
Los Angeles. Things were changing again. Catherine would feel it but it wouldn’t be significant in her
life.
Ned chose Catherine Zeta-Jones to write about because she reminded him of Daisy Michaels. It
was as simple as that. Catherine had a talk with God--that’s what he wrote in the article--and an
“unidentified source” gave all the information about it. The message that was supposed to be conveyed to
Ned’s brothers and sisters in San Quixote, and the surrounding area, was that Daisy Michaels was
someone to be looked out after. He knew that she wasn’t sure if she was going good or bad. She just
knew that she was channeling something.
Above the article was an artist’s rendition of Catherine Zeta-Jones talking to God through a
seance in her house. It was hokey and candles were everywhere, even on the window seals. The picture of
her face, being that it was an artist’s sketch, wasn’t of Catherine’s face. It was clearly of Daisy Michael’s
face. The country would think that a new artist was in line. Ned Swift would think that he did a superb
artistic job in his choice of sketchers.
While Daisy was channeling her powers, Bill Swift, on Xeon, and Edward Hand, Alfred
Newman, and Saul Folstiklar had one last journey. They had to go to Zoton. From there, they would go
to Earth. Lucifer was hooking them up with a space craft. They had all received special powers. Bill
Swift was going to be able to change the schlaclak around him into shit balls. He’d hurl them at will.
When they struck their organic targets, they would disintegrate nearly completely and stun the shit out of
them. Alfred had the power of spooge. He could wizz a jizzum-cum line at people and send them into
ecstasy. These powers were based off of what the schlaclak would agree on. Like starting a corporation,
they couldn’t be changed. Once you decided, on Earth, that you were going to make cars, you couldn’t
change your “power” over night into building air planes. It was as simple as that.
Saul Folstiklar chose rubber bands. He could hurl rubber bands of any size from his forehead.
The trick to it all was concentration. If he thought about his karma--it was bad on Earth, for the most
part--he would turn into rubber, temporarily, instead of hurling the bands.
Edward Hand chose nothing, as his super power. In the end, he was given something. “All I
want to do is fly,” Edward said. He got that and more. Edward was able to fly... and he was able to knock
off his hands at any time... and they’d rapidly regenerate. It was cool. His hands would all be flying
across town (or some shit) and they’d grab whatever they wanted to. They lasted a half hour and then
they’d turn into dog shit--untraceable to the normal human, except when stepped on.
The four went to Zoton where they were to hook up with Lucifer (it turned out that his brother
was the Prince of Darkness and all; he just liked to call himself “Lucifer“) and they met up with Francine
Cross. She had hung herself fairly recently--within the past year--and was sent to Zoton for a while. The
gods, as they were called, changed their minds about Saul Folstiklar. He wouldn’t be the lone champion
of the rubber bands, after all. The Koagulates, still having power from far away, chose to morph Saul and
Francine together. It’d be a hideous sight. The rest of the heroes could blend into society. Saul needed
redemption. So did Francine. Here was a chance that they could get redemption together.
Together, when morphed, Saul/ Francine took on the name of Blipwhip, the rubber band, flying
machine. Alfred and Bill were assured that they would be able to fly too. It’d take energy though. They
would still need the space craft to get to Earth. It traveled ludicrous speed (“ludicrous speed” is the only
description on Earth that could fully explain the capacity of the craft as it traveled many, many times
faster than the speed of light; it was coined in the movie Space Balls).
In the following weeks after the article hit the stands about Ned Swift’s encounter with Catherine
Zeta-Jones’ liaison, Bill and his buddies were on their way to Earth. It was as simple as that. They’d get
there in six months. If they were traveling merely light speed, they would have gotten there in twenty-
three years. “Thank God--or whatever it is--for speed travel,” Bill said from the middle of nowhere.
“No. Thank you, Bill Swift,” Blipwhip said sarcastically.
“Fuck you, cunt,” Bill said to the side of Blipwhip--a two-headed monster--that said it. It was
Francine’s side.

* * *

By the year 2012, Robert Wisdom ran a successful administration. He was able to get across his
amendment that outlawed the prior amendment that made flag-burning illegal--flag-burning of the
American flag and sanctioned flags, such as the Neekay ones. He was able to pass an additional
amendment that made hemp legal. He was riding such a wave that medical marijuana was legalized with
it as well.
In 2012, during his election run, a relatively unknown star by the name of Dianne Frostrail was
riding along Hollywood Boulevard in her new convertible. She was high as a kite. She wrecked into a
pole, it plunged down, it hit a bystander, and Al Gore had all the fodder he would need to run against
Robert Wisdom. Dianne claimed to be glaucomic--she never had a doctor’s prescription that said she
was--and cited medical marijuana as a reason that she should have been under the influence. The new
law stated--the Constitutional amendment that was passed, in other words--that drivers should not operate
heavy machinery when smoking medical marijuana. It was public knowledge.
In 1988, Democratic contender Michael Dukakis was leading in the polls by as much as
seventeen percentage points before taking a plunge and eventually losing the election that he ran in.
George H.W. Bush successfully campaigned that Michael was a radical liberal (he even emphasized the
“l” word many times, meaning “liberal”) and that he couldn’t be trusted. A man by the name of Horton
had been released from prison in Michael’s home state of Massachusetts and killed a family or something
during his furlough. Robert Wisdom really couldn’t remember who he had killed. He knew that he killed
somebody, something, or... It didn’t matter. He knew it was happening again.
Al Gore of the Green Party--the Democrats weren’t trusted any longer and it was known that non-
traditional politics was the wave of the future--started running adds about the girl who crashed into the
pole on a late, southern California night. It stuck. There was nothing Robert Wisdom could do about it.
He had all the intentions in the world to be the best person he could be. “The path to Hell is paved with
good intentions,” he said to himself as he turned off the TV after watching one of Gore’s adds.
Gore was running on an environmental plank. That might have helped him out as it was. He
was running on a pro-labor plank. That was boring. People got used to their treadmills. No, people did
not run literal treadmills, for the most part. They got used to running the rat race though. They accepted
their lots in life. They liked the carrot. They didn’t care that it was on a string tied to a stick and they’d
never reach it. Labor was boring... but this thing about Dianne Frostrail? That would catch people’s
attentions. He knew it. He was right.
Ned Swift ran an article about Dianne in the National Global Star. It reported that she was a
new breed of mutant. She needed the marijuana to stay alive. It wasn’t just for her eyes.
No one paid attention. Ned cashed his check that week and thought what it waste it was. He
began to wonder if any of his stories had any impact. They did. He just didn’t know it. Some of them,
like the one about Dianne, were in vane. That was just the nature of the beast. He didn’t know it and was
wrought with guilt for the first time since his childhood. He started to care about the world. It started to
matter to him when things didn’t change.
Anna rubbed his neck that night. He didn’t care about the story afterward. There would be more
battles. There would be more victories. There would be more frustrations. It was part of the game.
As Al Gore overtook Robert Wisdom in the polls in the summer of 2012, Bill Swift and his gang
neared Earth. It would be a glorious journey for Bill, in retrospect. He learned a lot of the people that he
was to conquer Earth with. Life would be better for him in the future. He’d finally have his shot at world
peace. He didn’t know that it was going to be tough. After the trip from Zoton, he thought it was going to
be cake.
He was wrong.

* * *
Woblenoft was a company that started its fortune in radio sales. It was in the nineteen thirties, at
the height of the Great Depression, that they ironically got their big boom. In the nineteen fifties, they
pioneered into the sales of televisions. They weren’t extremely successful, but they held their own to the
point that they stayed above water. In the nineteen seventies, as the Vietnam Conflict neared its end,
Woblenoft branched into the sales of color televisions. That wasn’t all. They partnered secretly with the
Central Intelligence Agency and put rudimentary controlling devices into the sets that they sold. These
devices were much like the Nielson boxes, but secret. They wanted to know viewing habits, and if there
was a person in society they were interested, they wanted to know what would make this person tick.
That’s all they wanted.
In the nineteen nineties, Woblenoft explored that personal computer business at the urging of
their constituents in the CIA. They would make computers that had microprocessors much like early
pagers. They would report what people were writing, whether or not the person being studied was hooked
up to the internet.
Ben Murphy had a vision that he was supposed to be president of the United States. He was
wrong about what he’d eventually become. As fate would have it, he’d merely make it to the second
highest office in the land. The CIA didn’t like his ideas prior to this. They kept track of his writings. He
didn’t advocate the overthrowing of the government, but he made sure that people knew that it was part of
the country’s history.
It’s in our Constitution, he wrote one day, that we have the
revolutionary right to overthrow our government if it is not fit for the
people. It is not fit for the people, he wrote. What do I advocate? The
overthrow of the Constitution itself! Why are we putting on the
charade? It doesn’t do us any good any longer!
Ben wrote this and didn’t know that an agent from Woblenoft was looking in on his writing
during a random check. Woblenoft also had certain precautions. They couldn’t check on everyone. Ben’s
writings had a lot of words that were red flags. “Revolution”... “Insurrection”... “Overthrow”... et cetera,
down the line.
Ben was no threat to Woblenoft. He was a curiosity though. It was new what was going on in the
government. They had practices of opening mail from people that they deemed to be loose cannons.
Through Woblenoft, they were able to get much more. They were able to see when a teacher would be
receiving certain material. They were able to see how students thought, and not just how they pretended
to think when they were to submit what might be suitable for good, ol’ teacher. Regardless, the CIA had
contacts that were strong in multimedia as well. They had moles. They had people that wanted to get
ahead. They had people that were willing to jump through the fiery hoops and everything else it would
take.
The CIA combined its contact with people from Woblenoft to people from Lloyd Cross’ hit
network television show based in Los Angeles, California called The Nightly Buzz. Ben was a fan of The
Nightly Buzz--it rivaled Jay Leno for a period of time for the same timeslot--and watched it religiously
during the nineteen nineties. When he began writing about insurrections and the like, he noticed changes
in the show. He would turn on his Woblenoft television--he was loyal to the brand--after writing
something on his Woblenoft home computer. He noticed strange things. The monologue would be
centered around what he wrote. It was a joke. Most people didn’t know what was going on and probably
wouldn’t care. Ben wrote about alien space crafts on purpose one night to test his theory. Sure enough,
comedian Roni Blanchard was buzzing about alien sightings. This was far before Bill Swift would fly and
other people in surrounding towns would experience alien phenomena on a large scale basis. Ben wrote
about something different. Aliens could have been a coincidence. It didn’t proven things concretely in his
head. He invited over a friend to watch The Nightly Buzz with him to show her how it worked. He wrote
about fish that talked with one another--fish that were supposed to take over the planet. The Nightly Buzz
ignored his stuff that night and Ben was embarrassed. His friend, a girl named Violet, also had a
Woblenoft television in her home. She wasn’t watching the Buzz the following night and they knew it.
Ben watched. A skit was done about sharks with lasers on their foreheads. It would be later used
coincidentally in an Austin Powers flick. The sharks, according to the skit, were to take over the world,
one country at a time.
It was enough for Ben. He was irate. Not only were they using his head as some kind of forum--
he had yet to convince himself that it was only the computer that they were using to get their
information--but they were playing with his life. He felt like a guinea pig but when all was said and done,
he felt like he was given a forum that he should not have been allowed to have. He was no one. He didn’t
believe he was a person of worth. He had revolutionary ideas but he figured that a million other people
must simultaneously have the same thoughts, or at least similar ones. In the end, it wasn’t Ben Murphy
that the CIA controlled. He had no money. He had no star power. He had nothing. The CIA was trying
to perfect a system. When Ben Murphy’s behaviors were observed and it could be predicted what people
might do under a microscope, Woblenoft televisions and personal computers would be given to people that
were true targets. They would be given under the guise of sweepstakes, promotions, and many other
things. They would be given to bookwriters. They would be given to high-powered celebrities. They
would be given to voices on AM radio. They would be given to a lot of people. In the end, they would be
teased if they went out of line for what the CIA wanted them to do. They would be affirmed when they
promoted a CIA plank, even if it was unintentional.
The Woblenoft connection to the CIA had severe implications. Most people--the Ben Murphy
experiment went worse than hoped for--didn’t know they were being tuned like a guitar. They were
oblivious. Nonetheless, a ripple effect is what ensued and it was the end goal of the project.
The CIA got exactly what they wanted.
Ben Murphy, in 2012, was a successful candidate for the United States’ vice presidency. He kept
the same Woblenoft computer that seemed to chastise him in years past. He didn’t know if he was still
being paid attention to. He didn’t care. In his mind, every time he would fire up his computer, he was
fighting fire with fire. Propaganda with propaganda.
Ben was preparing to write a speech that would blatantly call for a rise to arms. Al Gore, of the
Green Party, had overtaken the lead in most polls across the country. Ben’s running mate, Robert
Wisdom, didn’t know what to do of things. Ben wanted to go out with a fight.
A fight he got.
Ben wrote a speech about power brokers that ran the country. He named them by name. He
identified their positions. In a routine campaign stop in Los Angeles, on The Nightly Buzz of all places,
Ben was going to lay it on the line. Ben was laid on the line before it could all happen though. He took a
sip of a cocktail in the lounge to the studio where he’d make his speech. It had “rat poison” in it. The
term was generically used by the CIA operatives whom put it in there. It did the job. Ben went crazy that
night, worse than being on five tabs of LSD at the same time with no prior drug experience. He didn’t
talk about overthrowing the government. Roni Blanchard brought out showgirls--they were the other
guests on the show that night--and they stripped Ben down to the bone. The press loved it--the rest of the
press did--and Ben felt had again the next day.
“At least he lived,” Roni told his CIA informant the following day. “We could have killed him,
you know?”
 The informant didn’t say a word. He secretly agreed that he could have been killed. More so, he
believed he should have been killed. “We don’t want martyrs though, right?”
“Yep. Bingo,” Roni said, then got ready to write his next monologue.

* * *
Deborah Matenopoulis started off as a host on something that wasn’t entirely TV. Actually, it
was completely TV, but taken to the extreme. She started off on what was known as The TV Guide
Channel. She introduced new acts. She previewed shows that would be on. She did funny little things
with her face that made people laugh once in while. For other people, it was just a place to get the scoop
on what to watch.
Deborah, better known as Debbie, spent years with the upstart station and later branched into
entertainment of her own. By the year 2012, she had a replacement--Jamie Lynn Spears, younger sister of
then pop star, Britney Spears--and the channel evolved into something much more than it had begun. It
was interactive. You could call--Jamie Lynn would answer phones--and request a specific episode of
M.A.S.H., for example. You could make plans to go out for the evening and not worry about missing
Monday Night Football in any form because you could call the station and opt for a one-hour review of the
night’s events, or even the full, three-hour game with different perspectives, as options. You could watch
from the fan perspective, the sideline perspective (which include foul language, if you wanted the
uncensored version), or even the traditional perspective, which was a mix of it all. You could get it in 3-
D, if you wanted. The options seemed limitless. There was even an option, if you caught the game live, to
interactively call plays through the “fan zone” on internet. This happened five times a game for each
team. The coach had to comply or be fined a game’s paycheck. Most the time, the coach complied.
Deborah Matenopoulis worked for the CIA and was Jamie Lynn’s superior (though Jamie Lynn
didn’t know exactly what she had become involved in) by the time that Robert Wisdom began his second
bid at winning elective office of president of the United States of America. She had close ties with
comedian, Roni Blanchard, though no one knew about it publicly. She told him that there was wave, after
wave, after wave, after wave of people requesting, over and over, the night that Ben Murphy was stripped
down to his shorts. On the east coast, where the show could be seen live, his pecker showed through his
under shorts for about three seconds. It made people laugh. He wasn’t circumcised. That one in
particular, before the censors got a hold of it in later time zones, got the most fanfare.
Deborah relayed the message to Roni, Roni made some calls, and a house band was called in to
perform. This happened on the Monday after the Friday that Ben made his appearance on the television
station. The house band’s name was Long Chalk. They were progressive, along the lines of Destruction,
but they could be had. They didn’t want to change the world. That was not their M.O. They wanted
women. They wanted lots of women. On the day after Ben was stripped down to his shorts, he and
Robert Wisdom experienced a phenomena of modern politics: Their stock rose and their polls went
through the roof. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way, but a lot of the things the CIA did to or for Ben
Murphy didn’t turn out as planned. Long Chalk was supposed to come on--they were perverts in their
own right--and they were supposed to strip down butt naked by the end of their show. At the end of the set
they were to perform, they would remove their pants, flash a bee-ay into the camera, and turn around
holding their dongs, only they expected the cameras to “accidentally” catch full frontal nudity. It would
throw things off. Ben Murphy, if he ever got crazy enough again to call for arms, would be ignored
because he would be dwarfed by what followed him.
Long Chalk performed on The Nightly Buzz, per Debbie Matenopoulis’ request. They did well.
They chickened out. At the end of their set, they grabbed their balls in unison. They thought it would be
enough to catch attention. They thought it would be right for what Roni was expecting. They were
wrong. They weren’t ever invited back on the show again. Ben and Robert Wisdom experienced another
bounce in the polls in the following days.
“There’s no greater form of flattery than imitation,” Ben told Robert as they prepared for a
campaign stop.
Robert didn’t want to pay attention. He knew his days were numbered. Even if he did keep up
retaken lead in the polls, he didn’t want to be part of the government any longer. “I’m giving up, Ben,”
he told him.
“I’m NOT!” Ben yelled.
He wanted Robert to say that at the very least, he would finish the election to its full extent. He
wanted a chance to be prez himself. He wanted something from Robert and he was getting nothing.
Ben flicked off the channel that was showing comparisons from him to Long Chalk. “I’ve had
enough too,” he said Robert. It was a revelation to him. He was surprised he was saying the words.

* * *
Waldo Fleshman was waiting on the fortieth floor with Eddie Macral in the Turner building in
Atlanta. TNT--Turner Network Television--made its way out of cable and onto mainstream television in
2010, two years prior to Wally and Eddie’s visit there. It didn’t matter much. Cable television was
everywhere and even the internet had stations that would rival the big three original powers: ABC, CBS,
and NBC. Fox Television basically turned into a cooking network--that’s what Waldo and Eddie called
it--and ceased to bring the same fans that they had when Married With Children and The Simpsons were
mainstays. Waldo and Eddie were getting ready to perform on the rival station of NBC, still the leader in
late night television. The Nightly Buzz, The Tonight Show, Late Night With David Letterman, and TNT’s
new America Happens vied for viewers every night. The advantage The Nightly Buzz had was that it aired
a half hour before the other three.
Waldo and Eddie called for room service. They were waiting from Heidi--no last name given--
and her friend, Bloom. When they got there, they were going to have a good time. They didn’t like to be
bored on the road. Sex? If it came into play, it would happen. If it didn’t, it didn’t matter much. They
would play Scrabble together--Strip Scrabble--and then Eddie would jerk off in the shower a half hour
after they left, just to release himself. It’s the way he did things. He didn’t need any rape cases against
him. If the girls were unhappy, that’s the way things went. There were always other towns.
Eddie’s batting average with Waldo was roughly forty percent. They liked their odds.
Eddie spoke up to Waldo after he hung up the phone for room service. “Do you think they’re
going to come?”
“I don’t know,” Waldo said to him. “You called for them.”
“Yeah.” Eddie went into deep thought. “You know about condors, right?”
“Yep. You won’t quit saying how they’re the most important bird there’s ever been.”
“For me, Waldo. For me,” Eddie said. Eddie went into deep thought again. He had a beer on his
stomach, resting there like a barrel of oil rests on the ground below it. “I have a condor,” Eddie finally
said after having a sip.
“I know. Heidi. I know already.”
“What do you think of her?”
Waldo cringed a little. Heidi wasn’t bad looking. “I don’t think of her.”
Waldo wasn’t wired the same way as everyone. He could get laid... or not get laid... and it was
just the same to him. Eddie, on the other hand, had a thing about nature. It was natural to want orgasm
with a woman. It was natural. He finally spoke up, “Heidi is my condor,” he finally said. Condors in the
wild began to become extinct in California. This was many years before Freight Train had a hit record. It
was before Eddie’s first spooge. It was before a lot of things. “She’s my condor, you know?” Eddie said,
knowing perfectly well that he beat it over the head many times in the past. “She’s my condor.”
“Clowns don’t feed baby condors, I know,” Wally said.
“Yep. They tried to save baby condors by feeding them worms. They wouldn’t take! They
wouldn’t take at all, and you know it!” Eddie changed his tone a bit. “You’ve watched the
documentaries, right?”
“A millions times with you, bud,” Wally said.
“They don’t take to human hands feeding them worms! Who teaches them this shit?! No one.
Fuckin’ no one!” Eddie paused and wanted to say more. He sipped his beer instead. It was Budweiser in
a can. Wally didn’t have anything to add so Eddie continued on. “If they put a clown puppet on the hand
that fed the worms? Nah. They wouldn’t take to that either. For some reason though...”
“...I know,” Wally said. “They take to the puppet that has their parents on it. Simple as that.”
Wally heard knocks at the door. It was Heidi and Bloom. He was sure of it. “I think they’re here.”
“Heidi’s my condor mother. Don’t tell her that. I could have had Christy Priddy long ago.
Something instinctive wouldn’t keep me with her. I still love her though.”
Eddie got up to open the door. He let them in. Heidi looked a bit disturbed. She acted as if
she’d speak up then just sped past Eddie.
“This is why I like her, Wally!” Eddie said. She was a bitch. Everyone else on the road treated
the members of Freight Train as if they were gods. Not Heidi. Not Bloom. They took work. Eddie liked
it. “You want some Bud...” Eddie held up a can of beer, “...Or you want some bud?!” Eddie asked. He
got laughter with the second response. The second “bud” he was talking about was rolled up greenly in a
little, plastic, see-through baggy. “It’s you... or it’s me!” Eddie screamed.
Eddie jumped on the bed to join Heidi and Bloom. He bounced a couple of times. They looked
disgusted. Eddie couldn’t be happier in life.
 * * *
Bill Swift’s space craft was getting ready to touch down in the Arizona desert on the night the
Freight Train was getting ready to perform on America Happens. Eddie and Waldo had had sex with
Heidi and Bloom, respectively, in the night before the performance. It was good. And they got to play
Scrabble afterwards as well.
Bill’s appearance was changed nominally from the time that he was last on Earth. He was now a
forties-ish man with graying hair. He had some wrinkles around his neck, but not much. He was
supposed to look like the Bill Swift whom had roamed the planet years before. He wasn’t to be him. The
Earth would go crazy.
Alfred was perfecting his talents during his whole trip to Earth. He got aim, and he got insight.
Saul/ Francine, known as Blipwhip, got along to the point that they were going to make a run for things.
They were going to have their chances at redemption. Edward Hand? He didn’t care much. He longed to
give speeches again. He longed to be with young women. When he left Earth, he was in his mid-thirties.
His mind still thought the same. He wondered if it’d be a distraction. He wondered if world peace would
be jeopardized because he couldn’t control his urgings for young, beautiful women, in bloom.
Freight Train did their set. It went well. The band stripped down--they had picked up that it was
the intention of Long Chalk to do the same thing--but they didn’t want to undermine Ben Murphy, as it
had been the intention of Long Chalk to do so. They though it would just be fun.
Bill Swift was picked up in the desert by Stevie Nicks and a waiting group of about a hundred.
They were waiting a long time for it. They knew, early on, that they would be special in the redemption
plans for the universe, more specifically with the planet Earth. They knew they had a role and they were
willing to give it their best.
Bill, Alfred, Edward, and Blipwhip were shacked up in a mansion outside of Mesa. They were to
be told what was going on. They were to be told where they could go safely, without having the press
realize who they were. They were to be told hot spots of trouble around the country, and around the globe
when it came down to it. They were to be told a lot of things. Most of all, they were to be provided rest.
It was a long journey from Zoton. It was a long journey, but then again, the journey that really mattered
was really only about to begin.
Bill wiped his head with a napkin. He was surprised that his schlaclak had coalesced so quickly.
He was told that it would happen. He didn’t know he’d actually start sweating tears so soon. It was as
simple as that.
Alfred looked around in his mansion. The first call he had to make was to the national
government. He was going to report that a space ship was in the middle of the desert. Further, he was to
tell them that if they wanted no problems, they would neither trace the call nor try to figure out where the
craft had come from.
Edward looked around and saw a jug of juice. He knew his schlaclak had coalesced as well. He
wanted the juice. He asked Stevie for it, she nodded her head in agreement that he needed some, and he
drank and drank, and drank, and drank. He finished it all without a thought for anyone else that had
ridden with him.
 “What the fuck?” Bill wanted to know.
“There’s more, Bill,” Stevie told him.
“I know... but,” Bill began. “He just doesn’t know!” he yelled about Edward Hand.
“I know. I use this juice, my hand comes on quicker! It’s as simple as that. ‘They’ told me so.”
Edward said this then pointed upwards. “‘They’ told me, and quite frankly, I’m going to listen.”
“What about my spooge” Alfred wanted to know. “What if I needed it for a cum shot in your
mouth!?”
Stevie knew the group was in order. She knew they had problems as well. “These personalities
aren’t going to do it for you, are they?” she asked Bill.
“It’s all I’ve got,” he said. He was reluctant to continue on.
Lindsay Buckingham came from the other room with grapefruit juice. “This is what you need,
sir,” he told Bill.
“I know.” Bill held it in his hands for a while, poured some of it from the pitcher onto the floor,
then drank straight from the pitcher. “If you’re going to be an idiot,” he said to Alfred, “I’m going to be
an idiot as well.”
Bill wanted laughter. None came. Alfred offered a slight laugh but it was sarcastic and slightly
forced. “I think you need to leave!” he told Blipwhip. They had a mission. They weren’t to be seen with
the other three most the time. They were to prowl the corners of the Earth. They were to report
telepathically to the Koagulates on Xeon. Everything would be fine, or so it was the plan.
“I want...” the Saul side of Blipwhip said. He didn’t continue. Instead, he made motions to his
mouth. He wanted chips, except that he was mocking the rest. Being that he was locked with Francine in
his being, he didn’t need the juice, like everyone else. He was programmed different. And he was an
asshole.
 * two *

The summer of 2012 was heated in politics. Robert Wisdom and Ben Murphy regained the lead
in the polls but it was short-lived. The year before, Al Gore had considered running for president as a
Democrat. He was approached by constituents of Lloyd Cross from the CIA and told that they had an
agenda for him. If he were to go by that agenda, he’d be given a billion dollars in various forms for his
campaign. He’d be able to compete with the Republicans, in other words, for campaign-matching
contributions. Corporate America was afraid of what had happened when Robert Wisdom’s Libertarian
party got elected. They thought it was a fluke--most of them did--but they wanted to make sure it
wouldn’t happen any longer. They had a plan
“You see?” a man had said from Ameriway in approaching Al Gore at his home in Tennessee.
“What we’re going to do is run you in Coke adds. You’ll take pop shots at the prez--pardon the pun here--
and you’ll drink a Coke by the end. The controversy--you see?--is that your candidate--the one you’re
running against in the Republican party--is going to be sponsored by Pepsi! It’ll all work out! He’ll take
shots at you!... and then...”
“I’ll take shots at him. I see,” Al said. He thought about it for a while. “It sounds good. It does.
I don’t know. What about the environment?”
“What environment? Between you and me, nothing is going to change.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know, Al. It’s like that meteor that crashes into the Earth. There’s no turning back!
The Earth is doomed... but we still have time to have a little fun, you know?”
“Yep. Bye.” Al shut the door on the man. He knew he couldn’t operate as a Democrat any
longer. If he didn’t take the pot shot adds for Coke, another Democrat would. He knew it. And then he’d
be driving a Ford, on TV, while his rival drove a Buick or a Cadillac. It’d be as simple as that. The
nature of politics was changing. There was no going back to the stone wheel. Things were changing too
much.
Al registered as a Green and didn’t look back. The following year in 2012, he was in a dead heat
in the polls. The Democrats were able to persuade Donald Trump to run for them. He did the Coke adds.
Daniel Quartz--unscathed from the prior election but still trying to gain ground--did adds for Pepsi. They
hoped to create a controversy: Which one is better? They hoped that Americans would see that there were
only two choices. They hoped that there would be a subliminal message that voting for Robert Wisdom or
Al Gore would be like electing to drink Royal Crown cola instead of the major two. They thought they
had it wrapped.
As October rolled around the Fab Four, as they were being called (this consisted not of the four
major presidential candidates, nor did it consist of Freight Train or even the Beatles), were stopping bank
robberies, saving women from being thrown off of high buildings, and generally “saving the day” for
many other people. They knew they had work to do on Earth. Bill, Alfred, Edward Hand, and Blipwhip
were learning their chops, in other words, much like band learns its chops by playing in small venues at
the beginning of their careers--their prospective careers.
 The Fab Four took on the world. The media dubbed them as so because there hadn’t been four
things put together like this since the Beatles. They saved the day over and over and over and over again.
It was small potatoes to them. They were learning to use their special powers. They were learning how to
get along with one another. They were learning what world events needed their tending. They were
learning a lot.
The other four--the major candidates of the election of 2012--felt threatened by them. They
thought they were undermining authority. In a way, they were undermining authority, but they were doing
it with good reason. Robert Wisdom ran adds on TV in which Emilio Estevez and Demi Moore blew up
banks. It was taken from the 1980’s in a movie that was coincidentally called Wisdom. Robert Wisdom
tried to imply that he would be doing the same thing. In reality, he had no control over the banks. They
were a beast of their own. The Fab Four? They had control. They stopped bank robbers at first, and in
Robert Wisdom’s mind, maybe they should have been letting the bank robbers go, but they could have
been doing so much more.
“Why do you think they’re stopping bank robbers, Ben?” Robert asked his vice president one day.
“I don’t know. They’re not anti-authority. That’s all I know.”
“Maybe they’re learning their craft. That’s what I hope. Maybe they’re going to do good in the
future.”
“Good for who?” Ben wanted to know. “You always have to pick sides on this Earth. You can
try to be like a Buddha, but that’s impossible nowadays.”
“I like my roots. That’s all I have to say. This Blipwhip character... He gives me the willies!”
“I know.” Ben was serious at that. “I know.”
The election of 2012 rolled around in early November and no one knew who would win. All four
parties--the Greens, Libertarians, Democrats, and Republicans--had all had leads in various polls. For all
practical purposes, it was a four-way dead heat.
Ben Murphy committed suicide on the day before the election. He had enough with government.
He had enough with life. In the end, it was that he found out that Bill Swift had come back as a
superhero. He didn’t want to say anything to anyone--it wasn’t like him to blow a cover unless he felt he
had to in self-defense--but he wanted to be done with it all. He knew Bill had hung himself many years
back. The-Powers-That-Be in the universe allowed him to come back as a hero. Ben thought there was
something wrong with that. And then he hung himself and hoped the same thing would happen to him.
Ben was sent to Zoton. Robert Wisdom lost the election to Al Gore by four percentage points.
Blipwhip stopped being showed on the media outlet stations (the secret wasn’t kept for very long that :“it”
was on Earth) because of the hideous nature of its being. Bill Swift was in high demand. He was in
higher demand than new president, Al Gore. It made Al mad. It set the stage for a showdown. In the
end, no one would be happy. The Earth would be torn to pieces twelve years later and it’d be the result of
their feud.
“I have to tell you something, people!” Bill Swift proclaimed from the steps of a building in
Hawaii in January of 2013. Al Gore was to be sworn in as the president of the United States of America in
three and a half hours. There were cameras all over the place. Alfred Newman was to Bill’s right and
Blipwhip, in a surprise appearance, was to Bill’s left. Edward Hand was in the audience and checking the
crowd for potential troublemakers. He would subdue any of them with his flying hands if trouble was
made.
The crowd rustled a little.
A pause ensued as Bill thought the best way to proclaim the thing he had to say. “In the Old
Testament...”
A heckler shouted something out about not bringing up religion. Edward Hand projected one of
his hands off him. A new one would be reformed within five minutes. The hand that took off flew to the
heckler, bitch-slapped him, then disintegrated into dog dookie in front of the person. People looked on in
stunned amazement. A lady yelled out, “You’re no better than they are!!!”
“I know. I have something to say, dear lady,” Bill said. “I... HAVE... the POWER! It’s as
simple as that. If you want to be bitch slapped by Edward’s other hand, doubt me on the subject. As a
matter of fact...” Bill paused, pointed to the women, then a diarrhea projectile was sent toward her. She
fell in amazement before it could hit her. “The issue of evil, people... Let’s see?” He thought of a way to
say it. “There is no evil anymore. It’s about who has power... and who doesn’t!”
The crowd laughed. It was manufactured laughter. They kept on for about five minutes and Bill
reveled in the glory of it all.
“These cameras,” he finally said when they started to die down. “Are here for a reason.” He
made a waving motion with his left arm to display the hundred-plus cameras from around the world that
came to film him and his buddies. “They know. And I’m not going to HIDE! I am not evil, folks. I will
kick your ass if you cross me! Goddammit!...” Bill had to compose himself. He felt a stink from his ears.
Whenever he got angry, fart-like smells would exude from him. It was a byproduct of the gift he had been
given.
Bill composed himself but he felt embarrassed. The lady heckler who had challenged him
minutes ago was gaining her consciousness. She was being let out the side of the crowd near the edge of
the building.
“I will kill Al, if he makes you guys pay!”
There were thunderous applauds and roars from this last sincere statement from Bill Swift.
A little more than three and a half hours later, Al Gore dismissed Bill Swift as a freak. “If he
threatens you again,” Al said during his acceptance speech. “I will shoot a nuke up his ass!” He expected
laughter from the crowd but got nothing. He continued on as if it didn’t phase him. “He has to live by the
rules. We all do... me most of all! I’m a servant to you, people!” He said.
Al got his laughter. It was at his most recent statement.

* * *
Years before Al Gore was elected president, Ralph Connors reigned in the Whitehouse. When he
got his anti-flag burning amendment passed and Neekay signed on as the country’s first endorser of the
new flag licensing concept, he erected two ceremonial flags next to his Old Glory. One of them,
obviously, was the new Neekay flag. It was to send a message to the rest of the world that they were going
to take the new licensing concept seriously. They did take it seriously.
The other flag that flew next to Old Glory was England’s Union Jack. “America--you see?--is in
partnership with our mother! You got that right! We need not deny any longer that we are truly kindred,”
Ralph said in a speech. In all actuality, he supported the Union Jack flying next to Old Glory. He didn’t
want it there when push come to shove though. It threatened his nation’s sovereignty. Nonetheless,
England and the United States were more like brothers, as of late in his administration, than that of a
mother- sibling. He thought it would go over well with the public. It did. It also diffused any possible
backlash people would have when they saw the new Neekay flag flying high on the Whitehouse’s front
garden.
Robert Wisdom had the Neekay flag removed during his administration. He also replaced the
Union Jack of England with something a little more personal to him--a little more sentimental as well. It
was true Old Glory, to him. It was the flag that had the large 76 in the middle of the blue field, and
thirteen stars circling it. He cried on the night that it was first put up. He had let the other flags fly for a
short period, but there were protesters on television that were burning his new flag concept for the
Whitehouse. He cried, and he cried, and he cried. They were tears of joy though. “We have America
back, son,” he told Ben that night. Ben cried as well. They were tears of sorrow though, unlike Robert’s.
He didn’t want to be in the Whitehouse any longer. He felt his mission was over. He’d trudge on for a
few years, nevertheless.
Al Gore’s first action as president was to take down Robert Wisdom’s flag. It was great to Al. In
spite of this, it reminded him too much of Robert Wisdom personally. He didn’t want his ghost around,
and he had his own agenda that he wanted to work on.
Al Gore’s flag that he put up in place of Robert’s was one of the Earth. It had a blue backdrop.
The Earth. There were some clouds around the globe. The United States could faintly be made out
underneath them. Overall, Al thought it was a better symbol for the world. It was a symbol of openness.
It was a symbol of diversity. In his dreams, every nation would have this flag flying high.
Al was wrong about something. People resented the flag. Daniel Quartz took on the job as
political host on a show known as Everything America. He said that Al was part of a communist plot to
control the world. The World Flag, as it was known to Daniel Quartz and others (Al Gore called it Gaia
and hoped it would catch on), was a symbol of the New World Order. Jerry Shuster, now retired from his
ministry, thought about things that Daniel Quartz said one night and likened them to things happening in
Revelation. Daniel didn’t have that agenda, at least not publicly. He thought of the Greens as a large
monster, a subtly one at that. “‘Egalitarian’ is a word that our friend, Mr. Gore, uses on occasion. I’m
going to tell you something, folks,” Daniel said during his newscast. “We’ve had this before. It’s called
Communism. Look it up in the dictionary, if you don’t believe me.”
Daniel Quartz went on to say, surprisingly to many, that Communists--the early ones--had some
good ideas. They saw corporate raiders around the world as they were viewing people like they viewed
oil, gold, inexpensive materials, and everything in between: As resources. When an oil barren stuck oil,
he’d ride it until the end, then when the oil well dried up, he’d leave town, find another oil well, strike
again, then the same thing would happen over and over and over and over and over and over and over and
over and over and over and over and over and over. The oil barrens got rich. Who was to lose except the
deer and the antelope around the wells? No one. Oil could be used. Schlaclak lived within it, but no one
knew that, or at the very least, relatively few believed it. People? Oil barrens--people that were like
them--saw the same thing. They could go into Ontario, California--a progressive city back when Ralph
Connors was president--and use the people that it supplied. These people would be rich, at first. They
would be paid like they were rich.
And then the barrens would suck it dry. They would gradually and collectively lower wages.
They would prepare for the next stop. They would see prospective communities springing up around the
state and around the globe. It was as simple as that.
Daniel Quartz didn’t go into too much detail about why early Communists had good ideas. He
did point out that they had wrong ideas as well. The state was supposed to whither away in Russia. It
never did. The Church was supposed to whither away. In the end, people had pains on the inside that the
state nor their brethren could relieve. It was an eternal thing. And there was the fact that they deified the
early proponents and leaders of the Communist movement, hence, creating a paradox. They were taught
not to deify Christ--he was only a person to them--but they regarded Lenin and Stalin above all people. At
the very least, the people that didn’t want to be sent to Siberia did.
Communism was a paradox, in Daniel Quartz’s eyes, that didn’t work. He saw, in Al Gore, the
same thing. “These ‘Egalitarian’ concepts that he talks about are going to lead us to the same exact place
as the Russians were led... and where the Communists Chinese were led two years ago! They’re on a road
to nowhere, the Greens are. Get off the boat, people. He won the election by four percentage points over
another quack.” Daniel Quartz surprised himself when he said, “Our country is strong enough to make it
through!”
There was dead silence around him. He demanded no studio audience for his show. He wished
there were people there. He didn’t know how he was coming across. For the first time in his life, he
didn’t care.
* * *
Eddie Macral was off of touring and went to his hometown of Quixote. Christy Priddy, his
girlfriend of four years when Freight Train was making it big, lived in nearby Miller, California. Eddie
decided to pay her a visit. Heidi made him feel fine. It left him wondering, Why weren’t things like this
all along? Heidi makes me feel complete. Why didn’t Christy make me feel complete? Eddie went to her
apartment--she had told him where she lived in a letter a year before--and knocked at the door. Just then,
a police office that had just gotten off duty rolled up in a Chevy Malibu, probably from the mid-seventies
by Eddie’s impression. Eddie spoke to Christy when she opened the door.
“Come on in,” she told him. She had no interest in him and it made him mad. Eddie let himself
in, sat on the couch--it was red with yellow flower designs--and then thought of things. He knew Christy
didn’t want to stay. Further, he sensed that this off-duty police officer wanted to take her out. She wasn’t
expecting Eddie. Eddie knew it, but he thought she wouldn’t mind.
“I have something to say, Christy,” Eddie told her.
Just then, she let herself out of the house. Before she reached the walkway, she dangled a set of
keys in front of him. She felt sorry for him, and he could feel it. He thought that she wanted him to take
the keys. Maybe it was a sign that he would be welcome later, after the cop left and all.
Eddie composed himself as Christy continued towards the police officer’s Malibu. “I have
something to say!” he yelled at her as she let herself in the passenger seat. She rolled down the window
and Eddie could tell that she had interest in her face. “I don’t know what to do! I had you in my life for
four YEARS, Goddamn it!” He waited for a response, but Christy didn’t say a thing. She looked like a
model to Eddie at that moment. She was wearing a flowery dress--something you’d never see on the cover
of Cosmopolitan--but she looked gorgeous.
Christy didn’t say a thing. It was her police officer buddy that finally spoke. He didn’t speak
with words. He started to cry. He said, Something’s wrong, but the words never escaped his mouth. His
tears did all the talking for him.
“I have nothing to do with that man, Christy. If you’re seeing him... Let me know. Please.
Please, please, please.”
A lady came up the walkway and prepared to let herself in the apartment next to Christy’s. She
didn’t say a word but looked like she wanted to talk. She looked interested by what was going on.
“Do you know this lady?” Eddie asked the stranger that apparently lived next to Christy.
“I don’t have a thing to say to you, mister,” the lady said. She was about thirty-five years of age
and had brunette hair of shoulder length. “I don’t have a thing to say to you either,” she told the police
officer.
“Why are you here? You don’t... Ah, forget it,” Eddie said to the new mystery woman. For a
while, he thought that she must have known Christy. He thought that she wanted to say something
because of knowing her. He was going to challenge her on it. He knew the result though. If the stranger
was loyal to Christy, she’d deny that she had any interest in the conversation. If she was an enemy or
indifferent to Christy, she wouldn’t say a thing because of not caring. It was as simple as that to Eddie.
“I’m going to go,” he said to the mystery lady. “If you know me, it’s because I’m in one of the bigger rock
bands on the planet! She--” Eddie pointed to Christy, then continued, “--used to be mine! Her heart never
was!” Eddie paused, wanted to go on, started to cry a little himself, then took off down the walkway faster
than Christy had.
He got in his car--it was a ninety-seven cherry red Mustang with a nice paint job still--and was
surprised to see that Christy had come up next to him. Her cop buddy was right behind her, and Christy
seemed not to mind the additional company.
“What do you want?!” she asked in consternation.
“I’m a rock star, Christy. I don’t expect that that’ll do anything to keep you. If I had you’re
heart, it’d be great... but I don’t. I never did. I know now.” Eddie thought about Heidi and that way he
felt around her. “You screwed my friends and I didn’t think anything of it. I wondered, Why does Dave
enjoy your company more than me? After all... I’m your boyfriend! I thought things like that, but I never
did anything about it! Don’t you see that I feel fuckin’ taken!” Eddie waited. He stopped crying but tears
were still on his face. They were drying. He waited for Christy to react. He wanted to hear something
from her. He wanted closure, but he was afraid of closure. In his mind, she was his first love. She was
the person that he was willing to give it all up for. She was perfect for him, in his mind, but she wasn’t a
perfect person to him. It didn’t matter. It was part of life.
“I don’t have a thing to say,” Christy said. She contemplated leaving as she got up out of his
rolled-down window.
Eddie wanted more. He was now happy. He hadn’t seen her real. Maybe he never wanted to see
her real. She went through the motions with him. When he needed a lady on his arm, she was there.
When he needed a person to talk to, she was there. When he needed a person to speak back to him, she
was never there. That was his problem with her. He thought she was a ditz. He was coming to learn that
she wasn’t. She just had other people in the world that she liked better. There were people that listened
to her and understood her, or so he thought. The cop was a one-eighty from Eddie, in Eddie’s mind. Your
first love is your opposite. I learned that somewhere, Eddie thought. Your second love is your equal.
They are similar to you. This cop must be just like her. I’m nowhere like this cop, am I? We can’t be the
same! Can we? “I’m going to let you go with your cop boyfriend here, Christy,” Eddie finally said. He
was happy with things in the sense that he felt he had a better grasp on what reality was. Reality was that
she wasn’t waiting around for him. That helped him. He wouldn’t be on the road, in the coming months,
turning down perfectly good poontang. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t feel guilt when he was with
another lady. Eddie had something he wanted to know before leaving and he asked Christy, “Did you ever
love me?”
Christy had something before Eddie asked. It was “bye” and it was after Eddie said that he was
going to let her go with her cop boyfriend. Eddie was in deep thought after that and asked Christy if she
ever loved him. She wasn’t paying attention. Eddie sped off and let them do their work together.
As Eddie was leaving the parking lot, the neighbor of Christy Priddy came out from her
apartment and flagged him down. “You have to be with me!” she said. Eddie looked at her face, saw the
sarcasm on it, then thought what a jerk he must have been for believing that rock stars must have it all.
“What a fuckin’ joke!” Eddie said to himself. He put on the radio. Barry Manalow was playing
Mandy. Eddie loved it. He stopped his crying, lit up a cigarette, then contemplated shooting himself
when the song was done.
* * *
“Two years ago, I started talking to Bill Swift. You know that, right?”
“Yep,” Stephanie Venezia-Barley said to Jeff Splifer. They were at a tavern that wasn’t far from
San Quixote Community College. “I think you told me that...”
“...I don’t know what I told you, to tell you the truth,” Jeff interrupted. He held up a glass of
draft beer. “This is what’s keeping me from remembering everything.” Jeff took a swig then continued,
“The anecdote that I used in class the other day from what Bill was telling me--the anecdote that I’ve
been waiting for--” Jeff paused, wanted to cry in joy, then resumed, “--is somehow flawed.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know, Steph. These schlaclak! They started talking to me in their dreams. Was it their
dreams? Was it mine?! I don’t really know. I could go crazy just thinking about that!” Jeff started to
foam at the mouth a bit from undrunken beer. He was “three sheets to the whey”. That’s a term he would
use to describe himself the following day.
“Wipe your mouth,” Stephanie said with care. She looked around after handing him a napkin.
Half-eaten crust sat between them. Steph worried that they’d be thrown out for lewd behavior. She didn’t
know it, but at that tavern, with new ownership, you could pick a bar fight and be back the following day.
Jeff wiped his mouth, then continued on, “The schlaclak has a message for me and for YOU,
Stephanie.” Jeff looked at her like he just gave her the insight that he was about to let her in on the
original, mysterical (a word not known to the public but known to Jeff’s semi-drunken state) Riddle of the
Sphinx. Stephanie was unphased and was actually becoming a little scared and uncomfortable with every
passing second that Jeff didn’t explain himself. “They said to send a message!... righteo!” Jeff yelled, and
Stephanie laughed. Jeff got serious after channeling his mysterical English brethren from beyond, leaned
toward Stephanie, and said, “I... need... you, Stephanie... to--”
“Yes?” she asked.
“--pay... for the tab!” Jeff laughed, but Stephanie didn’t get it. Jeff was in hysterics, started
slobbering again, then had Stephanie get off her seat to take care of him before he fell off his chair.
She wiped him clean around his mouth again.
Jeff waited for her reaction. He contemplated “sending his message”. He didn’t know if she was
ready or if it even mattered.
Stephanie paid for the tab against Jeff Splifer’s wish. He said that he was just joking, but she
wouldn’t take any of it. The next day in class, Jeff began his lecture by talking about the prior day’s
events. The class laughed that he could be a blubbering slob at times. He continued on in spite of the
laughter and continued, “Stephanie is my friend.” He noticed her coming into the room and said, “A la!
There she is right now!” Steph took a seat and Jeff Splifer continued.
He talked about the schlaclak, as he did before. He said he was wrong, to a degree, that it was
much like shooting a bullet by a small, drifting, white balloon, in comparison to the “light rays” known as
photons. He said he was wrong. He said that in a dream, the schlaclak started talking to him. He said
that each schlaclak is like the Blob, a movie character monster that many of Jeff’s students were still
aware of, for whatever reason. The blobs, known as schlaclak COULD break into smaller particles. It
was rare, but it happened. And when it happened, it was like a chain reaction. Jeff brought up an
anecdote--he was a master of it--about a movie he had watched when he was younger (he actually read the
short story as well but that skipped his mind at the time of the story). The movie was called Stand By Me.
There was a barf-o-rama that was going on (the classed laughed at the suggestion of it). The barf-o-rama
started when one person puked, intentionally at that, and it started a chain reaction of people getting
nauseous and puking themselves. Jeff paused then said, “The schlaclak is ready to do that, my friends.
They’re leading me to believe that the end is near!”
“I don’t believe shit!” a girl yelled from the back. She pulled out a gold cross that had been
tucked under her blouse. “This is my Saviour! He’s going to come before it all happens.”
“Doll,” Jeff said. “This is a creative writing course. You don’t have to believe a thing I say.
Take it as fiction, okay?”
The girl hushed up, looked a little embarrassed, then said, “Oh!”
 Jeff continued on. “The anecdote I gave you was correct. Schlaclak in it’s most common form is
like a speeding bullet passing by a drifting, small, white balloon. We don’t have the technology--maybe
the PIA has it and that’s a different story--to prove that these passing bullets exist.”
Jeff thought for a while, decided to let the class out for a break, then continued where he left off
ten minutes later. Much of the class didn’t return. They were scared by his “end talk” and Jeff could
sense it. He decided to let the scared ones leave. He wanted to talk to the people that wanted to be talked
to. He wanted an honest discussion when it was all said and done.
The girl that shouted out about her Lord and Saviour returned to the class. Jeff was happy.
“It’s like a parachute, the schlaclak is. Fast as it may be compared to photons of light, it’s still
like a parachute. A bowling ball is much smaller in mass...” Jeff said.
The girl raised her hand and corrected Jeff after being called on, “It’s in length that it’s smaller
in. It probably has a mass that’s not much different.”
“Okay. You’re right,” Jeff said. “It’s the surface area. I think me and you are both saying that.”
“Yep,” the girl said. A guy two seats up from her thought she was a kiss-ass, wanted to say
something about it, then refrained.
Jeff continued, “Schlaclak is able to travel much faster than light. If it hit a photon, it would bust
it up or bounce off of it. Most likely--I don’t know this from experience because I haven’t learned
everything--it bounces off in most cases.” Jeff paused for the last time of the night. He said, “The smaller
schlaclak--the one’s that have been busted up like the blob--I want to tell you that it’s like shooting a
bullet through a hot air balloon. The balloon will stay in tact for the most part, I think. Either way, it’s
like dropping a bowling ball past a large parachute. I think that’s what I want to tell you. Telepathy
across the universe? That’s what it’s all about, people. People used to think on other planets, that it was
all schlaclak. They were right. They just didn’t know that the schlaclak breaks up into smaller particles
and can travel thousands of times faster than a hot air balloon.”
“You mean a larger schlaclak, don’t you mister?” Stephanie asked sarcastically, yet with joy, from
her front row seat.
“No. I mean a balloon, I guess. I’m going to go now.” He put down his pen and left.

* * *
Eddie Macral had a burning sensation inside of him and he couldn’t get over anything. He
decided not to stay in his hometown of San Quixote. Los Angeles was not far--it could be driven there in
less than two hours even with traffic--and there was a lot more action. He knew a lot of people in his
industry. He could call up Heidi and have her flown in from Georgia. He didn’t want to do that. He
could call up Beam Goodson and have a good guitar jam session. That might help relieve things. He
opted out of it.
There was the idea of the shotgun. After a few beers, it was the furthest thing that Eddie wanted
to do. Eddie crushed a can of Miller Genuine Draft in his hands, thought about how different it tasted
than the bottled taste of the same beer, and said, “Fuck killing myself!” aloud to an empty hotel room.
Alexander Hamilton was killed while in the office of the presidency. Aaron Burr (Eddie didn’t
know who the fuck Aaron Burr was, but his name was plugged in his head, nonetheless) had challenged
him to a duel. Alexander Hamilton accepted the duel! “Wouldn’t it be strange if Al Gore would accept a
duel from anyone!” Eddie said aloud into the room. “Wouldn’t happen. No. Not in today’s society. They
probably want Alexander the great!... off of the ten dollar bill now. We can’t be reminded of chivalry, can
we? No. We can’t! It’s unacceptable in today’s mode. That’s right! Today’s world can’t handle it!”
Eddie heard a thumping on his floor. Someone was knocking on the ceiling below him with a
broom or something. “SORRY!” Eddie yelled. He passed out on the bed with a new beer cracked between
his legs. He didn’t even sleep under the covers.
Eddie woke the next morning with a slight hangover. He knew what he wanted to do. He called
his manager--the one that managed Freight Train--and arranged to be in a tough man contest. He didn’t
want to do it with anyone He wanted to challenge Christy Priddy’s new boyfriend to a duel. It wasn’t a
duel of the classical sense, but it would do, regardless. If the man were to retreat, he would challenge his
buddy from a rival band, Beam Goodson, to a duel. That would be a joke though. He would have fun
with it.
Christy Priddy’s boyfriend accepted. Eddie had gotten his number from Christy, directly. The
new tough man competitions in Los Angeles encompassed kick boxing as an option. That was the route
that Eddie wanted to go. Since it was not promoted by a major machine and since Eddie Macral was not
featured, by his own request, as a major card, the boxing event was to take place in a week. Eddie trained
hard, Dean McJames trained harder, and he already had his police training besides that. The Fab Four
caught wind of the event through the internet. Blipwhip had its eyes on springing events. This seemed to
be a hot one. Alfred Newman was sent to watch. He was making sure that nothing happened out of the
ordinary. Bill Swift would later show up but more out of curiosity than anything else. He could give a
shit if the place broke into a riot. He wanted to see some action and it seemed like the place to be.
The internet was a strange thing in 2013. All the hot celebrities were linked to a specific site by
choice. They paid big money to make sure that they had the lowdown--the same lowdown as the new Fab
Four was getting. George Foreman showed up to the event as did Heather Locklier. She brought her
husband, Richie Sambora, and he brought Jon Bongeovi and the rest of the band that they were playing
with. It was an event from hell.
Eddie Macral was going to fight in the third slot of events. That was the original plan. He
wanted to be like everyone else. The cards were randomly drawn. When Howard Stern found out what
was going on, he brought a team of freak reporters--Stuttering Jack had long since replaced Stuttering
John--and he requested that Eddie fight in the night’s final event, twelfth over all. Eddie had no say in it.
All he knew was that he was pushed to the final card for some reason or another. The event’s handler
came and told him directly.
It was a freak circus, at the beginning: Tall man versus short man; big man versus skinny man;
fat lady versus skinny dude; and so on. There was a frightening moment during the middle of the twelve
matches in which an irate woman challenged her husband to come into the ring, unexpectedly. The man
came in, she knocked him cold, then tossed him over the top turn buckle. Everything would have been
fine except that insurance wouldn’t have covered the man if he broke his neck. The night’s events would
likely have been called off... and that was scary to a lot of people.
The man got up off of the floor--it was solid concrete--after five minutes. The crowd cheered
him. His wife approached him, gave him a hug, then kissed him on the cheek. The crowd would have
roared at their making up, but they wanted to see more action. A man yelled from nearby, “Hey cupid!
Get the fuck out of here!” People laughed at that.
Eddie got ready to fight the fight of his life. He kept a small plastic knife in his glove as a joke.
If he was really getting his ass kicked, he was going to pull it on Dean McJames and hope the crowd got a
laugh out of it. He didn’t care. He was having second thoughts. He didn’t even know why he was doing
it.
Eddie was called to center ring. The crowd roared. They played “Death to Jesus” on the
loudspeaker. It was a song by Destruction, close friends of Freight Train. Dean McJames was called into
the ring next. The music changed. He chose Mozart to come in with. He looked calm. He looked
collected. He looked nervous for fleeting moments. There was a chill in the crowd. His cape was red,
white, and blue. His trunks could have come off of Apollo Creed of the Rocky movies, but they were
somehow different. The stripes were slanted as if the flag was being blown in the air. “He destroyed our
flag!” Dean said to a man near him as he passed.
“I know,” the man said about Eddie Macral.
The fight began with a roar. It was scheduled for five rounds. The crowd thundered. Dean
didn’t want any part of initiating contact at the beginning then something hit him. I’ve got to get in
there, he thought to himself. He went to center ring, where Eddie was waiting, and started jabbing him in
the ribs on Eddie’s right side. Eddie didn’t feel a thing and barely made an effort to defend himself. The
jabs weren’t meant to hurt Eddie. They were meant to give the crowd a semblance that Dean was at least
trying. They were to make him look like he wasn’t a chicken. If Dean felt enraged, he could have broken
one of Eddie’s ribs with one or two punches. He held back. He wanted Eddie to fight back with his initial
punches. He wanted to feel the rage. He wanted to operate with the rage.
The rage didn’t come. Eddie said to the crowd, after turning his back on Dean, “These are the
people that defend you, people! They want to kill people like you and me! We are rock stars!”
Eddie was prepared to say more but he was rabbit punched from behind. Dean hit him with a
serious blow. Butch Jackson had made it to the event as well and was prepared to enter the ring to help
Dean.
“I’ve won!” Dean said and started to raise his hands, jump in joy, and blow kisses to the crowd as
he circled the ring.
No one had declared him winner, but Eddie walked up to him and put his arms around his
shoulder. “This is a defender of freedom, folks. Defend him with your life,” Eddie said.
The crowd roared--half of them did--and a man, after the roaring was over (it took about five
minutes as the two basked in their glory), a man finally yelled from the tenth row, “Kick his ass still!”
The crowd laughed.
Eddie went home that night. Howard Stern pegged the event as a publicity stunt for Freight
Train. He had no idea that Eddie was willing to die that day. He wanted to know what kind of hands
Christy Priddy, his ex-girlfriend, was in. When Dean didn’t hit him with vicious blows off the bat, the
knew the guy at least cared. He wouldn’t tell too many people--Eddie wouldn’t--but he thought he was a
fox, actually.
“I’ve gotta get these queer feelings out of me!” he said to himself that night in his hotel room in
Los Angeles.
“Shut up!” someone yelled from below.
Eddie went to sleep with a boner. He was thinking of a girl named Elaine Cassidy, Zotar‘s
younger sister. It please him that he was still thinking of women.

* * *
Dean McJames celebrated the same night that he won his boxing match (it was kick boxing, in
all actuality, though no kicks were “thrown” in the match). He went with Christy Priddy, Butch Jackson,
and two off-duty police officers to Blinker’s Pub in Hollywood, California. They had the times of their
lives. Eddie Macral didn’t celebrate until the following week. He went with his buddy, Beam Goodson,
and they lit up the town. Word was around that Eddie lost his long-time girlfriend and was exploring
homosexuality. Nothing was further from the truth, but when an independent reporter from the National
Global Star (not by the name of Ned Swift) caught Eddie and Beam at the Whiskey-a-Go-Go together
without any dates and drinking heavily, the reporter confronted Eddie and asked him, “Are you
homosexual, Eddie? You can be upfront with us.”
Eddie responded, “I don’t know. I don’t care. If you want to write that I’m homo now, go ahead.
I’ll even pose for you. You know why? More money for me! More publicity, in other words, right?”
Eddie posed for a picture of him about to kiss Dean. A story was printed the following week that
they had been dating all along. Christy Priddy, according to the article, was actually jealous of Beam
Goodson. In all actuality, she had no idea who he was, as was the case with many of Eddie’s friends.
Dean McJames fought Eddie for Christy’s honor. That’s the way the paper put it.
Ben Affleck was coming off of his fourth divorce. He wanted marriage to work. He couldn’t
make it happen. He looked to the wrong people. He picked the wrong people. The chemistry was simply
not there. Unknown to Ben, he tried too hard. He held his wives tightly. You need to treat them like
they’re wet fish, Matt Damon had told him candidly one day. Ben didn’t listen or was unable to listen.
Ben gave up on convention. He saw the picture of Eddie and Beam about to kiss on the front
page of the National Global Star one day while in a Seven-Eleven. He picked it up, looked at Beam,
called him up after tracking down his number, and asked him on a date. He actually asked if he was still
dating Eddie, before anything else. “Publicity stunt, Ben. You should know that,” Beam told him.
Ben didn’t listen to him and demanded that they at least meet. Beam met Ben at a cafe. He
didn’t have a lot to say to him and didn’t intend to say a whole lot. He hired a photographer--a private
one--to take pictures of the two men together. He wanted to be in the news. He wanted it to be out
“mysteriously” that he was shopping for new food. He wanted to be gay.
Two months later, Ben had a barrage of proposals from gay men around the world. It was
exactly what he wanted. The National Global Star wasn’t the first paper to pick up the hype. It was a
rival paper, the Blast Stringer. It didn’t have the fanfare that the Global National Star had, but it did the
job.
A month and a half after dating Dizzy Johansson, a millionaire that made his fortune in gay
pornography, Ben proposed marriage to him and sent an open letter to Al Gore, president of the United
States of America. The letter said that the ban against gay marriages needed to be lifted right away. Al
Gore, in a speech given the first night that he received Ben’s letter, said that he tore the letter up. It was a
joke. Not many people laughed. His Secretary of State, Tom Burman, was severely homophobic on the
outside, but dreamt secretly of having sex with his father since he was fourteen years of age, and bellowed
with laughter. Some of it was fake, but most of it was not. He was laughing at himself, but he knew the
public would not know the difference. Tom was the only one that laughed in such a fashion in front of the
TV cameras.
Al gave a speech that night that addressed the “homosexual problem” as he put it. He would
later recant that it was a mix-up on words but not a mix-up in his message. He said that America was a
place of values. One of the values that America had, in his opinion, was that it did not allow for
homosexual marriage. “We need not turn clock back to the time of ancient Greeks my friends,” he said.
A reporter would ask him where, then, we got our concepts of democracy, if not from the Greeks
themselves. He had nothing to say on the issue, but rather continued with his speech, “I’m trying to say
that we are beyond the point where homosexual masters are not having sex with their young, male pupils.
That is what I’m trying to say.” A lady reporter asked if Al Gore ever had sexual relations with another
man. Al admitted that he had one sexual experience, it was with Bill Clinton in the Whitehouse, people
laughed, took it as a joke, and Al went on without knowing whether or people took it as a joke. “In
summation, I have to say. Ben... You’ve got to move. Simple as that.” Al held up the letter that Ben
Affleck had sent him, tore it in half, and Tom Burman was held in silence.
Bill Swift was infuriated by what was going on. He decided to declare war on the United States
of America, most of all, Al Gore. “We need to examine what his happening, folks,” Bill told a crowd the
next day in front of the World War II Memorial. “Al Gore, last week, demanded the removal of the last--
the VERY last--plaque that signified the Ten Commandments in a state courtroom. He did that. I don’t
think he read the Mayflower Compact, people. Do you know that--?” Bill began.
Blipwhip was in the crowd and Alfred just arrived. They flew in separately without the use of
jets or anything else motorized. They were getting good at the flying aspect of their missions. Blipwhip--
the Francine side--smirked at Bill. Bill contemplated sending some kind of shit bomb at her face and
refrained. Someone near Blipwhip caught Bill’s telepathy and slapped it silly.
“Do you know that,” Bill began again, “The Mayflower Compact EXPLICITLY says that we
were to become a Christian nation?” A moan could be heard from the crowd of about two hundred people.
Ten reporters were covering the event as well. “I bet you didn’t know that. I bet ninety-five percent of you
have never read the Mayflower Compact, the Constitution--all the way through--or the Declaration of
Independence from front to back!”
“You’re not right, Bill,” Alfred said from next to him. “None of them in this crowd, reporters
included, have read one of them, front to back. Not one,” Alfred said. “I read their minds. I have that
power now, once a day.”
“Oh,” Bill said privately to Alfred. He continued on to the crowd. “We have to keep in mind
what we’re founded on. Separation of church and state? That means that we believe in God, folks. It’s
on our fuckin’ MONEY, for Christ’s sake!” Bill composed himself. He could feel the stink from the anger
coming on. He said, “Read your dollar: ‘In God We Trust’, it says. That’s what it says. Separation of
church and state means you worship God in your own way! That’s what it means!”
The Francine side of Blipwhip tried to throw in a “hallelujah” but no one listened. The crowd
roared. When they settled back down, Bill said, “I am going to reclaim this country! I am going to put
Seventy-Six Thesis Statements on the front door of the Whitehouse door!” The crowd roared again.
“First, and foremost... We don’t have a magistrate any longer.” Bill reconsidered his words and
rephrased, “Most of you are dumb, and don’t know what that means. It means that, ‘No more Congress,
no more Executive, no more Supreme Court!’ That’s what it means!” The crowd began to cheer again
but were held from a complete roar by a collective feeling of awe and dread. “All is fine, folks. I know
George Washington. Those of you that are afraid of losing your country--your precious, little U S of A--be
assured that you lost it a long time ago and didn’t realize that.”
A man yelled from the third row of people. It was standing-room only. He said, “I HEAR YOU,
BROTHER!”
Bill continued on, “I know, George. He’ll be coming back to this planet just like I came back to
this planet. We don’t have to listen to Al Gore any longer. Your new president is your old president. His
name is George Washington.” Bill continued on as the crowd anticipated something else. That could be
all that Bill was proposing, could it? was a collective attitude.
“Al Gore removed the Ten Commandments, as I’ve said before. He said it was because of
‘separation between church and state.’ It is horseshit and we all know it. If it were true, my Mormon
brothers would be allowed to marry ten women at a time. It is part of their history, you know? They’d be
the same if the United States didn’t outlaw their practice.” Bill didn’t get much of a response from the
crowd and didn’t really want one at the time. He was building. “My brothers with the last names of ‘Ali’
and ‘Mohammed’ don’t get to practice their religions in full. It is called polygamy, but the Koran, their
holy text, allows for up to four wives. We don’t allow that in this country. Separation of church and state?
I say it’s horseshit!” Once again, Bill scanned the audience. There was no response audible but he could
sense rustling. It wasn’t an unhealthy rustling, in his mind. When he spoke, he had power. He was
going to continue on with force. “Ben is a Scientologists now, my friends. His brethren say it’s okay for
him to marry another man. The United States recognizes Scientology as a religion, and even if they
didn’t? I won’t get into that right now. Even if they didn’t, man! Either way, he is now a Scientologist,
we should respect his beliefs. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m a fuckin’ alien, for all practical purposes!” Bill
looked up into the statues around him. He had a sensation that the CIA had planned for radical speakers
and wouldn’t have been surprised if a nerve gas emitted from one of the statues. None emitted. He felt
safe.
Bill stepped down from the podium. He did so without cheers. He did so without challenging Al
Gore again. He did so dejected. He didn’t feel he lost. He felt he couldn’t lose. He sensed that if he kept
on talking, he would have had volunteers that would have nailed his Seventy-Six Thesis Statements to the
wall of the Whitehouse, or whereever he’d order them to nail them.
Bill, away from the podium, said to himself, “I need to think this over.”
Just then, an alien space craft appeared through the clouds. “You’ve done well, Bill,” an alien
said. His face could be seen through the window. Only Bill could hear. The alien was talking in
telepathy.
The story the next day was not the Seventy-Six Thesis Statements. It was the alien space craft.
Bill Swift took his thesis statements to the Whitehouse lawn, wrapped them in cellophane, and tied them
to a rose bush. If they were found, they were found. If they were reported, they were reported. If they
weren’t, he did his job, at least half way.
Bill wasn’t happy with himself as he flew home that night. He was alone. Blipwhip, and the
rest, did not accompany him. He didn’t want to be with anyone else. He wanted to be alone.
Al Gore was coming in from a jog that night at midnight and noticed the cellophane-wrapped
document. He read it upon going inside. It made a lot of sense to him. He compared it to the thesis
statements made by Martin Luther when Protestants broke from Catholics. They were remarkably similar,
and Al knew that Bill had done his homework. He gave them to his wife, Tipper, that night. “Censor
them,” she said to him without yet reading the statements.
“They’re actually quite good,” Al said to her.
“Do you want to lose your job?” she asked him.
“No. I don’t,” Al said with affirmation. He tried to give her a hug but she pushed him away.
“It’s the end of the day,” Al said to himself. He wanted to follow it up with a clever comment. He
couldn’t think of one.
*Part Two*

* one *

Ned Swift was furious at what had happened at his paper concerning Eddie Macral and Beam
Goodson. He was even madder at the fact that a chain reaction ensued that caused his brother, Bill, to be
put on the line. He was mad enough to quit, but he didn’t. He wrote a story instead.
The flying saucer was common news in Washington D.C. Elsewhere, it was questionable
whether or not a flying saucer actually descended down from the clouds and nearly made a landing where
Bill was giving his speech. The photos were there, but doctored photos were the norm rather than the
exception in regards to alien space crafts. There was just too much demand to see them, as of late, and
not enough authentic sightings. People didn’t trust the Washington media, nor did they trust the credible
papers which would make it national news. Ned wrote a story that the event was fake. It was contrary to
what he was usually doing. In most regards, Ned had become a person that would write fiction about alien
landings. Now, an alien landing nearly actually took place and he treated it like a fabrication. Ned
wanted the heart of the story. It was known that Bill was talking about Seventy-Six Thesis Statements.
He gave an example or two, according to the few papers scantly covered that aspect of the day’s events.
Ned made up his own seventy-six statements and implied that Bill brought them with him from beyond.
He was half right. Bill had thought about doing something like this on his journey back to Earth. He
never articulated it. Bill wasn’t close enough to Ned, anymore, that he would confirm or deny it anyway.
Bill had his mission. His brother was small potatoes, as far as he was concerned.
Ned said that Bill’s forty-fifth thesis was that people needed to storm the Whitehouse, led by the
Fab Four of course, and slit the throats of all that were in power. He said that the fifty-first thesis was that
aliens would come down and set up an interim government to restore and maintain authority--a good
authority. He said that the sixty-third thesis was that Al Gore’s image, whereever it may have been via
magazines, television tapes, or anything else, had to be destroyed. He said that the seventy-second thesis
was that power would be given back to the people of the United States, when all was said and done. They
would gain back their use of local utilities and the like.
Ned was wrong about his thesis statements--the made up ones. He thought it made for good
fiction. He thought that maybe his brother would visit him and give him the real thesis statements... OR,
he thought that Al Gore would release tha actual statements that Ned believed in his heart he was
eventually given. Until then, it would be Speculation City. People would buy his stuff until the end of
time. He was sure of it. He had to have a catch, at the beginning. The catch was that one of the early
statements had to come true.
Ned had been covering Daisy Michaels of the Republican party for quite some time. He stopped
writing about Catherine Zeta-Jones--that’s whom Daisy reminded Ned of--because the story was going
dry. Daisy stopped using the powers she was trying learn. Ned knew that if he could get someone into her
life, things would change.
 Eddie Macral was right about the publicity that he received from his alleged homosexual activity.
It increased record sales and it was water under the bridge, as far as he was concerned. Why does it
matter what people think of me if I don’t have a love in my life anyway, Eddie thought to himself on
occasion. It didn’t matter if people thought he was queer. He was enjoying life. He was having fun.
Slowly, but surely, he was getting over Christy Priddy, as well.
Ned sent Eddie Macral to meet with Catherine Zeta-Jones. It was believed now that Eddie was
gay, so it didn’t matter that she was married to one of biggest men in Hollywood in terms of name
recognition, Michael Douglas. There wouldn’t be suspicion that he was hitting on her. His mission was
to tell her--let her in, in other words--that there was a body double, a near look alike, that was traveling
around in her guise and setting forth havoc via supernatural means throughout California. Soon, it would
spread to the rest of the nation. After that, there were world targets.
“What do you want with me?” she asked Eddie.
“I’m a rock star,” Eddie said, and Catherine began to close the door on him. Eddie shouted
before the door closed, “I’m in the CIA too, don’t you know?” It was a lie, but he thought it would hook
her.
She opened the door and said, “Tell me more.”
Eddie told her, after coming into her large living room, that there was a running debate between
Bill Swift and Al Gore. He said it would end in catastrophe, if no one did anything about it.
“And you want me to...?” Catherine wanted to know.
“Bill--Ned, I mean; that’s his brother--started writing stories about you.”
“I’m aware,” Catherine said. Michael Douglas came into the room at that time. He had been in
the backyard and looked like he had been playing tennis. He didn’t say a thing but Catherine went over to
him anyway, kissed him on the neck gently, then prepared to make some lemonade. “I have some. Do
you want?” Catherine asked Eddie.
“Oh. I want,” Eddie said. He was beside himself and made Catherine blush. He had thought
that maybe, being a rock star and all, she was subtly coming on to him. He was wrong. That’s what made
her blush.
“Tell me about the story,” Catherine said as she returned with a pitcher of lemonade. She was
drinking from a glass in one hand while she held the pitcher in the other. “There are glasses next to you
at the bar, Eddie,” she said. Eddie wore a tag that said his name. It was something he was given from
Ned to give the impression that he was one with the paper. Eddie wondered if she knew his name from
the band he was in or if she was reading from the label. “I have more,” she said to him after he downed
his first glass.
Eddie felt embarrassed and wanted to leave. He forgot his manners. He’d stay, unless kicked
out. He knew it. It was because the mission was important. Not just to him--to the rest of the world, if
Ned was correct about things. “This lady is using your identity, Catherine. Can I call you that?”
Catherine looked disturbed but nodded her head yes.
“I have to say, too, that I feel like I’m a hoax.”
“Go home,” she told him. She didn’t look him in the face and she was serious.
 “I have a crush on you. You have to know that. That’s why I’m here,” Eddie said.
Michael Douglas didn’t say a thing. One of their children ran into the room and Catherine
shifted her attention. “Go home,” she told Ned. She was more polite. She was holding a three-year-old
baby and Eddie couldn’t make out the gender. He didn’t read the National Global Star much and didn’t
keep track of these details. “Go home,” she told Eddie. She kissed him on the lips in front of her husband
and her husband threw a fit. He gathered some magazines that were sitting on the table after a fire rushed
to his face. He threw them off, but knocked nothing over. He tried to contain himself.
“I’m sorry,” Eddie said. He let himself out. He was happy. He knew in his heart that the threat
wasn’t with Daisy Michaels, after all. It was with Catherine Zeta-Jones, herself. She had a magic in her
kiss. Eddie never felt that way before. He’d never feel that way again.

* * *
Francine, before becoming half of Blipwhip after her death on Earth--her initial death--had a
crush on Alfred Newman that wouldn’t die. This was before and after Alfred passed from his original
Earthly body as well. The irony was that the gods--if they could be called that--chose to hook up with
Francine, in the form of Blipwhip, the person that caused Alfred’s death, Saul Folstiklar. Francine was
transformed in many ways. In the obvious form, she was now a two-headed monster/ hero. She shot
rubber bands through her fingers--her right or left side, depending on which side Blipwhip as a unit chose
to let her do so--and she was able to fly on occasion. She was saving the day with Bill Swift and others.
She was redeeming herself. Her karma, if she kept it up, would release her from Saul eventually, and
she’d be her own self someday, somewhere else.
Francine couldn’t control her passion, even as a member of Blipwhip--even as a member of a
quartet that were saviors to so many around the world. She still liked Alfred. He knew it. He thought
she’d be able to control it. She did for a while, and then it reached a head.
A bank robbery was going on in New York City. It was a masterminded plan, and even city
politicians had a stake in it. Blipwhip was called into action. So was Alfred Newman. Bill Swift was in
Africa. Edward Hand was in Russia.
The robbery happened like clockwork. There were twelve men with overpowered rifles. There
was a getaway car in the front that was being used a decoy. There was a UPS van down the street that
would be the key to it all. There would be three transfers in vehicles within a one-mile radius. Cops
would look the other way in some instances--they were on the take--and they would blame the decoys as
the reason that they weren’t on the ball. There was to be fifty thousand dollars that would be stolen--not a
lot for a twelve-man robbery--but jewels from safes would be taken as well. They were put there by the
bank manager, himself, and in a series of what would seem to the public to be erroneous and near-random
mistakes, the manager would blame a newly-hired employee as the ultimate responsibility for the
carelessness. As things were planned, the employee would feel the guilt and freely admit responsibility
with the understanding that he wouldn’t be charged. He would be wrong. Upon confession, he’d be
slapped with a charge that would give him two to five years in prison. That was the plan.
Alfred Newman was getting good at honing negative thoughts. He knew, like a spider, when
something was about to happen. He called Blipwhip via “mental telecommunications” and let it know
what was going on. Blipwhip was on the case. Simple as that.
The robbery happened like clockwork, all until Blipwhip was able trace the final leg of the day’s
events. From the UPS truck, the robbers went into a beer truck. They each chugged a couple of
brewskies, wished eachother luck, waited for their next stop, then prayed a little. Their final stop was to
be in a garbage truck. This was their demise, but it was not a complete demise, as things turned out.
Blipwhip, being in control of everything rubber for given periods of time, was able to track the men (there
was one woman with them, actually) by honing its capacity to see through the “eyes” of biodegradable
trash bags around the robbers, as they sat around stench, hoping they wouldn’t be accidentally crushed.
Blipwhip let Alfred Newman know what was going on. Alfred arrived on the scene--the truck was
speeding toward a barge--and he let out a huge spooge puddle underneath the truck’s wheels. He knew
it’d be the last of him for at least fifteen minutes. The schlaclak around him would need time to
regenerate. Blipwhip, on the other hand, could have easily caught the robbers by descending upon them
and wrapping them with projected, large rubber bands. Saul wanted to do this. In most cases, he had
most control of the Blipwhip unit. Alfred was in trouble. He overshot his load. Francine was confused
and thought that he was going to fall from the sky--he had been hovering over the garbage truck when he
shot his huge wad--and fall to another death. She decided to chase after him. Her will was so strong that
Saul had no control. She sped to Alfred, Alfred wavered a little, and she used her powers to sling a rubber
mat onto the area beneath him, and it extended from power line to another. She had no idea--she didn’t
think of it at the time--that if you touched two power lines together that you generate energy between the
connecting sources.
The rubber melted on impact. Sparks flew for a few seconds. Saul was furious. Alfred floated
gracefully to the floor, without any help from the rubber whatsoever. The robbers got away into a Dunkin’
Doughnuts truck. They weren’t seen on the barge because they didn’t continue to go to the barge. The
jewels were recovered, as was most of the money. The politicians remained safe, as did their cohorts in
law enforcement. No one knew who these guys were. Blipwhip blew it.
Alfred said to the Francine head of Blipwhip that night, “You don’t need to save me.”
“I know,” Francine said. She looked at him like a teen girl would look at a movie star of her
dreams. “I know,” she said again, then dropped her eyes.
Alfred was disgusted. Consciously, he hated Blipwhip at that moment. The Saul side--the one
that sent him to his initial death, years back--was disgusting to him. He was redeeming himself. He tried
to stop the robbery. “Listen, Blipwhip,” Alfred said after taking a swig of beer--the same kind of beer that
the robbers were drinking earlier that day. “I don’t like you. I don’t like either of you. But you...” He
addressed Francine. “You are unprofessional. You are going to get us both killed. You’ll get us three
killed if you count that piece of shit that’s next to you.”
Alfred felt guilty after saying that. He finished his beer and then shot a nominal amount of
spooge into Blipwhip’s midsection. It was enough to make the Blipwhip creature feel happy in the regard
of the physical realm. It wasn’t enough to relieve Blipwhip’s confusion and anger at “the gods” that put
them together.
 * * *
Christy Priddy was not ready to settle down in life. Dean McJames was a good guy--he was a
real good guy. He was too good. He was like Forrest Gump, to her. Every time that she would flirt with a
person at a club, Dean would be ready to arrest the person.
On the night that Dean celebrated his abbreviated victory over Eddie Macral in the ring, Christy
went out with Butch Jackson, Dean McJames, and two of Dean’s buddies that were off-duty police officers.
One of the officers was Aaron Gribley. He was short, at five foot three, but he was a man on a mission.
He liked to play rough. He didn’t take a thing from alleged criminals that he arrested. In bed, he liked to
use the handcuffs. He was small, stocky, but he had the confidence of a ten foot giant. He thought he was
Tom Cruise, when it came to the ladies. He joked on the first night that they celebrated together that he
would sleep with Christy. Dean laughed him off. In the end, Dean didn’t know what hit him.
Christy gave Aaron her number one night on a later double date. Aaron was seeing an ex-hooker
whom he recently arrested and Christy was surprised by it. He knew it wouldn’t last but he didn’t really
care. He wanted the bottom line. One time--and one time only--he’d cuff her to his bed and whip her
madly with a belt. She’d like it, and if she didn’t, she wouldn’t say a thing. It was as simple as that
unless she wanted to spend more time in jail. Aaron had it rigged in that regard.
Dean got up to use restroom at the time that Christy slipped Aaron her number on a napkin. It
said, “Call if you’re not chicken... Christy 555-3091.” Aaron put it in his pocket, didn’t tell Dean a thing
about it, then slept with Christy two days later.
The sex was good, surprisingly to Christy. She thought she’d be tied up--Aaron was bragging
what he was going to do with his hooker girlfriend--and regret it. She didn’t regret a thing. Aaron
swiped enough drug rape drugs from crime scenes to be prepared. He slipped Christy one in a drink, she
partook, and she was in for a ride. She had nothing to lose, or so she thought. Things were over between
her and Eddie--she didn’t like him much anyway--and things between her and Dean were stale. She
thought that taking a chance on this madman might be worth it.
The drug kicked in and when she realized that she’d been slipped a substance, she didn’t
complain. She knew that complaining would make things worse. Further, she thought to herself that she
might actually enjoy things. Aaron was five foot three. He wasn’t much to look at, if you were to
compare him to Hollywood models. It didn’t matter. He wanted her. He could feel it and so could she.
Aaron was going to rape her and toss her aside if she complained about the drug. He was going
to deny ever being with her and put her conveniently in the LA River. It would be off of his hands, and he
would mourn with Dean when Dean found out that he lost his love interest. Christy didn’t complain. As
a matter of fact, she opened up. She put her mouth on his pecker as soon as she could unzip his pants.
Aaron had a camera and an idea. Instead of tying up Christy Priddy and beating her before he jammed
his thing in her, he would take pictures of what was going on. He didn’t like Eddie Macral. He had a bad
feel of him. He wanted the pictures to go straight to the Freight Train web site. By then, he didn’t even
care if Dean found out. He didn’t care.
The sex was good and thorough. Aaron set up a camera to catch everything and even took a
couple of Polaroids. “This’ll show him!” he said aloud as he got a good snap shot of Christy’s pooch.
“This’ll show that motherfucker not to mess with the LAW!” he said in enjoyment.
The sex was good to Christy. As a matter of fact, she would revere it for years. She let down
Eddie, in Eddie’s mind, but she didn’t care. She was with a madman. She didn’t care. She didn’t want
her picture taken but knew it was too late. Things were done, things were set in motion, things couldn’t
be stopped.
The sex lasted an hour. Aaron cried in joy when it was all over. He felt vindicated in life. He
slept with a rock star’s former love interest. He would be the talk of the precinct for a while, and he even
thought that Dean might be proud of him for taking down someone whom seemed to be adversarial to
him. He was wrong about Dean but he was not wrong about the way he was treated by the boys at the
police station. They gave him a party. Christy would come by on occasion--Dean tried to take it like a
man--and congratulate him. She felt like a whore, but she felt included. She wasn’t living a boring life.
Being a rock star’s girlfriend wasn’t all it was it was cracked up to be. There was a lot of waiting while
her man was on the road. Beside that, Eddie didn’t have a killer instinct. He didn’t have the drive to tie
up a lady or to rape her if things started to go wrong. He didn’t think twice about using the date rape
drug, but it was always consensual... and always with someone that wasn’t Christy. He wanted safety
there. He got safety, but he also got boredom. Eddie wasn’t even sure that what he was using--Extasy--
was considered a date rape drug anyway.
Eddie received the pictures of Christy from Randal Meyer. “I have something that’s going to
break your heart,” he said to him.
In Randal’s hands were three, large photos that were taken from a color printer. Eddie could see
the first one and knew that it was Christy. She had a large cock near her head--an erect one of ten inches,
from the appearance of it--and looked like she was licking the balls of a five foot two man. He didn’t say
a word to Randal as he took the photos into his hands. Finally, he said, “You don’t have to do this.” He
didn’t know exactly what he meant because the words just came to his mouth. He didn’t feel like crying
but felt like he had been transported into a sick, b-rate movie.
He eventually removed the first picture and put it underneath the others. The second one showed
a cum wad apparently splashing, of all things, on Christy’s forehead. Her sandy blonde hair was dripping
with bits of semen. Her head held an oval that was black and large. It was her open mouth and she
looked like she was having an orgasm by the expression on her face.
The third photo took the cake. Christy was lying on the bed, looking somewhat uncomfortable
and not looking at the camera directly, next to a man, very short, in his boxers smoking a cigarette. It
wasn’t the cigarette that took the cake. It was what Christy was wearing. It was a police uniform.
Eddie ripped his shirt when he saw it. He wanted to cry but the fury that overtook him wouldn’t
let him. He yelled at Randal not to tell a soul but he knew that if Randal got it off the internet, everyone
already knew about it... or was going to find out about very soon.
Eddie felt like crying but couldn’t. It wouldn’t be the last time he had that feel as a result of what
was jammed into his head.
 * * *
Stephanie Venezia-Barley comforted Randal Meyer on the night that he told Eddie Macral what
he had been sent to them, the band, through the internet. Dave was out of town supporting a local act
from San Francisco, California. Randal felt bad that things had turned the way they did.
Miles away to the east, Bill Swift was back in the limelight. He had come back from Africa and
had new insights as to how the world should be run. He thought about history, a lot, while in Africa. He
wondered how things began. Even the aliens on Xeon were unsure about the Earth. Some claimed that it
was them that started the human race. Some claimed that aliens merely started the quasi-bacteria cultures
that life sprung from on the planet. Some--and they were in the majority--said that the schlaclak simply
had enough. They claimed that they focused their energy on doing something exciting. It took them a
while to evolve into human colonies, but that was okay. They were generally satisfied with the end
product.
Africa is a place where anthropologists around the world believe that initial human life began.
Where did the bacteria began? It didn’t matter to Bill. It could have been in the ocean, it could have been
in volcanoes, and it could have been in the clouds. It didn’t matter to him. What mattered to him was
human history. He knew that history repeated itself. He knew that there were answers in the beginning.
The beginning would give clues as to how the end would be. A baby starts the world with no teeth and
unable to walk. He evolves into a creature capable of getting to the Moon... and then the cycle starts over,
inevitably. He learns to eat without teeth if he lives long enough and doesn’t want dentures. A lady with
Alzheimer’s has no capacity to work in the real world, as does a baby. It wasn’t the perfect analogy for
Bill to be using in his mind when he thought of things, but it would do for his purposes.
Bill went to Africa with the idea that he’d save some villages from destruction. He saw human
life. He saw people one with nature. He saw human beginnings, in a lot of regards. They weren’t in the
towns that had been formed. They were in the outback. They were in the jungle.
Many people claimed that human life started not far from Africa, in the Middle East. Bill didn’t
know how many people believed that, but he knew the belief was prevalent. Maybe they don’t think of
black people as legitimate ancestors so they think of the Hebrews and their cousins because of Bible
conveniency, he thought one day. He wouldn’t share his thought with the world. They needed to hear
roundabout ways of protecting things. They needed to hear solutions. Solutions didn’t arise from
ambiguity and/ or controversy, in Bill’s mind. If they did, it took time.
Bill went to Africa, saved a village from an imminent flood, and was hero for a day. They didn’t
know him from the States because they didn’t have TV hookups. Bill thought it was great.
Bill came back from Africa with some insights and he thought that the world ought to know what
was going on. He called a press conference and held it in Boulder, Colorado.
“We are going back to the beginning, folks. We are.” A man asked what he meant, Bill shot a
shit ball at his face, the man collapsed to the floor but wasn’t passed out, then Bill continued on. “I’m
saying this mainly for the press. You guys are stupid. I’m talking now the general masses, of course.
You’ve been watching TV for six or seven decades. It’s made you stupid. If all the world’s electricity
came out of existence, you wouldn’t know what to do.” The man who had the shit ball land on his
forehead said something, Bill ignored him this time, then Bill continued. Before he did, he said to
himself, “That man has balls, at least. No one else here does.” The man shifted in his seat as if he knew
that Bill was thinking of him. Bill continued, “‘Back to the Pleistocene’ is what our friends in Earth
First! used to say when they wanted trouble. They don’t exist anymore, but that’s a different story
altogether. If they do, they are so underground that even I don’t know who the fuck they are anymore.”
A lady in the front chastised Bill for using cuss language. All of a sudden, Bill didn’t want to be
there anymore. He took off into the air (demonstrating his ability of flight quite well to the general
public), snatched an eagle from the sky, petted it on the head for a couple of minutes, started to cry, and
contemplated tearing off its head for the sake of demonstration. He wanted to know where the people
stood. If they didn’t react to the head being torn off of the national symbol, they didn’t need to be in the
Pleistocene. They needed to be off the planet, maybe on the Moon.
Bill petted the eagle, let it fly, contemplated talking, cried a little more, then tried hard to regain
his composure.
Bill couldn’t regain his composure. He was going to talk about early religion. He was going to
talk about the first monotheistic religion of the Hebrews. Of course, they descended from polytheistic
beliefs but most would deny it. He was going to talk about the Book of Judges and the Books of Kings.
He was going to remind them how judges once roamed the land of ancient Palestine. He was going to say
that kings had their lot as well. The point he was going to make was that if someone was writing the same
history of modern USA, they would see an era of pioneers and cowboys. They would see an era of
presidents. They would see a lot of things. For all practical reasons, the book that would be written of the
United States, since the Declaration of Independence at the very least, that would or could be called The
Book of Presidents.
All that is going to change, ya’ll, he was going to say.
The eagle came back and landed on Bill’s arm, while he sat and contemplated what could have
been and what maybe still might be his speech.
Sports writers were around and they were ready to ask Bill what he thought of the Broncos and
the Nuggets. Other reporters were around and they were going to ask him if he was serious about the
Seventy-Six Thesis Statements that made news in the National Global Star. They were going to ask him a
lot of things.
The man who had the shit hurled at him had cleaned off but the rest of the crowd--about five
hundred people--stood in silence as they waited for Bill to speak again.
The next era, Bill thought, Is not going to be another Book of Presidents. It’s going to be a Book
of Heroes because we will rule the land.
Bill said, “That’s all I have to say, folks. Ask Alfred Newman--known as the Spooger to many of
you guys--what he thinks about the Seventy-Six Thesis Statements. If you guys want them, we can have
them.” There was a hush in the crowd. “My brother, Ned Swift, printed false statements about me.” The
man who had the shit tossed his way gasped in genuine surprise and Bill could see it. “It’s okay. The
crux of it all was there... but I’m not going to slit Al Gore’s throat.” He paused. “I’ll send a shit ball the
size of Canada his way though.” Bill halfway expected laughter and got none. Eventually, he laughed,
but it wasn’t at the joke he told. He laughed because no one believed him or wanted to believe him. “We
can have it folks. The Book of Heroes. It’s going to be an addition to your New Testament in the future.
Trust me.”
A reporter asked what he was talking about.
“I don’t have anything to say to you, ma’am,” Bill politely said. “I’ll be having a web sight to
explain what I’m doing. You’ll get all the answers there... unless the CIA shuts me and you down.”
“Then you’ll have to...” a lady began. She was going to say that he’d have to send a shit ball
their way. She was afraid of him, by now. He was like Midas. Everything he touched turned to gold, in
the beginning. He abused his powers and was starting to sense it. He feared that he’d send a shit ball her
way if she said the wrong thing. The lady sensed it and shut up.
“I’ll leave you now,” Bill said without looking at the crowd directly. He raised his hand in
affirmation and started on his way.
The crowd went home that day and prayed. They didn’t want to go back to the Pleistocene, or
whatever the fuck it was. They wanted to live in the modern United States of America.
Bill knew something that the crowd didn’t know. By the year 2021, the Earth was going to be in
a financial crisis. At the root of the crisis would be misuse of the world’s energy and resources. The have-
nots would suffer from the haves. It was going to be that simple, but Bill couldn’t tell them. He thought
it’d work it’s way out. He thought he might be wrong and alternative sources of energy would spring up
from people other than petroleum companies, always dubious in their ways as of late, or from the
government, whom protected special interests with all its might.
Bill flew home after he walked far enough away from the crowd. No one dared follow him in
lieu of the shit ball that he had thrown at the man. Bill thought to go back and finish the man off. He
didn’t. It was in his mind, but he wouldn’t manifest it into the real world.
Home, for Bill as of late, was in the Florida Everglades. He hung out with the crocks and the
alligators. He wasn’t sure which was which and even thought that they were all alligators upon further
evaluation. He liked it there. It provided peace. It provided insight. It was important to him.
No one cared about Bill Swift on the night that he arrived home in Florida. The news coverage
was slanted toward Bill showing the man whom he shit balled where he could go. Upon the man looking
at Bill in horror, Bill pointed far away, toward the horizon. He didn’t say a word to him, but he inferred
that the man ought to leave if he was going to speak up in a derogatory way.
In the end, Bill didn’t realize that he was becoming like the country that he was trying to destroy.
The United States lost its touch. Bill was losing his touch as well.

* * *

Richard Gelding was upset that he lost the election of 2008. More so, he was upset at the way
that he lost the election. He gave into his senses. That was fine with him and he could live with that. He
got to sleep with a president of the United States of America. He was secretly proud of that, in spite of the
fact that it took him down when video was released of it. He was mad at the system. His anger laid
dormant for many years. He looked at Al Gore in office and wondered “what could have been?” quite
often. He looked at the new opponent of Al Gore--a superhero from beyond--and wondered how he could
change things if given the chance.
Richard Gelding wanted superhero qualities. It was rumored strongly that Bill Swift and his
friends that went around with him--Blipwhip and the sort--were actually dead people that settled on
another planet, transformed, and came back. Richard Gelding didn’t want to die. It was furthest from his
mind. He started thinking that he could attain the supernatural powers if he could contact an alien.
Maybe he didn’t have to go the route of dying.
Richard Gelding prayed... and he sought answers from books, cooks, and crooks. He sought
answers anywhere he could find them. Eventually, he got his answer from a cat. “Pussy, is my name,” the
cat said. The cat was a hundred feet tall and black with a furry tail. “I am Pussy and you like me very
much. I know you, Dick. I want you in me. I want you in me bad!!! Meow!”
The cat stood their in amazement because Richard Gelding started to break down into a cold
sweat.
“I have all the answers,” the cat said. He--it was a she, actually, when Richard thought of the
name “Pussy” because it had to be a she--wasn’t moving its mouth when it talked. It stood there and the
thoughts came from the cat’s mind.
The cat looked in amazement still. It wanted Richard Gelding but he would not come. The cat
turned, as if to leave. Richard noticed the stars around the cat and realized he must be in space. He saw
the stars and then he saw streaks of light. An alien--one similar-looking to the alien from Land of the
Lost, a show he watched as a youngster--came out of nowhere and approached Richard. From behind
him, there were Sleestack. Yes, it was a dream, and Richard was realizing it.
“I want out,” he said. He couldn’t get out and realized that he wasn’t even heard.
“We heard you want answers,” the Sleestack said. It was the leader that spoke but it wasn’t
Enoch (the one known as the leader from the actual show that he watched). “We have answers for you.
You must enter that cat!”
Before the Sleestack could finish talking, the cat gobbled him up. Richard Gelding was sent into
the cat’s tummy. He was comfortable there and started to dream. The cat nurtured him, in the dream, for
what seemed like centuries.
Richard Gelding woke up and told his wife that he had the craziest dream. She said, “I know. I
was there too. I was the cat, asshole.”
“No. The cat was the cat. That much I’m sure.”
“I was a Sleestack,” she said.
“I can believe that.”
Richard didn’t say a thing. He knew something supernatural was happening with him. Would
he learn how to fly? Would he be given supernatural powers of telepathy, death rays from the eyes, or
spooge projectiles as Alfred Newman had? He didn’t know. He waited for a sign.
Richard Gelding ate breakfast that morning--it was Tony the Tiger’s cereal and he ate it because
he felt like a kid in a fantasy--and he noticed things floating around the kitchen. It happened for a few
seconds and stopped. He heard a voice from above him and thought an alien space craft must be above.
He went to the kitchen window, thought he saw nothing, and then there was a zip in the sky. “I have you
figured out!” he yelled at what seemed to be a craft. “I don’t want to do this,” he said to an empty
kitchen.
The aliens were testing him. They didn’t like Bill Swift as leader, any longer. They wanted
someone new.
Richard Gelding disappointed them. It wouldn’t be the last time. They hoped he’d be more
friendly upon the revelation that something spectacular was happening to him. They were wrong. They
were okay with it.

* * *
“The sexual response cycle is something that biologists know as a positive feedback loop. In
other words, if you see a sexy lady--maybe she’s wearing a pink sweatshirt and you’re particularly drawn
to pink,” Jeff was telling Stephanie Venezia-Barley during one of her visits to him. “I think of you,
Stephanie, and I always have. I think of baseball as soon as I see your breasts in my mind. Do I want the
image to pop there? No. I don’t. The body works that way.”
Stephanie took a drink from her mug. They were at Pig and Gobbler, the tavern that was located
near San Quixote Community College. She didn’t say anything as she listened to Jeff.
“You know that they’ve done cruel experiments on animals, right?” he asked. He got no
response verbally. He got a nod yes. “They’ve done these cruel experiments on animals, and I feel like
one of Hitler’s henchmen talking about it.”
“Then don’t,” Stephanie finally said.
“I have to. It’s in my mind and it’ll ease what you’re going through. You might have heard it
anyway.”
Stephanie didn’t say a word but rather took another drink from her beer.
“The sexual response cycle is a positive feedback loop. I’ve said that. They do experiments on
animals. What they did--it’s not so cruel what I’m talking about compared to blinding rabbits with
potential toxins that would be used in makeup--”
“Don’t talk about it,” Stephanie said.
Jeff continued like he didn’t hear her, “--was to take an ape. I think it was a monkey, actually.
Maybe it was a young ape. I can’t remember.” Jeff wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t the one that needed to
escape at the time. “I’ve thought about screwing you for a long time, Steph.”
“I know,” she said nonchalantly. “I can feel it.”
“I don’t though. I don’t even try. When you were younger, I wonder if I could have had you...
and subsequently lost my job like Don Michaels, the guy that eventually got me fired a while back. I
wonder though. You were vulnerable, young, looking for a father figure, and I know I could have done
things to manipulate the situation.”
“You’re not here to propose. I can feel that as well.”
“The sexual response cycle is a positive feedback loop,” Jeff said for the third time. “The body
doesn’t check itself.”
“What about the apes. What were you going to say?” Stephanie asked. She took another sip
from her beer, poured more beer in Jeff’s glass, and continued to listen. She wanted him to drink too, and
share her pain.
“The apes? Oh yeah. They did these experiments...”
“...I think I know what you’re going to say,” Stephanie interrupted.
Jeff composed himself and carried on nonetheless. “If I assume you know what I’m talking
about, I’m making an ass of both of us. Okay?”
“Yep.”
“The apes! The ape experiment went like this...” Jeff continued on for a couple of minutes and
explained that they did experiments in which a young ape was taken from his mother. He was put in a
cage and there were two surrogate mothers, though they were fake. One of them was a skeletal remnant
of a mother ape basically composed of wire and not much else. It resembled an ape, in other words, but
barely. It had, near its teats, two real nipples that were made of rubber. The teats extracted milk from
bottles within the faint skeletal structure when sucked.
There was another ape, in the experiment. It wasn’t real either. It looked like an ape. It was
furry, unlike the skeletal ape. It didn’t have the capacity to give milk, or anything else. It looked
comforting, but it wouldn’t move. The baby ape would choose to spend the vast majority of its time with
the furry ape. It couldn’t hold, but it could give the illusion of caring, nonetheless. “We have this
instinct, Stephanie. I see you, you’re gorgeous, I love you as a person, but do I get milk from you? Do I
want comfort? What is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re saying, Jeff.”
“I’m saying your breasts. They do something for me. And if I’m alone at night and watching
television, I’m drawn to the same kind of people. I get boners. That’s what happens to me.”
“And then you jack off? Is this a confession, Jeff?”
Jeff blushed and tried to change the subject back to the sexual response cycle.
“I’m trying to say that ANYONE would jack off if they were in my shoes...”
“...Unless you have some kind of motive not to. Like watching baseball in your head.”
“Bingo.”
“There are negative feedback loops, right? Is that what you’re going to get at?”
“Yep. It was there, but not most important.”
“Tell me, and tell him,” she said. A police officer walked into the tavern. It was Dean McJames
and he passed the two as if he didn’t see them. He went to the bar, ordered some nachos and a pitcher of
tea, then sat in from of a large screen television set on the other side of the room. The rumor was strong
in San Quixote, Miller and much of the area that he had dated Eddie Macral’s ex-girlfriend, had a falling
out with her, then slipped into a mild depression. People felt bad for him because he seemed on top of the
world after beating Eddie in a kick boxing match. “Tell me more, Jeff,” Stephanie said sarcastically after
looking at him. She could tell that Jeff wanted to finish his story. Stephanie had a nurturing instinct that
kicked in and she wasn’t even cognizant of it. “Tell me, Jeff. Do you still get off on me?”
 “I HAVE NOT JACKED OF TO YOU ONCE!!” Jeff yelled. “I think of baseball,” Jeff said,
nearly apologetic that he let himself explode, “Because I like you. I feel that if I jack off to you, you’ll
know. How? Call it women’s intuition, but I feel that I’ll lose you as a friend if you ever found out that I
had fantasies of you.”
“Oh,” Stephanie said with amazement. She didn’t know. She finished her beer, went over to talk
to Dean and let Jeff finish his own beer with his own thoughts. Before she left the table, she said to him
after putting her arm around his neck, “You pay for the pizza and beer this time, hun. Okay?” She said it
with sincerity. Jeff felt like he was married to her.
When she talked to Dean, Jeff thought about what he wanted to say to her. Part of him knew that
she knew anyway. She was good at connecting dots. He said to himself, “I’ve gotta leave before I go
mad.” No one heard. He was catching a slight buzz and wanted to leave before he felt threatened by
Dean. He didn’t want a DUI. That would screw things up in his life.

* * *
“You were throwing shit balls at people, though,” Alfred said to Bill Swift. They were high atop
a mountain in Yellowstone National Park. They had managed to bring a keg of beer (they were immune
to petty amounts of liquor and needed a full keg between the two the catch a buzz over time) and they
were drinking from red plastic cups. “It feels like a party, you know?” Alfred said to Bill. He watched a
goat leap upon a rock then continued what he was saying. “The paper said that you were drunk, probably,
and you were throwing shit balls randomly into the crowd.”
“They tried to protect me, huh?”
“Yep,” Alfred said. “They tried to protect you... and the rest of us, for that matter. We are
associated, you know?”
“Yep.” Bill didn’t feel like drinking. His cup was empty and he didn’t refill it. Bill went on to
say that he was going to take a crack a sobriety. He wasn’t drunk when he unleashed a shit ball at a man
in Boulder. He was mad. He didn’t want people to oppose him. Alfred and Bill had made a habit with
the other ones on occasion, of course, to unwind somehow or another at least once a week to gain
perspective on what they were to be doing. Bill went into deep thought, contemplated continuing the
conversation, then spit out, “I have a problem and I don’t know if you have it as well.”
“Tell me,” Alfred said.
“I have a problem. I am coveted. I know it. I can throw a shit ball at the Pope and I’d be
jeered.”
“But you’d be cheered by many as well, and I know it.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I can destroy a village. People would cheer me. Are they
sick individuals? I don’t really know because I haven’t thought of it. If it was a village in Africa, where I
visited, the racists in this country would say I was doing it for them. If it was a village in rural Russia, the
capitalists would say it was a sign of some kind. I don’t really know.”
“You feel like you’re on top of the world,” Alfred said with confidence.
“No. And that’s the problem.”
 Alfred thought about saying something else, went into a semi-lucid trance, then just stared at his
cup. It was a third of the way full and he finished it off with a gulp. He said, “I don’t know what to say.”
They had time on their hands. They were in no rush to hurry the conversation. Bouts of silence
would ensue for much of the day but Bill was ready to spill what he had been thinking. “I’m getting good
at this telepathy thing. I’m getting really good. I can read people like a book in a matter of seconds. I
can do that. The guy I shit balled? He was decent, but he was holding back the crowd and he didn’t know
it.”
“So you showed him the way?”
“Yep. Immanuel Kant, Jeremy Bentham, John Stuart Mill, or one of those guys...”
“...They were philosophers, right?”
“Yeah. They--one of them--thought that if you were doing the greatest amount of good for the
greatest amount of people, you were committing a moral act. I feel like that sometimes. That guy I shit
balled? I could have killed him... and I would have been happy if that’s what it took. He threw me off.
He really did. I didn’t know what to do after that.”
Alfred didn’t say a thing. He looked rather scared. He started thinking that Bill was amoral in
spite of his references to moral giants in Western traditional philosophy. “I want to say something,” he
finally said. He took a drink from his beer, put it down, his hand started trembling, and he wouldn’t say a
word.
Bill talked on and he wasn’t sure if Alfred registered half the things he was talking about. He
was talking about intentions. One of those philosophers--he was confused on the issue--believed that
intentions mattered in moral judgments whereas one believed that the act alone determined whether or not
something was right. Stealing was stealing, for example. If you did it to save a starving family? Forget
about it. It was wrong, and Bill believed that it was Immanuel Kant that believed it in his time. “I have
something to add,” Bill finally said. “I don’t want to live.”
Once again, Alfred didn’t have anything of consequence to say.
Bill continued on, nonetheless. “The philosophy goes both ways. Actually, it’s the telepathy I’m
talking about here. I CAN’T TURN IT OFF! FUCK, I can’t do it.” He paused. “And I’m coveted.
That’s the kicker.”
“So you think...” Alfred began to say. It looked to Bill like he was going to rejoin the
conversation again. “You’re trying to say that...” Alfred didn’t know what to say or he was afraid of Bill.
He didn’t want to finish his sentence.
“I AM MAD, Alfred!”
“I know. I can tell,” Alfred said.
“No. You don’t get it. I finally do though. I really do.”
“When you say you’re mad, it’s because you’re angry. Seems simple enough.”
“But they call crazy people ‘mad,’ don’t they? The public doesn’t get it. They’ve forgotten the
connotation.”
“You’re mad... because you can’t get rid of these people that are reading you back...” Alfred said
in a half-question, half-statement.
 “Yeah. And there’s millions of them now. I am mad. I am crazy, and I admit it. I am mad.”
“Hitler was mad, you know?”
Bill took some time to think about it because he wasn’t expecting that response. “I know what
you’re saying,” he said to Alfred. It was a revelation. He changed his tone then said in a calm voice, “I
have no reservation whatsoever about saving the world. I can’t be mad when I do it or I’ll be like him,
huh?”
“I think so, Bill. I really think so.”
They talked for an hour more. They talked about nature. They got halfway through their keg
and left it up there for a later date. In the winter, it’d be cold again. They’d hide it like kids and hope to
find it again. It’d be cold and it might be good.
Alfred said, “I think you lost your mind,” to Bill.
Bill said, “I think I lost it too... to a million people, maybe more.”
“Another euphemism for ‘crazy’, right?”
“You’ll never know,” he said to Alfred. He was surprised that Alfred wasn’t going through the
same, exact thing.
 * two *

Eddie Macral watched a movie many years before that he had on DVD and watched quite a few
times. It was Mortal Kombat. It was insignificant in the genre of teen movies to most people. There
were subtle ways of life that the characters lived by that were metaphorical to real life existence. The
movie was based off of a gruesome video game but it had a point. The protagonist of the movie was an
Asian man versed the martial arts. He was instructed that he needed to do three things to succeed in his
life’s journey. He had to confront his fear, he had to confront himself, and he had to confront his destiny.
Eddie Macral didn’t care what his destiny was and he didn’t care. He remembered the first time he
watched the movie--it was with a friend by the name of Biff Doadley--and Biff yelled out, “Water is not an
element! It’s a molecule!” when the head master talked about the elements of the world: Earth, fire, air
and water. It was funny to Eddie and he couldn’t forget it. He thought of the movie for the reason of
confronting his fear. It was something he tried to do since being inspired by the lead champion of the
movie. He wanted to confront the fear that he had of Christy. He didn’t think she’d kill him. He didn’t
even believe that one of her new cop buddies would do it of their own will or want to do it. He wasn’t
paranoid of the cops in general. There were loose cannons and he could accept it. By and large, he knew
that paranoia begat more paranoia and so on. If he crushed it in his heart, it would go away on the other
end. That was his intuitive belief.
Eddie wanted to do something creative with what happened with Christy. He didn’t want to
humiliate her. He wanted to put things in perspective. His band was still together, the public at large
knew that Christy was an ex-girlfriend of his whom put porn of herself on the web with a police officer,
and there was still a demand to see Freight Train live.
Eddie prepared the photographs. He didn’t alter them. Three songs into a set of music that
Freight Train played on their first tour since the incident of Eddie boxing Dean, and Christy sleeping with
one of Dean’s friends, Freight Train did a cover song of a Def Leppard tune. It was “Women”. The song
was epic in the way it felt to Eddie. Randal cared a little but it wasn’t his bag. Dave played on like
nothing was going on and checked out the women in the crowd while his wife, Stephanie, looked on at
him from the side of the stage. Waldo was in a zone and when Eddie glanced at him, he barely knew if
Waldo even knew what song he was playing keyboard for. Waldo knew. He was going through the same
thing though and didn’t say a thing to Eddie. Bloom was cheating on him and it ate him up. It didn’t
make national news, but it was happening nonetheless.
When Eddie sang the part, “I give you hair... eyes... skin on skin! Legs... thighs... what’s that
spell? What’s THAT SPELL?! ”, his contemporary band mates sang along with him in the background--
perfect harmony it was--and the images of the Videotron started to flash toward Christy sucking the
pecker. Christy with the spooge on her face... and Christy lying naked with her cop uniform on top of her
(it was an image that Randal hadn’t showed Eddie on that first day). Images were then displayed of
Christy as a child of ten years of age. She was eating a rainbow sherbet ice cream, probably bought from
Thrifty’s, and enjoying it. The screen showed her on the swing when she was seven. It showed her with
teeth missing from the top of her mouth, but a big and wide five-year-old smile. It showed a lot of things
and it showed Eddie holding hands with her in the end. They were on the beach and their images were
nearly cloudy and silhouetted because the sun was going down behind them. That was the last image
shown.
Eddie thought he was hung on her and he was probably wrong. He thought he was confronting
his fear and he did. He didn’t know that the crowd would react in a positive form. They roared. They
asked for more. Eddie performed some more and then Waldo did a solo of “Yesterday” by the Beatles.
Many people thought Freight Train was becoming a cover band. They were wrong. For the next
three hours, they performed nothing but original music. It was original beyond belief. The critics lauded
it, surprisingly. Eddie didn’t care. He took care of what he needed to take care of. It was done for the
time being.

* * *
Patricia Richardson--the one who talked to Ned Swift at the National Global Star about Daisy
Michaels, a person that looked very similar to Catherine Zeta-Jones in a story that Ned eventually wrote--
was wrong about what she reported. She didn’t mean to be wrong. Daisy Michaels was a lonely, aging
woman. She was looking for power in her old age and feeling very helpless. She joined the Republican
party and thought that they would have answers for her. When they didn’t, she turned to the occult and
started channeling powers that were beyond her recognition.
People in the public at large don’t realize that celebrities and world leaders have powers beyond
their scope. They are coveted, and if Bill Swift was intimate in what his brother Ned was doing, he could
offer him some of his recent insights. A celebrity basically, in general, has the option of sleeping with a
million different people on any given night if wanted. Bill knew that he was going mad. He knew that
telepathy was changing his life. He knew he was losing his mind to people that thought of him on a daily
basis.
Celebrities go through the same thing--many of them do--and they always have gone through the
same thing. Bill didn’t know it. When he left Earth, he was a nobody. He was appreciated in town--the
place where he grew up--but it wasn’t to the point that at any given moment, he was thought of to the
point that he couldn’t handle his own thoughts. Thoughts do travel. The Beatles knew this before they
finished their careers. They lost their manager and were told that happy thoughts would suffice in
relieving any suffering he might incur on the other side of the life spectrum. Celebrities after the Beatles
realized it as well. The public at large? No one in society is interesting enough to be thought of on a
continual basis. If you’re in love, you might have one person. If you have a loving mother.. and if you’re
an only child, you might have one person as well. You might have two if your dad has any regard for you.
Most males don’t work like that. They aren’t nurturing enough and they think, quite naturally, of the next
poontang that they’ll be getting, even if it means being a slobbering, old dude in a rest home visualizing a
chance to score with a lead nurse. Mothers are different. The public at large is different.
Patricia Richardson never got to experience what Catherine Zeta-Jones felt, but she had a
glimpse. She was a celebrity by all practical means, but at the end of the day, she bled like anyone else.
She had visions, like anyone else. She admired other people, like anyone else. She thought of her
coworkers (Patricia Richardson was not the star of Home Improvement, the longest living sitcom series in
syndication). “All the world’s a stage. We are merely players... performers and portrayers. Each
another’s audience...” she said to Ned on the first day that she met him.
“...Inside the guilded cage. I know that one. Rush, right?”
“No. It’s Shakespeare, originally,” she said. She was trying to tell him that she felt like anyone
else. She was trying to tell him that she was looking out for Catherine Zeta-Jones, though they didn’t talk
much, and that a crazy lady by the name of Daisy Michaels was passing herself as Catherine.
Patricia was wrong, and it was an innocent mistake. She was sure that Daisy was causing havoc
and she’d cause more, if given the chance. What she didn’t realize was that Catherine had witch powers
beyond belief. She knew that this lady was trying to steal her identity, to varying degrees.
“Most people know that they are special, somehow,” Patricia said to Ned Swift. “It’s because they
are. They have a billion people thinking about them at any given time--I don’t--and they can chose who
they learn to listen to. I don’t know if it makes sense. I like Catherine, and that’s all I have to say.”
Ned didn’t know what to do and didn’t think much of it. He thought of an analogy. It was like
being the general manager of a baseball team. If you had the power, you’d have the selection of a lot of
many who to chose to make your team out to be. If you were lucky enough to be the Yankees, you’d have
a tenfold power at the very least. They have a draw. Millions of kids dream of wearing Yankee pinstripes.
It’s the tradition. It’s the mystique. It’s everything you can think of. The kids don’t release their
thoughts, not even if they could.
Catherine Zeta-Jones was like this in society. If she wanted something--she had four Academy
Awards by this time, but that wasn’t the determining factor--she’d have it. If she wanted to cut a three
hundred hitter? She could do it and still succeed.
Ned thought about his analogy, pondered how much pull Patricia Richardson really had, then
said, “You’re a borderline player, in my mind. Think of yourself as a baseball player. You play for your
job. You love it, people love you, but no plaques are going to be made of your name in Yankee Stadium.”
“What? I don’t...”
“... Hear me out.” Ned thought a little further. “The masses... They are desperate people,
though not one of them would say so. They covet people. By and large, they are not thought of as
significant in this pathetic existence of ours.”
“So they like me?” Patricia asked. It nearly amazed Ned that she was near tears. She didn’t
understand what was going on but she thought she was in the right place. She didn’t know it at the time--
Ned didn’t let on the he had a secret crush on her--but she couldn’t be at a better place, or so Ned figured.
Ned continued, ”You’re special. You really are. Ten years from now, people are going to
remember Freight Train. They’re popular right now...”
“...But a hundred years from now?” she asked.
Ned didn’t let on that he thought the world might be ending soon. Instead, he said, “The history
books only have room for so many people. You are a footnote. They’ll study the Beatles. They’ll study
Elvis. They’ll study someone that came twenty years before the history book was written that appeared to
be on the same path. You’re a dime a dozen--you’ve been on TV, grant you--but you’re not thought of.
There are people on the Yankees that the common person doesn’t think of. Ruth will live forever, as will
Gehrig and Mantel. They will live forever.”
“So you’re saying that because I’m not thought of as much as...”
“...I’m saying you’re in between. That’s what I’m saying.”
Ned thought of it further. He thought about wealth as an analogy. He thought about the
billionaires in society. He thought that they had ultimate freedom because they had money, they didn’t
need more money, and they were able to behave as if the world would never end. On the other end of the
spectrum, homeless people have a sort of freedom that no one experiences. Ned knew from experience
because many of his stories came from leads of ranting lunatics that didn’t even have a place to live. He
thought about them. He thought that they have an ultimate freedom of sorts. What are people going to do
if they don’t shut up? What are people going to do if they don’t conform to their wishes? Take away their
boxes?
Ned thought about all this, he thought about Patricia, and thought she was clueless on many
levels, not to her own fault. She was running a treadmill, of sorts. She longed to be like Catherine. She
never would be. The universe allows for certain amounts of the same archetype. There is a hero in society
(Bill Swift was the hero for a while), there was a scapegoat, there were enablers, there were peacekeepers,
there were black sheep, and there were many things in between. When it came down to it, there was only
one Marilyn Monroe. She was from a generation passed. There was only one contemporary Catherine
Zeta-Jones. She didn’t command the same physical beauty that Marilyn once did, but she had something
Marilyn didn’t. She had wits. She had strength. No one could pin what it was, but it was there. She was
a mother. People didn’t even care.
“What you’re saying is that I’m in between--I’m neither a loser nor a winner, in other words...
You’re saying that the masses in general are losers? Aren’t you, Ned?”
“They are!” Ned went on to tell her that he believed that you care for losers. That’s what you’re
supposed to do. Corporate raiders didn’t know they were stupid. They didn’t know they were short-sided.
On the other end, there were millions of people that believed they were the next thing to becoming a
Patricia Richardson... or a Renee Zellweger... or anyone else that seemed attainable. They didn’t know
that. “People still flock to Hollywood, you know?” he told Patricia. She listened and knew it was a
rhetorical question with an obvious response so she nodded and let him continue on. “They flock here.
They aren’t pretty. They are stupid! They don’t know! It’s like buying a fuckin’ lottery ticket,
goddammit.” Ned thought that Patricia might be turned off by his tone, then continue a little more softly.
“My job is to give them hope. I write about aliens that give old ladies recipes that delight their families. I
write about Tom Cruise, on occasion, secretly dating people that he wants to make it big. Does he do that?
I don’t know and I don’t care. It gives them hope. They are retarded.”
“They think of you, don’t you know?” she asked Ned. Ned didn’t know what to say, she changed
her subject, then she said, “If these people are thinking of Catherine--not me--if they are thinking of her,
what’s the big deal in it all?”
“She has choice, don’t you see? There are people that unlock doors for her. It’s a slippery slope
but in the other way. It really is. She started off as a good thing, she listened to the few people that would
telepathically communicate with her, she took the best advice that she was given and disregarded secretly
what she couldn’t handle. She did all this, it made her successful, which in turn made more people think
of her, which in turn made her more effective because she had more people to listen to, which in turn
made her more successful, and so on.” Ned thought of it for a while. Patricia had said that she got it
toward the end of his spiel but he wanted to continue because was on a roll, and he was even revealing
things to himself for the first time. He said, “She’s not that pretty, you know? She’s not. She looks great.
I would not kick her out of bed... and I’m married, and so is she. She picks good roles. She makes people
happy. People love her for it. That’s all there is to it.”
Patricia thought about what it had to do with Daisy Michaels. She didn’t say a thing. She was
sipping on coffee (Ned always had coffee around him to offer people) and she sat down and waited for
something to happen that would finalize the visit.
“I’m going to write good about you, Patricia. I really am. I get the feeling that Daisy Michaels is
using Catherine. I don’t think she knows what she’s up against.” During this initial visit--the one that
later sparked Eddie Macral to visit Catherine personally--Ned said, “Most people think they’re over
average. Do you know that, Patricia? By definition, only half of us can be over average. That’s the law of
the definition, for Christ’s sake!” He composed himself, then said, “People think that they are capable of
love. Not everyone is capable of love. I have a brother’s friend in mind, and they both passed away.
Alfred was his name.”
“I know Alfred,” Patricia said.
“I forgot. You spoke to my brother telepathically and that’s why you’re here. Alfred though, if
you know the story, had a friend--she wasn’t a friend in my eyes--that thought she loved him. In reality,
she was a desperate lady that had nothing to live for. She made a last-ditch effort at what she thought was
true love, of some kind.”
“I can relate,” Patricia said.
Ned wanted to kiss her because he noticed a tinge of desperation within her. He refrained and
said, “This lady ruined his life. She really did. He hated her. I hated her as well, and I didn’t really
know her. She destroyed lives in concentric circles, but she thought she was loving. Do you understand
what I’m saying? Or am I just making stuff up that can’t be deciphered?”
“The second one,” is what Patricia said. She wasn’t desperate any longer. She was joking She
understood and Ned was happy.
“You remember The Talented Mister Ripley, right? The character in that movie thought that
everything he was doing was right?”
“You see a danger,” Patricia said.
“Bingo. And my job is to stop it.” Ned was talking about the desperate people--the masses in
general--that lived their lives like they were somehow meaningful, somehow believing all along that they
were thought of by everyone they’ve ever met. In reality, it was a vacuum the way things worked. Ten
percent of the people on Earth were coveted by the rest of the ninety percent. Beyond that, there was a top
one percent that Patricia Richardson was not necessarily a part of in her post Home Improvement days.
They were people that had so many people thinking of them at any given time that they would literally
lose their minds. They would lose control of their thinking capacity. People would roam like spirits
around them. Schlaclak would allow it. Most people--the vast majority--couldn’t relate to the subject.
When asked who was enviable in the world, a common person would respond with confidence, “Catherine
Zeta-Jones... Maybe that new actress, Blaine Starlight.” The common person--the vast majority of them--
would honestly respond in the affirmative when asked, Are you an enviable person? the person might
qualify it with, If you took the time to know me, and feel quite good about it.
Most people in 2013 didn’t know that envy was considered to be a cardinal sin by the Catholic
Church for ages. Of course, they didn’t know that the Catholic Church was the cause for the Inquisitions
either, since religious teaching had been phased out of public text books. Envy, though, causes pain in the
real world. It causes paparazzi to stake out subjects that are admired by many. Admiration, in itself, is
not a sin because it is controlled. The next step is overstepping people’s bounds. Princess Diana was
killed because of jealous people that had no lives of their own. It was a strange paradox.
Ned thought about the things going through his mind, figured that Patricia Richardson never had
to endure what her former co-star, Pamela Anderson, had to endure, and refrained from talking about it.
He thought she was enjoying his company. He was tired. He didn’t want to think of the sick world any
longer.
Finally, he asked in candor, “What do you think of television, Patricia? Can I call you that, by
the way?”
Patricia had been sipping her coffee and not saying a word. She seemed shocked by the question,
got up and grabbed her coat, then let herself out the door.
“What a fuckin’ loser!” Ned said to himself when she left. He’d use her information. Later that
day, he’d confess to his wife that he used to beat off to her. It was a strange world.
Since the initial conversation with Patricia Richardson, Ned sent Eddie Macral to talk to
Catherine Zeta-Jones, Eddie got in a fight with Dean McJames at a kick boxing match, Eddie had his
concert in which he displayed internet photos of his former girlfriend, and then he got an insight that he
didn’t expect.
Daisy Michaels had been harnessing powers of the universe---that much he knew. She wasn’t
that successful at it but she kept on trying. Patricia Richardson, when she thought that she was talking
about Daisy Michaels--she had been trying to double for her--was actually talking about Catherine Zeta-
Jones.
Catherine felt trapped in Hollywood and in her other homes throughout the world. She caught
wind that someone was trying to be her. In return, Catherine thought it’d be a good idea to turn the
tables. She went to Miller and San Quixote--it was something that Michael Douglas didn’t approve of but
went along with--and pretended to be Daisy Michaels. She would dress up like her, wear the mole or two
in the right places (one was bigger than the other and she’d opt to just wear one sometimes), and go
places where she knew that Daisy was welcome, expected, and wanted.
Catherine had a great time. She had powers of her own. They were on her lips. Eddie Macral
thought that it was a psychological phenomenon what happened to him. He was wrong. As supernatural
powers went, her kiss was as strong, if not stronger, than one of Bill Swift’s shit balls. It’d cause an
orgasm if she so wished. People channeled love into her. They channeled hope. She was able to
transform this power to something into something different. She could knock people off their socks if she
wanted. She didn’t want that. She was ready for the world. She was living outside of the bubble that she
had grown into because of envious people throughout the world. She was ready to change things. It
would all start in San Quixote. If necessary, it would start in Miller, California as well.

* * *
Ned Swift had told Anna Harcdomm--she was now Anna Swift, but in Randal Meyer’s eyes, she
would always be Anna Harcdomm--about the things that Patricia Richardson had told him. He didn’t
come out and spill his guts about it. He didn’t mention that there was a moment that he sincerely wanted
to kiss her. He told her about the things she had told him, in a roundabout way.
Anna didn’t take much heed to it, but she remembered.
In the early winter of 2013, not long before the New Year, Freight Train was winding down their
leg of the western states in America. They had started in Frisco, went up north to Fresno and Duckton,
traveled to Portland then Seattle, took some time in Idaho, then started their was south again through
Nevada and Arizona. They played a lot of small clubs along the way because it was their style. They were
“unscheduled stops”, as far as the public was concerned. People were given little, if any, warning. It
would take away the scalpers and it would bring the real fan base out of hiding. They liked it that way. It
would charge them for their larger shows.
Freight Train was to fly to Provo, Utah after the New Year arrived. From there, they’d go to
Colorado and then they’d skitter across the western states they had missed then end up on the eastern sea
board.
Before the New Year, Randal Meyer was in a funk. He knew what had happened to Eddie with
Christy. Eddie had stopped playing “Women” after a few shows as a matter of catharsis because he got it
out of his system. He knew he’d have to play it again if wind got out that it was any good. If he did, he
knew he’d have to tone down the concert session on the Videotron for his own reasons. Waldo had
admitted that Bloom was screwing him over. Randal never had anyone steady. He was an extravert that
decided to play the field. He thought he’d always be that way. Dave was having a good time with
Stephanie, his wife, by and large. Randal still slept with her on occasion and it didn’t seem to bother
Dave too much. There were pretty women on the road. Whenever Steph would sleep with Randal--he
didn’t let her on a long leash in her habits--he would pick a blonde or a brunette or a redhead, of his
choice basically, depending on the mood he was in. It all worked out.
Randal heard through the grapevine that Anna Harcdomm was sleeping around in Los Angeles.
It went further than that. She was prostituting herself. Beam Goodson, a friend of Eddie Macral’s, had
heard it from one of his buddies and passed it along the way. Eddie didn’t want to tell Randal because he
knew that he had slept with her before, back before Freight Train was even born. Randal had a mixed
relationship with her. One day he had yelled at her that someday he was going to treat her right. It didn’t
resonate in his mind on a conscious level for many years--it had been suppressed--but as soon as he heard
that Anna was giving her body for money, he decided to find out how to get a hold of her without sounding
alarms. Los Angeles was going to be the last stop that Freight Train had before they took a break and
headed east. It would be Randal’s opportunity.
Randal got a hold of Anna through the grapevine. He made sure that he wouldn’t be busted--
Beam was willing to help out in his own regard for the sake of Eddie Macral--and registered in a hotel
under the name Jack Meoff. He figured it’d be funny. If she showed... and she was a whore, it’d be funny
to her. If she didn’t, he’d get a laugh at the very least when telling the story of the receptionist’s reaction
at the hotel. Her jaw literally dropped, but she went about things anyway because she recognized who he
really was and wasn’t about to blow a cover. That would have bad repercussions in the industry because
no one would want to stay there any longer if he were a rock star and wanted privacy.
Anna showed up and thought that she was going to see Beam Goodson. She had seen him a time
or two and couldn’t remember the details fully. There were a lot of men that she saw. She was getting
rich. She planned to buy a house for Ned. He was doing good at the paper, but his wages were fixed. He
wouldn’t make it big himself unless he wrote a book of his own instead of giving all his ideas to a
corporate paper, liberal as it was in relative terms.
She opened the door, Randal was masked in a silver setup that covered his face, except for his
eyes. There were purple feathers coming from the mask and Randal’s guitar was nearby.
“Do you want to tell me what this is all about?” he asked Anna.
“What are you? You’re not Beam. But Beam wouldn’t do this to me... I think,” Anna said. She
was confused and turned away from Randal.
Randal approached Anna after getting off the bed. He grabbed her by the arm and said, “Do you
see what he’s doing to you?” He was talking about Ned and Anna knew now. It was someone from her
past but she wasn’t sure that it was Randal. She didn’t even know what Randal looked like any longer.
She had stopped reading the papers about Freight Train.
“People change, huh?” she said aloud.
Randal had gone back to the bed and knew she wasn’t talking to him. “It’s Elvis Grbak. That’s
who I am,” Randal said to her when she finally went toward the bed. He pleaded with her to accept it as a
“maybe truth”. He had heard that she had clientele of ex-athletes.
Anna didn’t accept it on the inside but she wasn’t afraid of him any longer either. She went
toward him stooping down. She leaned over his tummy--there was a bulge there, not too noticeable--and
said, “I know who you are now.” She looked at a scare right below his tummy. “Why do you do this,
Randal? Why???”
“Basically, it’s like this. I slept with you one time--”
“I see. Go on.”
“--and I want to make sure that you’re okay. I don’t trust Ned, no matter what you say. You think
you’re in love with him,” Randal said. He wasn’t so sure when he asked, “Don’t you?”
“I like you, Randal. I...” She didn’t know what to say.
Randal and Anna didn’t sleep together. They spent time together and they watched TV. Randal
promised not to tell anyone that he knew--no one that Ned would know--but he wasn’t too sure that it
wouldn’t get around the grapevine anyway.
 Anna told Randal about things that Ned had told her, but she attributed it to Beam Goodson. She
said that Catherine Zeta-Jones was a lady that was gaining lots of power. It was either her, or a look-
alike. She explained things in a roundabout way then she said that her husband talked to trolls from
underneath the Earth but refused to write about them. She didn’t know if he was kidding or not when he
told his stories. It was his job to be fanciful. Anna just wanted a peace of mind and thought Randal could
give insight.
“There are no trolls. Where would they live?”
“Everything else makes sense to him. He’s been making things up for so long... I don’t know. I
don’t. And then weird things happen.”
“What weird things?”
“Well his brother... You know Bill Swift, right?
“Of course. I talked to him on the day he flew... right here on Earth before he came back! I
know Bill.”
“Well, if Bill can fly, why can’t there be trolls?”
Randal thought about it as he sat upright at the edge of the bed. “I don’t know. I don’t.”
“I think he’s kidding. I really do. He has to throw some of us off in order to maintain sanity,
right?”
“I’m sure he does. I’d like to meet him now.”
Anna didn’t let Randal meet her husband. She was afraid of a powder keg. She didn’t get one.
Randal took off to the National Global Star on the day after he slept with Anna--slept being the operant
word since they didn’t have sex--and didn’t tell Anna anything about it. He told her not of his intentions
before taking off at five in the morning, either.
“I have something for you, Neddy boy,” Randal said to him.
“I know you. You’re my brother’s friend, right? Bill? You remember him? Right? Is that it?”
“I have this.” It was a photo of Anna. “She loves you. Don’t ask me how I know. I know these
things because I’m in a rock band.”
Ned analyzed the picture. It could have been taken anywhere. There was no nudity and there
was little hint of location. “Where was it taken?”
“Last night. I slept with her.”
Ned blushed. He was embarrassed. “I don’t know what to tell you and I’m busy.”
He sped off to another office. Randal wanted to say something before Ned closed the door.
Instead he followed him in after a five-second delay.
“I don’t need this,” Ned said. He had thought he was a secure dude. He wasn’t. He was fragile.
He had a great-looking woman and he even believed that there was something innocent between Randal
and Anna at the time. He believed that but he knew that Randal was a rock star... and he wasn’t. “If you
wanted her... If you want her... If you want Anna--my wife!--take her now, please. Okay? Don’t delay.
But if I catch you with her again, I’ll write you into oblivion. I’ll say you’re a Barquori in one of my
articles.” He knew that Randal had no idea what he was talking about. “It’s an race of humanoids that
transforms into trees once per year for about a week. They’ll chop you down. People don’t like trees any
longer.”
Ned left it at that. Randal was dumbfounded by what happened because he was genuinely trying
to help Ned. Ned was in denial, and as much as Anna loved him and showed it, he thought he was going
to lose her on any given day.

* * *
Paul Foster Lawrence taught at San Quixote Community College and was good friends with Don
Michaels, twin brother of Doug Michaels and relatively recently fired from his job for flirting with young
women in his class beyond the scope of acceptance, and one time privately acting too far in the same
scope. They were bitter at the world but Don, being in philosophy classes for most of his adult life,
learned to rationalize it to the point that he wouldn’t become diffused of his goals in life, which was to
actually teach. He thought he’d be given a chance somewhere else.
Paul Foster Lawrence--going by Professor L most places--felt differently but he didn’t tell Don
about his full ideas. He thought it would be good to go elsewhere--maybe South Africa--to teach for a
while. Paul was a teacher of sociology and taught such classes as Marriage and the Family 135, and Self-
Esteem in Modern America 196. Ironically, he had been divorced five times and was barely above
Maslow’s lowest level of what was called his Hierarchy of Needs. This basically meant that he had food
and shelter in life, but not much more. He didn’t like himself. He didn’t like life. If people knew that in
his classes, he’d be reported, denied tenure, and even his lowest level of needs (according to Maslow)
would be threatened. He didn’t tell a soul and he taught his Self-Esteem in Modern America class like he
was the best source of information on the subject. He acted like he taught for pleasure. I could have been
a book writer or I could have made more money like Tim Robbins used to... but I chose teaching because
it fulfilled me best. The highest level is Self-Actualization in Maslow’s theory, he would teach to his
classes every semester. I hope you reach the level that I’m at. I’m there. I teach for a living. What could
be better? When insulted, he would direct his anger, fear, and insecurity back at the source where it came
from. He would refer to psychology--and he hated to do that since he believed little in the ability of the
human individual to break form from the norm--and say, It takes one to know one. I know you think it’s
amateurish, but it’s obviously the only thing you’ll understand. If I told you that there’s a term for what
you’re doing--it’s called projection in psychology--you’re taking your fears and putting them on me. You
feel inadequate. I know that only because you make me out to be inadequate without having met me for
more than five minutes. You’re putting your fears of self-inadequacy on me. It’s a long semester. You’ll
get by. Please don’t drop out. Whenever Paul would say that, he would secretly hope that whomever it
was that challenged him would drop his class the next day for public embarrassment reasons. Most the
time, he got his wish. Junior College kids--as they were known to Paul--didn’t have the certificates that
he had. They wouldn’t challenge him without fear on an ongoing basis. It didn’t matter that they might
have more self-esteem or even better knowledge of what it takes to operate a family in modern society.
That didn’t matter.
Don Michaels opted not to go along with Paul to South Africa. He thought that he had too much
going on in the States, and though he had been fired and sued for sexual assault, he thought he could work
somewhere. He didn’t feel blackballed. Maybe he would work for the ACLU as a consultant. He wasn’t
sure, but he was going to try his options.
Paul, in the end, decided to go to Australia. It was an English-speaking country. It was a nation
that was originally formed from criminals. Paul thought that Don might go along with him eventually, if
not for anything else, but because of that reason. Paul would stop being called Professor L--he knew or
believed that secretly, it meant Professor Loser to the people that would call him it--and he would make a
new start. He would stop telling people--emphasizing the fact--that his middle name was Foster. I’m here
to foster you kids, okay? he would say at the beginning of every semester. Remember that. It’s in my
middle name to do so. He would do all this and more.
Don, when he found out that Paul was serious about going to Australia, changed his mind and
thought it was a good idea after all. He packed up his wife--she was a stay-at-home lady anyway--and
invited his brother Doug and his brother’s wife Daisy. They agreed. Paul took off with his dog, Engel,
and Don took off with his wife, brother, and Daisy. On New Year’s Day of 2014, they all arrived in
Melbourne, Australia. It was a symbolic new beginning for them. They had forewent the celebration that
typically came with commemorating the end of the year through New Year’s Eve parties and packed
instead. This, during that time that most people were having toasts and being merry.
Paul was a lonely man, but he felt energized by the new possibilities of the new land that he was
in. He fought kangaroos on the weekends. He would dress up as an American in red, white stripes with
blues fields here and there that had they typical white stars. He thought to wear the Neekay flag instead--
it was outdated by then and a Ford flag had come in vogue--but thought the natives might not get it. He
fought the kangaroos as a symbol. He knew that Australians, and much of the rest of the world, were
secretly anti-American. Their governments were typically pro-American, but they were pro-American on
the outside in the same way that a person is pro-bully when he is a kid in elementary school. It’s because
you don’t want to be picked on. You don’t want to suffer wrath.
He figured that by fighting kangaroos, and losing most the time, he would be liked by his new
neighbors to the south of the equator. He was right. He was able to land a teaching job there, and he was
able to make a new beginning that was suitable.
Don Michaels had an easy time getting a teaching job and his brother Doug lived mainly off his
pension that was sent from the States. He had worked in aerospace for much of his life.
Daisy Michaels was the wildcard. She had been harnessing supernatural powers in California
and thought that leaving the States would leave behind, with her, the life that she had started to live. She
was unhappy. She always was unhappy. She had been willing to leave her husband for Bill Swift at a
time in her life. Bill died, came back to Earth, and didn’t notice her. If she became powerful enough, he
might notice her. They could become like Batman and Batgirl. They could be a duo that ruled things. In
the end, she gave up on the idea.
The one that was most effected by the change was not Don, nor Daisy, nor Doug, nor Don’s wife
Hilda, nor Paul, nor Engel, Paul’s dog. It was Catherine Zeta-Jones.
Ned Swift was right about things. The more people think of you, the stronger there is a
propensity to go nuts. Bill Swift, his brother, was realizing the same thing and maybe there was a cosmic
connection that was allowing them to think the same thing at the same time in life. They didn’t talk a lot
to one another, after all. Catherine Zeta-Jones had a lot of people thinking of her. Through Daisy, a
virtual look alike, she was able to return to her roots again. What Daisy didn’t realize was that she was
able to harness powers because of her identity and her close looks to Catherine. She looked like her.
People in markets would register it, but they wouldn’t say a thing to her face. They would think, Is that
Catherine Zeta-Jones? Nah. Can’t be. This is Miller weren’t talking about. Schizophrenics typically
have lives that are off center. Before they are deemed to be schizophrenic, they are typically dubbed as
eccentric, which by definition means “off center”. Because of peculiarities--maybe they were in the paper
for being at the right place at the right time, they helped a ladies that were being mugged in parking lots
of Staters or other places, and they get notoriety of unexpected kinds--they live different lives than people
that the grow up around. Peculiarities turn into outright strange things, in people’s minds, because
problems exacerbate. What had seemed like a positive--being in the paper for something good, of all
things--turn bad because they are treated different. In an effort to fit in again, schizophrenics do strange
things. These strange things are thought of, they receive more attention because of it, people begin to
swarm their minds, they go crazy, and no one understands.
Rich people around the world have the same problem. At their disposal, they have law
enforcement that will attack anyone that thinks too much of him or her. Poor people don’t have this
option. They are deemed crazy. No one understands.
Daisy thought about what was going on in her mind. She thought that her problems were based
in Miller. She was wrong. They were based in her mind. A thought doesn’t have location, does it? I
mean, when you have an image in your head, where is it located? she thought. She concluded that, since
thoughts don’t have location, neither does the mind in general. In other words, getting away from Miller
was a waste. It didn’t matter if she was in Australia. It didn’t matter if she was in Miller, California. It
didn’t matter if she was on Zoton, a place she had heard the kids of her community talk about years back.
It didn’t matter at all. As a matter of fact, what was probably going on was that people were still thinking
of her. Why? It didn’t matter to her. They were thinking of her, and she concluded that going to
Australia probably further compounded things in the sense that she was now a mystery of the complete
kind by leaving people’s presences.
Daisy didn’t know it--there was a web page that was designed for her when she was with Bill
Swift and Bill Swift started to fly--but people still tagged that web site at an alarming rate. They thought
she knew something. She was right. It was because of the fact that people thought of her that she thought
she was going crazy. It wasn’t because of her likeness to Catherine Zeta-Jones, in totality. It was her
association to Bill Swift that made it most intense.
Catherine Zeta-Jones, after realizing that her “soul sister” had gone to Australia, decided to make
a trek down there as well. If anything, she’d make a movie there, if that’s what it took. She was intrigued
by Daisy, and she couldn’t figure out why. Catherine was increasing in supernatural powers but so was
her twin--her near twin--though they weren’t identically related.

* * *
 Bill Swift was back in Yellowstone National Park with Alfred Newman. This time, he invited
Blipwhip and Edward Hand. Edward Hand couldn’t make it--he said he couldn’t make it--because he was
in love for the first time in his life. He was in Germany and he was dating a lady of twenty-one years of
age. She was a vigilante, but not of the typical kind. Ever since Bill, Alfred, Edward, and Blipwhip
started making national headlines and global headlines, she caught wind that things were changing. She
could come out of her shell. Her family were Holocaust survivors in the past. They chose to stay in
Germany, after World War II, rather than going to the UN-sanctioned, new-again, reformed nation of
Israel. They had that choice but opted out of it. She was a Jew, but she was a Catholic Jew. She was
Jewish--Yiddish, more specifically--by race, but she chose to explore that Christ may have been the
Messiah that her people waited so long for, thus she was Catholic by religious journey.
She wore a suit when she went out at night that was made up of royal blue silk. Her mask was
leather--she did that because she’d be in fights and she didn’t want it yanked off--and she saw it as a
means to an end (she was vegetarian in real life, but as a superhero, she would eat meat in public). She
fought with tools that were rather archaic--there were swords, spears, knives the size of her fists, and
Chinese stars; there was a ball and chain that she’d bring out on occasion that was spiked all around the
ball--but she got the job done. Crime started dropping in Germany. She had buddies on the police force
that would tip her in to important events. Of course, the police had to live by due process to a degree, but
if she knew about things--she went by the name of Lady Protector, when translated into English--it would
be okay because she’d proactively approach anyone that needed approaching.
Edward Hand fell in love with her and they started dating. He was able to summon powers from
beyond--he was still in mental contact with people and beings from Zoton--and he was able to
supernaturalize her swords, shields, and other instruments. He tried to give her supernatural powers
directly, but it was out of his grasp. He was given the knowledge that in time, she would gain them. She
had to be virtuous in the eyes of the Koagulates--they had given the Fab Four their powers--OR she would
have to impress Lucifer, and his horde--a mounting one--enough that she could destroy the world, if
necessary. She couldn’t have much of a middle ground, but she did have a middle ground that she was
aware of and she couldn’t shake. She wasn’t into the bank robberies. It wasn’t her thing. It was stopping
polluters. It was getting straight to the source as often as possible. In the end, she was conflicted because
she believed that corporate polluters--government polluters, for that matter--were stupid people that had
short-side visions. Was it right to kill short-sided people? In the end, the answer was yes to her. She
thought that it would turn on Bill Swift, because she knew that he felt the same way as well. In the end,
Bill was wrapped in his own personal problems. While on Earth, he had Anna Harcdomm (future wife of
his brother’s) and he had Daisy Michaels. That was enough for him. Edward Hand had no one. He was
a lonely, aging man when he died. He died to have Lady Protector. She knew it.
“Our friend, Edward, is in Germany right now,” Bill said to the group of superheroes at
Yellowstone, notwithstanding Edward and Lady Protector, of course. “He is there. We have a keg of beer
here, though. We do. It’s great, isn’t it?”
The Francine side of Blipwhip was eating a roasted squirrel. Alfred went to get the keg of beer at
the secret hiding place he and Bill had hid it in. It was there. It was cold. The Saul side of Blipwhip was
in horror. He had been an environmentalist to a degree. It shuddered him to see Francine eating meat--
any kind of meat--and she was doing it now without consideration to his feelings, as they were channeled
to his side of their being.
When Alfred came back with the keg--it felt nearly frozen inside--he said, “There’s no cups. I
don’t know where they went. A bear? I don’t know. Something came and took the cups.”
“It’ll have to do,” Bill said.
His agenda was simple: Take on the government so long as they had the power to screw the
masses, in general. “We’re going to do this, I tell ya’!” Bill said. He expected a loud cheer. He said it
with the reverence that he said it with in front of crowds--people crowds. All he had in front of him were
former human beings in the guise of superheroes, and he had a few squirrels that squirted from here to
there. He looked at Blipwhip and noticed that Francine had more of an interest in her squirrel than she
had in Bill’s speech and proclamation. Further, he noticed that she was still hung up on Alfred. Bill
noticed that when she looked up from her squirrel, mostly gone now, she looked at Alfred like he was
going to bone her. He wouldn’t do a thing, even if the gods put a pussy on the Blipwhip creature. For
that matter, he wouldn’t touch Blipwhip if it had a penis that cured envy. He was envious toward Bill--
Bill noticed that only Alfred paid attention to his proclamation--and he couldn’t hold it in. Someday, he
wanted Bill to die from his life. When that happened, he wanted to be just like him. He imagined that
before--maybe it was Ned that was Bill’s idol--Bill had someone in his life that he envied... and tried to
copy step for step.
Francine--the Francine side of Blipwhip--tossed aside her squirrel. All the meat was gone. She
said, “Rubber band city! Saul here doesn’t realize it, but a healthy Francine is a healthy Blipwhip. We’ll
do better together if you just let me eat my fuckin’ meat, SAUL!” She started to cry. Even superheroes
cried, Bill was surprised by it, and it was being witnessed by the group.
Bill finally said, when all the blubbering had stopped, “Jules Verne knew that we would go to the
Moon.”
“What?” Francine wanted to know. “What are you talking about?”
“Fuck you, Francine,” Bill said. He continued on in spite of the stare that she gave him. “Jules
Verne knew that we would go to the Moon, as I said before. He thought that we would take a rocket--it
was a large bullet, actually--and shoot it to the Moon. This was in the nineteenth century. He was way
before his time.”
“You’re saying,” a conflicted Saul-side-of-Blipwhip started to say, “That we have knowledge that
other people don’t have.” It was half-question, half-answer.
“Bingo. That’s it. The world will end... or will it? Conventional wisdom says yes, it’ll end. I
don’t think the Koagulates are right. I don’t think they have all the answers. I don’t. I refuse to believe
it. But Al Gore... Even if we weren’t here. He’s fucking things up so bad! He’s fucking things UP! I
don’t think he knows what he’s doing.”
“Give us an example,” a scared Saul-side-of-Blipwhip said.
“The atheistic thing. I mean... He’s a Communist. Let’s put it that way. He says he’s Baptist,
but in his first book about the environment, he was pandering the Buddha as well. He’s all over the place,
and in the end, it’s his wife Tipper that he listens to. She’s big on mental health. I don’t know if Al goes
through what I go through. I have a million people thinking of me at any given second, I feel them, I
know they’re there.”
Alfred managed to rig up a temporary drinking cup out of a magazine that he had brought. He
poured some beer into it, and started drinking. He didn’t like where the conversation was going. He was
a superhero, in many people’s eyes. These things were to happen. He wouldn’t run from it, but he would
soften the blow with a placebo to him... known as beer.
“Al would have you believe,” he continued on, “That Catholics are wrong in believing that they
see Mother Mary, on occasion. If he had his way, he might string ‘um up in mental health somewhere. I
don’t really know. All I have to say, is I have a bad feeling. People don’t care anymore. Our only hope
on this planet is that we turn back to God and supernatural beliefs. You know?”
Blipwhip nodded yes together. It was mostly the Francine side that was doing it.
“We all know that anyone we’ve come across hasn’t come across God the Absolute, whether it be
Allah or someone or something else. We’ve seen powerful shit though. The Koagulates think they’re
strong. I bet they’re just like you and me. Who knows? Maybe Zeus and his gang got tired with toying
with humans and they started to take refuge in the delights of Koagulates’ toils. I don’t know. I really
don’t. If not Zeus though...”
“There’s always someone else!” Blipwhip said. It was the Saul side, he was finally confident in
what he was saying... and he was surprisingly unafraid at any wrath that might come from his selected
leader for the time being, Bill Swift.
“The world knows me in different places as Superhero One. Why? I don’t care. I need a
message though. I need to tell them that they are nothing unless they start thinking of themselves as
heroes. It’s as simple as that.”
 * three *

Al Gore made a stop in Australia that was widely publicized. He was trying to convince the
prime minister, Peter Doaknickle, to accept nuclear submarines and air craft carriers into the harbors of
his country. Most people in the world were unaware of it, but the leader of Australia, for all practical
reasons, was still sitting on the thrown of England. Queen Elizabeth had passed away early in 2014 and
Prince Charles, as he was known, was asserting his authority on the country. He was now king and
instructed Peter not to allow the United States to push them around. Al, of course, wanted to challenge
the status quo of the country’s foreign policy. He did so not knowing what kind of fight he’d be against.
King Charles, as he was quickly known in Australia, was respected and he wanted to stay respected.
Richard Gelding continued with his strange experiences from the “people from beyond”, as he
called them. They gave him supernatural powers to the best of their ability. He could fly, but only for a
day or two at a time, without needing a break of two weeks or longer. He couldn’t shoot shit balls. He
couldn’t send spooge into the air. He couldn’t read minds effectively yet. He couldn’t send rubber bands
into the air. His gift, that they gave him, was wit. It was incredible wit. He could set a crowd laughing
without realizing the punch line of a joke that he just told. It didn’t matter to him. The aliens knew that
it was a quick fix. Giving him the ability to shoot fire from his eyes--this is something they wanted to do
initially--would take too much time. Wit was easy for them... and it was effective.
Richard thought that his duty was to check Bill Swift. The aliens didn’t hide the fact that they
thought they might be wrong about him. They thought he’d be too out of control, when push came to
shove. They thought he’d be too independent, the trait that they were attracted to of his to begin with.
Richard? They thought they could control him accurately. Al Gore? They didn’t care about him. He
thought that the aliens were a farce all along. He had been to Area 51 (he wasn’t permitted to go to
Siberia and see the real stuff) and seen the aliens himself. For fleeting moments, he found himself
believing. “It’s like watching Jurassic Park, my dears friends,” he told a crowd of advisors before taking
off to Australia. “It’s like that. You find yourself believing that the dinosaurs are real. I mean, you
actually think that somewhere on Earth, Michael Creighton... or whomever wrote that story--was it Steven
Spielberg himself that wrote it?--you actually feel that they know something... That somewhere, there are
dinosaurs right now on the Earth. There’s not, and you know it. You leave the theatre and you know it’s
all pretend.” Al knew of Bill Swift, though, and made speeches of Bill Swift. He wouldn’t let himself
believe that it was real. He wouldn’t let himself believe that the media in general were giving accurate
accounts of the world, the way it was evolving. He wouldn’t let himself believe the CIA operatives that
said the same thing--that Bill Swift was an alien, or a former human being. He wouldn’t let himself
believe it, but he’d talk about it to the public. They believed that Bill Swift was alive and well. They
believed that he could fly and he could kill someone with his anger alone. They believed that there were
aliens around the country that were now influencing world events in an undeniable way. In the end, Al
Gore was no good to the aliens because he wouldn’t believe in them even if he were to be abducted. He
wouldn’t believe at all.
 “Our mission for you, Richard Gelding, is to beat Al in the next election. You’ll have to rejoin
the political spectrum. You’ll have to beat him. The best way to start is by going to Australia this week.
He’s going to be there. You’ll be there too. You’ll make him look dumb. You’ll look like a hero in more
ways that one when you fly past him in a speech. You’ll make him look dumb when you use your
supernatural power of wit! You’ll do it.”
Richard believed it all. The reason wit was the best and easiest gift they could give him was
because it was a placebo. In other words, he believed in the cure that they were giving him. Some people,
on Earth, were able to convince themselves to heal their bodies when given sugar pills. They thought--
they were told by doctors on occasion--that they were given a breakthrough miracle drug. The power of
the mind is strong in humans, and the aliens that dealt with Richard Gelding knew it.
The only power that he had been given that could work was flight. Of course, in human dreams,
when a person fears that he or she cannot run, he or she will not run, quite often, and the mystery goes
unexplained to people that experience it. Richard could freeze, the aliens knew it, but if he was told he
had an additional trait--that of wit--he was likely to succeed in his flight.
Al Gore spoke in front of a parliamentary building in Sydney. He was going to say that there was
a new era. Little did he know that one was brewing, but it wasn’t the era he envisioned. “A new era has
come!” he proclaimed. King Charles was on the podium with him and he raised King Charles’ arm. “We
are friends. We are brothers! The United States is your friend!” Al didn’t intend to say that he wanted to
influence King Charles to persuade prime minister, Peter Doaknickle, to change the policy of nuclear
warships in Australia’s harbors. The people knew they didn’t need them there. They were a symbol. Al
would do his persuasion behind closed doors.
Richard Gelding flew in from behind Al Gore’s podium. Al barely noticed him, saw him and
laughed on the inside because he thought he’d never be taken seriously again after the sex tapes that were
released of him, then became horrified when Bill Swift arrived behind him. Richard Gelding didn’t know
he had been stalked. He didn’t know that Bill was in cahoots with Al (in all actuality, he wasn’t, but that’s
not the way Richard perceived things). He didn’t know that the Koagulates would betray him. He felt
betrayed.
Bill didn’t say a word. He settled to the far end of the ramp which held up the podium, Al Gore,
his entourage, and King Charles. He waited as an observer then said to Richard Gelding, “Say your
peace.” In Al’s mind, it registered as, Say your piece, as in, Say your piece of shit that you’re
interrupting with. Bill meant, Say your peace of mind, with an emphasis on the peace factor.
Richard was hesitant at the beginning. He thought about the gift of wit that he was told that he
had. He had faith in it and it revolved around the fact that he flew there. If they said that he could fly...
and he did, then it followed that he would have wit when the time came to shove.
Richard looked around and noticed that Tom Burman, Secretary of State in the USA, was
laughing at him. He said to Tom Burman, “Fuck... you!” He pointed at him. Tom didn’t take him
seriously. There was a crowd of three hundred people that were held captivated by the action. “I have
powers like Bill Swift...!” he started to say.
“Then show them!” Tom said.
 “Okay. A rabbit and a monkey are crossing the street... Which one gets their FIRST!?”
“I don’t KNOW,” Tom said.
Tom was genuinely surprised and Dick--Richard felt like Dick when he was aroused by public
action--could see it on his face. “They both get there at the same time, folks. They’re fingering each other
in the ass!”
The crowd busted up. Richard made the joke up on the spot. The crowd didn’t know. They
thought that Tom was the monkey, in the story, and Al was obviously the rabbit. That’s what would be
written in the papers the next day.
“The next order of business...” Richard said, and continued to talk for fifteen minutes. It was
politicians’ speak, and he didn’t refer to multiple people changing a lightbulb once. He thought to do it as
an anecdote, but he knew he had his base covered.
Catherine Zeta-Jones was in the crowd that day. She was startled by the politicians. She had
started filming a movie by the name Dead People Don’t Lie with her husband, Michael Douglas. She was
there because she was intrigued by her look alike, Daisy Michaels, but she knew she had word to do as
well.
When Richard Gelding stopped speaking--he announced his candidacy for office of president of
the United States before it was all over--Bill Swift took the podium. He prepared to speak but Catherine
Zeta-Jones unveiled her face--she was wearing a robe of pastel colors with fruit-like designs--she said, “I
have something to say.”
Bill Swift looked at her, said to the crowd, “It’s Catherine Zeta-Jones, folks. We have to step
aside, my friends,” and then handed the mike to her. When he said that they’d have to step aside, it was
directed toward the politicians that were speaking. King Charles took it the wrong way and nearly yelled
at Bill that he wasn’t going to ask his people to step aside, meaning the people in the audience.
Prince Charles, as he was still known to many of the Americans present, stepped aside eventually
after giving Catherine her due credence.
She composed herself after the strange incident and said, “I only have one thing to do here.” She
whizzed her fingers by Bill’s throat--it was a delicate touch--and his embarrassment caused him to turn
brown in the face. People could see fumes exuded from his ears, and those closest to him thought that
someone farted pretty bad.
*Part Three *

* last chapter *

The 2016 election for president in the United States was one without much fanfare. People tried
to drub it up like it was something important and historic. In the end, Richard Gelding won the seat of
president. He beat Al Gore, but not by much. Once again, third parties had become inconsequential and
the battle at the time was between the big two: The Greens and the Democrats. Republicans--the ones
that were left--were afraid of the superheroes. Al Gore was undaunted, let it be known, and ran unafraid.
Richard Gelding had started as a Democrat in his political life, thought to form a new Majestic party, but
couldn’t get any of the other superheroes to run with or against him. People saw that Richard was like
them--he had been a human born to the Earth and never traveled to Zoton, or anywhere else off of the
planet--but they saw that he was a hero as well, in the likes of Swift, Newman, Hand, and the Blipwhip
thing. He was both, and people related.
The election of 2016 had a record low turnout. There were only twenty-five percent of registered
voters that bothered going to the polls. Many bought into Bill’s theory that we ought to let heroes rule the
land, and not much else. They carried with them, at Bill’s urging, a copy of the United States’ Declaration
of Independence and the copy of the United States’ Constitution, which would eventually save many of
their lives. When a cop would approach them on laws that spawned from the Constitution, they would
respond by pulling out their Constitutions and saying, “Bill Swift says I have free speech and so does this
Constitution. If I want to be outside of a congressional building with a sign that says that our senator is a
bigot, I’m going to do it! For God’s sake!” Most cops would leave them alone. The few cops that would
challenge ultimate Constitutional authority would be taken care of by Edward Hand and his new cohort in
crime, Lady Protector. They would kill cops, if necessary. It wasn’t the case in most instances. They
would simple maim them, or Edward would send one of his hands into motion and it would fly, contact
the perpetrating police officer, and bitch slap him a few times. Lady Protector eventually got her powers,
too. She would send swords into motion. They would cut off ears. When confronted face to face with the
people that ignored Constitutional authority, she would say, “You’re not listening to this? You don’t need
your ears, motherfucker!” She would say that, go home to Edward (when he didn’t accompany her
because he was busy on his own at times), and they’d have long sex that lasted hours.
Bill had his own take on what was going on. He thought it was a good idea that people were
bearing arms again--they’d need to if they didn’t want forces harbored inside of their homes, a
Constitutional no-no--and they were speaking more freely than they ever had. He said in a speech, after
Richard Gelding was sworn in, “I have this to say to you, people.” He got a loud cheer from the crowd in
Washington D.C. “I have to say that you are free. It’s going to take time for it to work again. I have this
to say to people that still believe we have a government in this country. I’m talking about a government of
consequence. Al Gore, in one of his last actions of president, decided to give nuclear submarines to the
Australians as a compromise. He wanted them to seem global. In the end, it was because he wanted more
power over them. They accepted, of course, and they sent one of their subs to the California coast--most
of you don’t know this--and I had to stop a nuclear missile from hitting Los Angeles. Most of you won’t
believe me because I demanded that it stay off the news. I took a missile, grabbed it in my hands, and it
turned to shit. It did. I was there... and I stink of it ‘til this very day.”
The crowd was subdued and many of them decided to leave. Bill had control of his anger, again
in life, and decided not to shit ball anyone. He continued on for posterity and for the sake of the news
cameras that were still around.
Al Gore watched from his home in Tennessee and was horrified. He threw a Pepsi at the
television set, grabbed another one from a cooler that sat next to him, then popped it open without tending
to the cola that was sitting on the floor and spilling onto his rug. “I don’t believe this shit,” he said in
dismay. Tipper had brownies that she brought in that had macadamia nuts--he liked macadamia nuts--and
it quelled him for a while.
Bill continued his speech, “We don’t need heroes any longer. That is true. I’ll be here for the big
things--that’s what I’m here to do anyway--but you guys! You guys are the heroes. You’re throwing them
off! You’re betting that your Constitution matters! I love it. Freedom of speech for everyone!”’
The crowd that remained roared.
Bill settled down then said, “I have this to say to Richard Gelding, now. He’s a hero, alright, and
many of you voted for him. If I were to fight him, he’d be wiped off the planet.”
“He’d be turned into a shit ball!” someone yelled from the crowd.
“No. He won’t be. Not anymore. I don’t do that. But I do give you freedom... and I give you
insight.” He paused, looked at the cameras that were flashing at him (it was en vogue to use the old
fashioned method of photography again), and said, “To the media... and Richard. I have this to ask you...
What is a no confidence vote? It’s when you abstain, right? That’s what it means.”
“We hear you, Bill,” a husky lady said from the press corps.
Bill continued on, brushing the fact that he wanted to have sex with the husky lady out of his
mind, then said, “In 1996, for the first time in modern American politics, less than fifty percent of the
electorate voted. That means that there was less than fifty percent of the people that had confidence in the
system. I can live with fifty percent, actually. I think that the number I was given by Zotar, a close
associate of mine, was that it was forty-nine percent of the people that voted that year that elected to select
a president. The rest of them said, ‘We ain’t voting,’ my friends. They said, ‘This place sucks and I don’t
like where it’s heading.’ They gave a vote of no confidence, in other words.”
“Say your piece, Bill,” the press corps lady said. She had been in Australia a while back when he
gave Richard Gelding the honor of speaking before a world audience. She remembered his line that he
had told him.
“Okay. This year? Unacceptable. We could have given people ballots in the mail when they
received their DMV registrations. We didn’t do that. We could have given them a whole week to vote, for
Christ’s sake! We could have done a lot of things, but in the end, people want you to vote Republican
still. Owners won’t let their employees have time to vote. Fuck that it’s in the law that’s been written.
And there are no more Republicans, right? They are in hiding. They are afraid of big, bad Bill Swift and
his associated heroes!”
The crowd cheered again and the lady that was brusk smiled deeply.
Bill continued by saying, “Seventy-six percent abstention of the electorate is a NO
CONFIDENCE VOTE!!! Take that to your grave. It is no confidence, and I declare to you that for at least
the next four years, you do NOT have a nation. It is obsolete. If you want to get nostalgic and hold on to
your flags? Go ahead. I’m not going to do it though!” Bill pulled out a flag from under the podium and
wore it like a cape. It was the American flag of modern tradition and not the Neekay nor the Ford flag
models. “This is my cape! This is not my flag! I will fly around and I will spy! You watch me, okay?”
The crowd left. Once again, they felt indifferent about what had happened. They remembered
good moments, but they remembered scary moments, at the same time. They had bosses. They had
lawyers. They had doctors, and they had people that worked at Woblenoft that would scan their computers
for “wrong thinking” (Alfred Newman had warned them about it after talking to Ben Murphy
telepathically, as Ben did his time on Zoton). People were scared. When Bill was around, things couldn’t
go wrong. There were still military officials around that thought that Ronald Regan was a poet, a
preacher, a leader, and a prophet. They would take their chances, when necessary, and try to neutralize
Bill Swift and his buddies. They would return things to normal. The masses wouldn’t have power, but
they wouldn’t know that they had no power. They would be happy just thinking that Tom Cruise would
smile at them if they were to ever meet.
Bill Swift knew the fear that they had. When the speech was over, he approached the manly lady
that he was somehow attracted to and said, “I like you. Send a message to the Republicans not to worry.
If they don’t declare war on me, I won’t declare war on them. It’ll be better for both of us if...” Bill Swift
trailed off. He wanted to say that things would be better off that way when he wasn’t around. Instead he
said, “Just tell ‘em I’ll treat them better, okay?”
She said yes and loved it. She had an exclusive and she had the mind of a superhero. Her day
was done. She’d write the best article of her life then turn out of politics. She didn’t see a future there.

* * *
Alfred Newman, the superhero that once had a crush on Lizzy Shulton when he still walked the
Earth as a regular person, developed a deep fondness for Catherine Zeta-Jones. She had filmed her movie
in Australia, after embarrassing Bill Swift in front of a world audience, and it was released not long after
Richard Gelding took office. Dead People Don’t Lie took home two Oscars that year, and solidified her as
the best actress of her generation. Alfred, though, knew personal things about her. He knew from Eddie
Macral that she had a kiss that was electric. It wasn’t electric in the sense that it electrocuted you. No. It
was electric in the sense that it sent shock waves from you. You never felt the same again, if kissed by her.
Eddie didn’t tell Alfred this, person to person. Alfred would fly around in people’s dreams. He
had an interest in Freight Train. In some ways, he founded Freight Train, along with Bill Swift. Randal
Meyer and Waldo Fleshman would have never picked up instruments if it weren’t for them. Eddie Macral
and Dave Barley would still be relative nobodies.
 Alfred found out that the kiss he had with Catherine--it was her kissing him, originally, but in his
dreams, she’d allow him to peck her back--would change Eddie’s life in unheard ways. He didn’t tell
anyone. He knew that once he kissed her, no one would be good enough for him. Bloom was good for
Waldo. They were back together. Eddie had tried to work things out with Christy Priddy, but it never
flew. He tried to move on with Heidi, but thought of her more as a friend as time wound on. He kissed
Catherine in his dreams. Alfred found out... and was jealous.
Alfred went to Australia, where Catherine was thanking people for lending her their country for
the shooting of the movie that put her over the top, in many people’s eyes. He went there, and wanted
nothing more than to be with her. He didn’t care that she had a family. He didn’t care that she was
married. One time would be enough. He didn’t think he was abusing his superhero qualities in the past.
Things were reaching a head, with him, and he’d be willing to take a risk. Little did he know that he was
becoming like Bill.
Alfred tracked Catherine down in the city of Dublin, Ireland. He didn’t want to confront
Catherine when she was still in Australia. He didn’t know why. He couldn’t bring himself to do so.
Alfred perched himself like a gargoyle on the top of a building that sat across from the hotel where
Catherine was staying with Renee Zellweger, and old-time friend of hers since their time shooting
Chicago. Alfred wanted to cry because he felt like nobody. People were afraid of the superheroes and
crime was down. Everything else, concerning what Bill wanted to do with the United States, was going to
take time and patience. He’d have to wait. Michael Douglas didn’t come with Catherine to Ireland
because he was watching their kids. She chose not to take them because they had been there before and
were quite bored with much of the touring. Renee left the building by herself--it’s what Alfred wanted--
and Eddie could sense that Catherine was alone in her room. He didn’t approach the room through the
front door, up the elevator, and then down the hall. He knew just where she was at and flew to her
window. Catherine saw him there, closed the window as soon as she saw him, then waited for a response.
Alfred thought that they’d have sex. He didn’t think she could deny him, but she was denying him. He
stayed on the perch right below Catherine’s twenty-story ledge. He didn’t want to move, and then
Catherine invited him in. When he didn’t respond, she made her way onto the ledge and it felt to Alfred
like a bad movie. It had been done in The Naked Gun and it had been done in Cat’s Eye. There were
probably other movies that he couldn’t think of.
Alfred made a strong dildo out of quickly dried cum that he managed to will into existence. “I
think you want this,” he told Catherine. She didn’t take it. “It’s from a movie, you know? The Naked
Gun, except the dildo in that movie wasn’t made out of... Well.” He looked down at it, realized he wasn’t
even going to get a laugh, then took off back to his perch.
A half hour later, Renee Zellweger returned with food. Alfred thought to himself that they could
have had sex if they wanted to. They didn’t. Alfred stayed perched like a gargoyle for another hour then
took off. He wouldn’t come again for another day or two. Those were his intentions.

* * *
Alfred jacked off in a meadow that wasn’t far from London, England. Actually, it was thirty
miles away from London, but that was a hop, skip, and a jump to him. He jacked off there and didn’t
know what would happen. Since he had return to Earth, he refrained from doing such thing. He didn’t
know how long he would hold out, and the truth was that he didn’t think too much of it when he felt like
he had a use in the world. He felt senseless now. He felt he wasn’t making a difference. He had the
power of telepathy and he knew that whomever he would jerk off to, she would know. She would feel him.
He was too powerful to know that it wouldn’t happen. If it was Catherine? She would send things
tumbling down. She didn’t have a good impression of him, or so he thought because of the experience
with her. Renee? That one could be a possibility. He thought about Anna Harcdomm from his youth and
he thought about Lizzy Shulton. At the very least, they would understand since they knew him as a
normal person at a time in life. He was a superhero, but he wasn’t perfect by society’s conventions.
In the meadow, Alfred noticed deer. There were many of them, he assumed, but he noticed only
a couple coming out of the woodworks literally. He noticed, kept his jack on, thought of Lizzy, and
wondered what would happen when it was all over.
There were hydrogen test bombs that exploded after World War II. This was lodged in his head.
There were people that believed that scientists and the government were playing God. They didn’t know
what would happen. There were theories that a bomb would explode, and it would keep happening. It
would shake up the whole world and even explode it all. People didn’t know. That’s what the tests were
for. There were theories, yes, but theories went so far. By theory, a car could run on water around the
world with a gallon in its tank and have no problem... so long as the engine was perfectly efficient. A
gallon of gas? Alfred didn’t know, but he was betting that by prior conventions--before the schlaclak
started to rebel against their traditional roles--maybe you could send a rocket to the Moon. He didn’t
know. He didn’t care. It scared him to think about the hydrogen bomb. What if the schlaclak simply
saved the day... when push came to shove? What if they ruined their existences for the sake of all those
around them? It’s possible the world could have been blown up, right?
Alfred finished his jerk on--that’s what he called it by then; it was on because it felt on--and
didn’t realize that a deer had come over to him. He was ready to drink Alfred’s cum... or it was a she. He
didn’t know. Alfred didn’t know what gender the deer was.
The deer merely sniffed the expelled spooge then bent forward to let Alfred pet it. He felt good,
and he could tell that it was a...? He didn’t know. He wanted to say female deer, but he thought he was
wrong when he saw the rest of the deer coming to the edge of the miniature forest. He stopped thinking
about gender then said, “Shoe! Shoe, you people!” When they scattered, he said to himself, “Fuckin’
voyeurs.”
Alfred had been thinking of the possibility of his spooge. If it was powerful enough, it could end
things. After all, spooge that was sent from his hand through his finger tips did a job. What if it was to
come--pardon the pun, you voyeurs in my mind right now--through the place where it was intended to cum
through? I wonder, he thought.
He didn’t know. He felt safe now. It was a good experience, and it was a better release. If he
were to ever make love to anyone, he’d feel safe. This superhero stuff is for the birds. I know why they
killed off Superman now. I wonder if he ever flew in real life? He was no doubt a real person--an
inspirational person--in real life to the author that made him up. Is the penner of a comic an author? I
wonder.
Alfred wiped the spooge from around him just in case it had supernatural powers of its own. He
knew that when he spooged a villain, the villain didn’t show any long term effects any different than
getting maced or stunned by a taser. The spooge from his dick? That might be different. We might be
talking three-headed deers after this, my friend, Alfred said to his new buddy deer. He wiped up his cum
with a cape that he brought along, but seldom wore. It was one of Superman’s. He liked to wear it.
When he had saved someone from Hollywood, they sent it to him--the buddies of the person saved--and
said that it came from Christopher Reeves’ personal closet. It was a gift, of course. Alfred wore it with
pride when he felt worried about the world. Now? It was a piece of cloth that might save people from
seeing twelve-foot high deer in a month or two.

* * *
The night that Alfred spooged a wad in England, he flew back to Dublin to check on Catherine
Zeta-Jones. He saw that Michael Douglas showed up after all. He brought their children with him. He
thought--Alfred thought--that maybe Renee Zellweger would have a room of her own now. He thought
he’d check on her the following day.
Miles to the west of Alfred, and the rest that he was spying on, Bill Swift was ready to make
another proclamation about the way things stood in the world. He didn’t know what his buddy, Alfred,
was doing. He didn’t care much. Things were coming along slowly, but they were coming along. He was
ready to challenge the president to a duel. He was ready to use swords, if necessary, and he was ready to
say that if he lost, he’d be given exile from the country--the world, for that matter--and he’d accept it.
Little did he know that Alfred was contemplating a similar thing but for different reasons.
Blipwhip was having the time of its life on this night. It was enjoying margaritas in Baja
California at a place where a “red rocker” occasionally came and performed for his patrons. Blipwhip
didn’t know who he was because of its ignorance in certain world affairs. It was glad to be out of the
country though. It was glad to be at a place where it was accepted, or at least felt accepted for very
fleeting moments.
Edward Hand was having sex with Lady Protector at the time that Alfred sat perched on the
building he claimed as his own. He felt like a gargoyle, Alfred did, and it made him glad that people were
once like that. Otherwise, he reasoned, why would the myth of gargoyles ever have been made? For
further thought, he considered that maybe, with the revelation of what schlaclak could do when it set its
agenda toward it, these gargoyles were alive at a time.
He didn’t care though. He’d wait out the night, see what was to happen, then take his last shot at
curing the loneliness inside of him.
As dawn broke on the next day, Edward bid adieu to his lover as they split ways on their next
targets. Blipwhip was hung over after taking in fifteen pints of tequila. It didn’t have a penis nor a pussy,
so it spent much of the night shitting like a bird. Bill got a speech ready, in the morning time, and he
sensed that something was awry. He didn’t do a thing about it. The feeling wasn’t strong enough.
 Alfred approached Michael Douglas, as he left the hotel at around nine in the morning. He said,
“I want to sleep with your wife and I can’t control it. I’m a hero. I am. To a lot of people, I save them. I
don’t know what to do.”
“Think of me,” Michael said.
That was enough for Alfred. He said, “You’re done. I won’t touch her. No worry... but you’re
not helping out the world!”
“You don’t know that!” Michael Douglas said in response.
“Oh. I do. Watch me!”
Alfred took flight about twenty feet into the air. He plunged down and must have been going a
hundred miles per hour when he hit the pavement. He managed to drive ten feet into the ground and then
said from below, “Look at my hands! Not a fuckin’ scratch! And I’m supposed to live like this? No. No
way!”
Michael Douglas looked down at Alfred and noticed that he was foaming at the mouth. It wasn’t
spit that was coming out though. It was... “I see what you’re saying,” finally said. “Okay. Have my
wife!”
Michael Douglas stuck around for a while. He was mad, but Alfred was even more upset. “I
don’t need cum on my lips to see what’ll happen when they shoot me, for God’s sake. It won’t be blood!
It’s going to be cum all over the place! Don’t you understand what’s happening?”
Michaels Douglas did. He realized it then said, “You’re an immortal now. I see.”
“I can’t live without love!”’
“Don’t take my wife. Find one of your own.”
Alfred shook his head then said, “I can’t. I can’t. I fuckin’ can’t! I’m the best that there is on
this planet. She made my buddy, Bill, look stupid a couple of years ago. She can make me look like a
god!”
There was silence between the two and then Catherine came out of the building.
Alfred looked at Catherine--she tended to her husband--and he said, “I need a kiss!”
Catherine blushed and said, “Staaahpp!”
“I need a kiss to prove something!” Alfred had in mind that if she kissed him, the same thing
would happen as happened to Eddie Macral, but a lot worse. He thought he would feel the orgasm again.
He wasn’t sure, but it was worth a shot. “I need you, Catherine!” he said. Just then, he realized he was
violating his friend, Bill. If things were to go as they might, the world might end, just the same as Alfred
had been thinking with the hydrogen bomb.
Catherine kissed Alfred on the cheek. It was sincere... but Alfred didn’t feel it like he thought
he’d feel it. It didn’t change his life like it changed Eddie Macral’s. It didn’t make him fume from the
ears, like it made Bill fume. Actually, Alfred thought, It wasn’t even a kiss that set off Bill.
Alfred was satisfied with things and didn’t even need to spooge his pants like he felt he needed to
the day before.
“I was just checking, Michael. Please don’t be mad at me!” Alfred offered his hand to shake and
Michael Douglas surprisingly shook it. Alfred didn’t expect that. “What about Renee?” Alfred asked.
“Do you think I could sleep with her?”
Alfred didn’t get to sleep with Renee either. In all actuality, he was half joking when he asked.
He thought he overstepped his bounds. He went to a pub that night, picked a fight with a guy that didn’t
need a fight in his life, then took off to the Pacific Islands.
“I need to end this,” he said. He dove into an active volcano. Bullets wouldn’t hurt him and he
knew it. It was the only way he’d go back to Zoton and play with his marbles.
The volcano didn’t end his life immediately. He was rendered helpless to fly anymore. For five
years, Alfred sat at the bottom molten lava. He contemplated life and communicated with Bill when he
could, through telepathy. He didn’t know that it’d be such a drawn out process. There was nothing the
other heroes could do to save him. For that matter, the problem was no longer that he couldn’t fly. The
problem was that he didn’t want to live. Even if they could save him from a physical Hell, they couldn’t
cure his soul. He was destined for Zoton, but it would take a long time.
Alfred sat at the bottom of the lava pit for years and then his body began to release him. He went
straight to Zoton. He met Osama bin Laden and Uday Hussein (his farther had made it to Xeon). What
was left of Alfred’s body became general white liquid through the lava. People, in the year 2023, started
to notice that the lava was white. No one knew what was going on. By the end of that year, the volcano
that Alfred flew into gushed with semen--scientists now knew it was semen because of tests that were
done--and they knew why the world hadn’t seen Alfred Newman in years.
The last act that Alfred did before going into the volcano, many years back, was to put on his
cape, one last time. He thought he was Superman at that point. He couldn’t control himself any longer in
the regard of hitting on beautiful women so he thought he’d save the world from a lot of heartache. The
scientists knew that semen was coming from the volcano but they didn’t detect the cape that Alfred put on.
They never would.
In 2024, Lizzy Cassidy was having her fourth child--she was in her late thirties, but that was
okay with her--and she was having her first grandchild. She said to her little one--the one that called her
“mama” but was really a grandchild, “The world is going to last forever and you’re going to be a star!”
She was right about the child being a star. The universe collapsed into a large cum ball, because of Alfred
Newman, and the Big Bang happened all again many years later.

* * *
 _
_

* Epilogue *
Bill Swift woke from an eight-day coma. It was Saturday. That much he knew because there
were cartoons on TV on the television in front of him.
Eeeeeeyee... waaaaantt... BEEEEEEER... he heard in his mind. Eeeye waantt seeerviiice,
heerre! The thoughts were coming to and from him and he couldn’t make out a thing. Bill realized he
was in a hospital room. He should have picked it up when he saw that the cartoons that he was watching
were mounted on a television a few feet above him. He looked across the room and saw three vases with
flowers. One of them had a card that he could read the first two words of, Get Well... it started to say. Get
well, Bill? Is that the message? he wondered.
He looked around. There were nurses in the distance but they didn’t notice him. He didn’t
remember falling asleep, nor did he remember being rendered unconscious. The schlaclak. They’re
playing tricks on my mind! he thought.
He looked down at his hands and saw that they were the hands of a young teen. He didn’t have
gray hairs sprouting out from his knuckles. He was young. The schlaclak removed it all from him and
gave him a normal life again. That was his reasoning.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said to a nurse when she finally came in.
Just then, a man came from beyond a door from within the room. He was zipping up his pants.
He looked at Bill, shook his head in amazement, then ran out of the room. Bill could hear that he was
saying, “I’M FREE! I’M FREE!” as he yelled down the hall.
Zotar was there. That’s what Bill was registering. And he was zipping up his pants then
running. Zotar... but why?
“That man--that young boy, I should say--is Dirt Cassidy. I’m nurse, Betty Davies. He knocked
you unconscious eight days ago--you know?--at one of your pickup football games!” Nurse Betty Davies
shook her head, checked Bill’s temperature, then said, “He’s been here hours upon end! For most of that
time, you’ve been asleep,” Betty whispered, as if Bill didn’t realize it by then. “Welcome BACK, Bill
Swift!” she yelled. “Did you have any interesting dreams while you were under? I really do have to
know!”
In times of old, Joseph, a former Patriarch, foretold things in his dreams. He had been sold into
slavery by his brothers. As recently as Nostradomus, people could show an uncanny ability to see into the
future. The books are littered with seers in between.
Aliens really do pick up telepathic waves from humans on Earth. They feel it’s their duty... and
they’re simply nosey, as well. Bill Swift’s dream went out to a place called Kliptor. The people (things)
on Xeon didn’t pick it and Zoton turned out to be a fragment of his imagination. In 2023, based on Bill’s
dream, the beings from Kliptor sent a ship to Earth. It had the capacity to carry thousands, but it chose to
pick only a handful. It didn’t discriminate between artists, politicians, working, poor, rich, or anything
else. It wanted diversity, but it looked to race.
On Christmas Day 2023, the ship landed in Texas and took two, healthy young people. They
were making love in a loft of a barn. Their names were Dandy and Simon. The ship traveled to the
Congo in Africa and picked up a couple that was holding hands as they made their way back from a
dinner feast. A rhinoceros had been eaten. It went to Asia and picked up a young couple in Vietnam.
They were praying outside of a Catholic temple. Stops were made in Brazil, Denmark, American Samoa,
Libya, South Korea, and finally in France. Further stops would have been made, but the aliens lucked out
in Paris. There was an international peace convention in the works. They picked up five couples of
varying ethnicities. They were all very young. Not a one of them was over twenty-five. The Kliporaties,
as they would soon be known by the people that were captured by them, wanted to start over again
somewhere... just in case Bill’s dream was true and legitimately prophetic. There were no superheroes on
the world... but there was no Zoton in the universe. Sometimes dreams are just partially right in what
they predict. Bill, when he was eight, predicted a presidential election. That was enough for the beings
from Kliptor, and they started following him ever since.
The travel back to Kliptor was a surprisingly good one. Dandy and Simon had been fighting
their parents and were glad to get away. They didn’t have to do much work on the ship besides being in
love. By the time they reached Kliptor, they were ready to have their first baby.
They named him Adam, a symbolic gesture of a new beginning.
A message from Dorf Rockefeller through his brother...

My dad is Gaud. Most of you know that if you’ve gotten this

far. He chose me to write about him because I don’t take much shit.
I really don’t. People will laud Gaud, my father, and I’ll have to hear
the jokes. “Oh... You’re the son of Gaud, huh? Why don’t you walk
on water, booyee?” I won’t do that though. I won’t play their
game. I’m a straight shooter, for the most part. I’m going to tell
you what Gaud told me. I can call him Gaud, right? He’s my father,
but we’re really not formal, now are we? I’m talking about you and
me, the writer and the listener, right? Either way, I have to say that
I know people are against Gaud. They‘ve been against him my
whole life. Why? I don‘t really know. He does good stuff. He raised
me, and I‘m fuckin‘ great. If you knew me, you‘d know what I‘m
talking about. I‘m kind to animals, I cry when a good film has
ended, and I sleep with my wife when I feel she needs me in bed
(she kicks me out quite often, but that‘s a different story).
Gaud? He‘s the greatest man I‘ve ever met. I laud him, and
he‘s my father. I don‘t want to take too much of your time though.
I really don‘t. Gaud is the person you should be listening to. Not
me.
He told me one time to do something as I wrote. He said to
listen to the first voice and it‘d always be right. I‘m doing that now.
Am I trying to win your approval? Maybe I am... but if I am, it‘s
because I‘m trying to show you what a great father my dad is.
Okay. Now the stuff that he told me to write to you about:
The book. Gaud took a crack at fiction long ago. It didn’t stress the
nuances that this book did. For that matter, it didn’t stress any of
the nuances that were in any of his trilogy writings. I know that.
I’ve read them.
Gaud thought he was going to die a year ago. I’m saddened.
He told me, “I could die any second. I have a lot of information
inside of me. I have a lot of feelings. Trust me when I say this is not
for posterity. If it was, I’d be writing an autobiography instead. I
want the folks to have fun. I’ve been a puss for most of my life. I
haven’t used my heart since I was twenty-five and I picked up your
mother. Since then, it’s been work, work, work. I’m writing this for
you, Dorf. I’m writing it for your sister Naomi and I’m writing it for
Stephen as well. You’re not in the credits, but you’re in my heart.”
It touched me. I pissed on my father’s face after that. He told
me to do what I felt like doing... from that point forward.
-- Stephen Rockefeller
 And Further, Gaud’s Friend Eddie Corona Turns Republican...Again...

I am sick of believing I am like everyone else. I am sick of believing that people like me. I am
sick of living in an atheistic world. I am sick of believing that people don’t believe in Devine Revelation.
I am a prophet. Take this document however you will. If you don’t believe I am a prophet, don’t
believe I am a prophet. In the nineteen seventies, a prophet by the name of Robert Plant saw that a lady
was buying the Stairway to Heaven. It sounds like a joke. Right? It does. Read on if you want to.
Robert Plant knew that people were being bought out. In spite of the fact that I don’t have a strong feeling
to write this document as I type these words, a burning feeling prompted me to turn on my computer to
start this thing.
Robert Plant knew that a lady was buying the Stairway to Heaven. Once again, laugh if you
want. I’m not going to go by convention right now. I’m used to italicizing words that I think need to be
italicized. Put the emphasis on words that you want to. I’m pretty sure you do anyway.
Robert Plant knew that someone was buying that Stairway to Heaven. If you don’t believe me, by
God’s grace, please stop reading. After all, a lie told a million times becomes the truth.
Robert Plant knew that someone was buying the Stairway to Heaven. It didn’t happen literally.
To the best of my knowledge, if you scoured the Earth, you wouldn’t find such a stairway anywhere. It’s
in the imaginations of people. So Robert Plant knew (there goes the first of the italics, I guess) that
someone was buying the Stairway to Heaven. You know what people? It has happened. The right has
taken over this country. If you don’t wear Reeboks, Nikes, or something legitimate, you are going to Hell.
Let me explain.
The people that control our world right now (it’s right before Halloween in the year 2003 as I
speak) control our perceptions. There are people that claim to be Christian. These people won’t die for
you. Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, said to love your enemies. For a good understanding of what love
is--true love--it is best that you read the first Corinthians in chapter thirteen. It gives a great
understanding of what love is. Love doesn’t bite. Love doesn’t hurt. Our perceptions of what we believe
love is bites and hurts. That’s the only thing. Rock ‘n’ roll is nice. It really is. Some would say it’s my
religion but it’s not. I like a song by Ozzy that says it’s my religion. It’s funny. I laugh about it. I sing
the song and somehow I think that rock ‘n’ roll is going to change the world. It has changed the world.
For better? I’m not sure. But when Def Leppard sings that love bites, they have every right to. This is
America and I believe in America. I believe in the America I was promised. We live in a different land.
Have you ever heard the Pink Floyd song about us and them? Actually, it’s called “Us and
Them”. It’s funny, right? Don’t bother with my grammar here either. My point is not to write an A paper
by conventional standards. It’s really not. I won’t go into detail as to why not.
Pink Floyd wrote about “Us and Them”. “Forward, he cried, from the rear, and the front ranks
diiiiiieeed!” That’s one of the lines in the song. In another passage, Pink Floyd (it must be Roger Watters
or Nick Mason that’s singing it and it escapes my memory) says something about lines on the map going
from side to side. In essence, that’s what we’re fighting for. We’re fighting so that someone somewhere
can be happy with his map. I live with the map of life. You think it’s stupid. I don’t care. I live in
America. I have the right to free creed, don’t I? I live in America, and even if I went to a place called
England, I would still live in America. America is a state of mind. It is a religion.
Tear your cloths off. I doubt you will. I’m not saying, “Get naked.” That would be too funny
right now. Call me a blasphemer. That’s all I’m saying. The last time I checked, blasphemy is not a
crime in this country. It was a crime in the times of Jesus. Anyhow, I’ll continue on and I’ll try to make
my point.
I was a Republican when I was eighteen years old. When I was eighteen, I registered Republican
with my friend, John Felshaw. It happened in front of a K-Mart in Fontana. People will kill me if they
understand the nature of what I’m doing. I’m telling the truth. It is as simple as that. I am sick of
bottling myself. I don’t like writing fiction all the time.
At some point during the nineties--this is after I registered as a Republican--the party lost it’s
soul. I voted for Clinton in ninety-two. I didn’t register as a Democrat until it was nineteen ninety-six. I
know you don’t want to hear the details. They are rather boring. There will be rumors about me. People
will call me a hypocrite. People will call me a sellout. People will say I’m weak. You’re entitled to your
opinion.
When I was a Democrat, I said all along not to trust anyone over thirty. It’s an old maxim that
formulated in the sixties, to the best of my knowledge. I am getting emotional right now, I must confess.
I am not out of control. I am not. I must say what I must say. I am an American. I can’t worry if Al
Gore’s robots are going to come and take me. He is into mental health, you know? Call me a hypocrite.
Call me a hypocrite if you want. I get money from the government because I am considered mentally
disabled by them. I am so mentally able that I could run this government by myself. You think I’m lying?
Ask the voices that hang around in my head! I’m just joking. Part of me is just joking. Anyhow, people
just came into the room as I was writing this and I lost my train of thought. I wanted to say not to trust
me anymore. Does this mean that I am going to screw you? No. It doesn’t mean that. It means that
when I was in my twenties, I was a threat to the establishment. I was put in mental health because of it. I
was put in jail because of it. Believe your delusions if you want. Believe that I’m a somebody like you.
Lenin came from someplace as did Lincoln. They came from humble environments. Not everyone is a
Kennedy. Magic happens. There are chosen ones. The ironic thing is that the more you try to keep
chosen ones down, the more you create Christs throughout the world.
I was called upon by Paul. I’m not talking about the dipshit that put me in jail. His name was
Paul as well and I wish him the best in life though I don’t wish to see him any longer. Either way, I was
called upon by Paul, the Apostle. He called upon me through his writings. He is not a voice in my head.
He wanted me to bear my Cross. To the best of my ability, I have done so. They say that it is harder for a
rich man to enter the Kingdom of God than it is for a camel to make it’s way through the head of a pin. I
believe it. I have always believed it. Once again, call me a hypocrite. If you believe I was at Pitzer trying
to gain wealth, you can fuck off. I must add a stipulation here: You can fuck off in a gentle way. We have
lost our personal freedoms, folks. I can’t say “fuck off” without having someone like Tipper Gore getting
upset. Do you understand what I am talking about? She is a Communist. She is a capital C Communist.
She believes in mental health. She essentially believes that the voices I get are in my head exclusively and
are a chemical imbalance. They are not. Too much has happened in my life for me to believe so. Either
way, that is life. If I am wrong--I’m just going off of what she has said in public--I apologize. If she is
different in real life, I apologize. The purpose of this letter is not to slander anyone. It’s to explain
myself. There are those of you that might think I recently re-registered as Republican because Arnold
Schwarzenegger was elected governor. Once again, you can fuck off if you believe so. Fuck off in an easy
way though. I am an American. I have the right to choose.
I’m going to change the party. I already have. You don’t have to believe me. I am a spiritual
leader that talks to Colin Powell on a daily basis in my mind. These are the things I do. Jesus talked to
Elijah when he was alive. He talked to Moses as well. It’s dogmatic for me to say so. I know. People
like Dave are going to slander me. They are going to use their logic and put the question of whether or
not Jesus ever existed into your minds. If you believe him, follow him. I don’t care. I’m sick of bottling
myself. I’m sick of believing that Jesus might not have existed. I’m sick of believing that our country has
completely soldout and there is no return.
If there is no return, I advocate a bloody revolution. It is granted by our Forefathers. If we don’t
live in America any longer, I will be arrested for my exercise of freedom of religion, freedom of creed,
freedom of speech, and using COMMON FUCKIN’ SENSE!
Thomas Paine wrote that government in its best form is a necessary evil. It is evil, people. It is a
necessary evil, but it is evil, nonetheless. If we don’t defend America, we are in jeopardy of losing it to a
greater evil. Maybe the Russians take over. I’m not really sure. I am saying that Thomas Paine said that
government is a necessary evil at best. It is an intolerable one at the very worst.
This government of ours? It’s becoming intolerable to me. I am dogmatically saying that if I am
arrested anytime soon--fuck if they pick me up for a traffic ticket and say I was belligerent to a police
officer because I won’t do that any longer--it is because my beliefs. Furthermore, I am stating that the
only reason I’ve ever been in jail is because of my beliefs. It has nothing to do with the fact that they say
they thought I was on drugs. I was not on drugs. I was hearing the voice of God as it was relayed to me
through various people. Once again, believe what you will.
You are a society of cowards though. I must confess that. Maybe I would have bitten Roy if I
was a tiger. I don’t really know. You guys are fuckoffs. You are trained. You have watched too much TV.
The height of literacy happened in the nineteen fifties. Ray Bradbury (like you care) wrote a
book back then that explained the future society. It is called Fahrenheit 451. He wrote about a society
that lived in fear. He wrote about a society that cared more for characters on TV than they cared for
people that sat three feet from them. I am paraphrasing, of course. Ray Bradbury didn’t use cuss
language. It was uncouth. It is the only way that I know how to effectively communicate. Ray wrote
about a society that didn’t want bad thoughts in theirs heads. They weren’t afraid of missiles (as I am).
They were afraid of words. THEY WERE AFRAID OF FUCKING WORDS.
THEY WERE AFRAID OF FUCKING WORDS!!
How stupid have we become? Please. Tell me. I need to fucking know because I don’t know the
answer to such a question.
For those of you that have been following me around in my head? Please stop. You’re bugging
me. I am smarter than to threaten anyone for it. Please stop. There are a few of you (I won’t say names
and they’re mostly beautiful Hollywood celebrities) that I like. Come around. No problem. No envy
though, okay? I’m talking about the rest of you.
I would like to meet Americans in the future. I hope I don’t go to jail. We don’t live in America
right now. You might call it America. Our Constitution is dead. We have lawyers that will rebut any
fucking thing in it. You know that. You don’t have money. I try to be on the side of masses. It’s hard
when you’re so fuckin’ stupid.
(This last section was dictate by Eddie Corona
to his friend and secretary, Hag O’ Miely, in October of 2003)
Sleep Republican (or Democrat) and Die Libertarian
(11-15-03, by Eddie Corona)

Ninety-two, I voted for Clinton

It was the party of soul
Problem was, I tried to get with Chelsea
You’ll never even know

I wound up getting with Tipper instead

She’s the best I could get
She wanted me caged, she wanted me to shut up
I had to get out of that fuckin’ pit

I slept with Newt Gingrich, a Republican

This was on the rebound, and I punked him in the ass
They were supposed to be the answer? The GOP?
No, I thought they’d have more class

Republicans are always whining that they can’t get more artists
Am I one? I don’t really know, and what the fuck?
I don’t fit in their suits and I don’t like their stupid ties
That’s one place I don’t want to be stuck!

I went to bed last night thinking that I was a Republican

People in robotic attire started chasing me and they were
fucking MAD!
I said, “Fuck you all! I can do better than you!”
So I left them behind... and I woke up very frickin’ glaaaaad

Libertarians are the party of 1776, that’s what they say

They still believe in the spirit of the Constitution
Free speech, right to bear arms, peaceful assembly, things along
those lines
 What a novel fuckin’ solution!

You might not know much about these guys

As an example, they want to legalize pot
Our Founding Fathers were hemp farmers, you know?
So why fuckin’ not?

No more affirmative action, either, and no more government in your

personal life
A repeal of the federal income tax, as well
We’ll have whores on ALL freakin’ corners and Bill Maher will be
there to greet you
Is this not a world that you can just relax?

I’m changing to the Libertarian party now, after a brief rendezvous

with Republicanism
Tipper will be a hosebeast, of course, and I expect Newt
Gingrich to be just a little jealous
Too bad, because they had their chances
Is there a reason I should be so zealous?

Have fun... and don’t forget to party on!

Don’t call the Gestapo on me, please, just because YOU are a
little disturbed
I like my free speech because words have NEVER killed a single
fuckin’ person
And I could give a shit what you do in YOUR personal life, so is there
a reason to be so perturbed?

(this poem was recited publicly at Ranch Bistro Cafe by Eddie upon his
sudden change to the Libertarian party, and it received such a warm
welcome literally that someone--a lady of about twenty-five years of age--
threw coffee in his face)
“Thank You, Gaud, For Everything You’ve Given Me...”
No sooner I say this, I’m sure that everything’s going to fall apart.
It’s the nature of my life, and it’s okay. You’re hated in life as much as you
are loved. Sometimes you are loved by one person... and a million people
try to tear you apart. Either way, that is life. Jesus Christ gave his life for
us. You don’t have to believe me, and I think it’s even been lost what it
means. I’ll tell you, because I know from personal experience.
In ‘92 or so (I’m not going to look it up right now because the year
doesn’t matter exactly), Costner did a movie called Dances With Wolves.
He wanted to give his life away. Actually, let’s be real here. His character
wanted to give his life away. He had his leg fucked up and, quite honestly,
he wanted to die.
I tried to kill myself in Venezuela. Most people don’t know that. I
was going for broke, and a lady by the name of... The name doesn’t
matter here. The point is that I went for broke. I went for all or nothing. I
wasn’t going to leave Pitzer College without connections. I didn’t, but they
weren’t the connections I wanted. The lady that I told I wanted romance
while I was there took it to be that I wanted romance from her. Nothing
could be further from the truth. The person I had an interest in was Jill
McGougan. I must confess that I was settling to a degree. In retrospect, I
bet she thought she was as well. That’s fine. It’s really, really fine. I
didn’t want my last semester to be academic. I wanted a shot at
“senioritis”. I really did. I went for it. I went for a social life, and after
three years of going to that school and pouring my heart into it, I thought I
deserved it. Either way, that’s life, I didn’t die in Venezuela (though many
cops followed me around when I went into a “wrong” neighborhood that I
wasn’t supposed to go into). Either way, that’s life.
They say that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I believe it.
They’ve sent me to mental health. They tried to “correct” my thinking.
After years of studying anti-establishment philosophy, all of a sudden they
wanted me to be like everyone else. Why? I wonder, why? I really
wonder, why?
 Either way, that’s life. I’m not Costner, but I was inspired by a
character that he played. In turn, I’ve thought of it and it reminds me of
what Jesus Christ must have went through. He didn’t have anything to
live for. He said, “Take me on!” He was a diversion for everyone else. It
was noble. I think it was really, really noble.
Either way, Costner’s character (in the movie) ran across a
battlefield on a horse. No, he strode across on the horse. That’s the way
you say things, right? Either way, he wanted to die... but he lived! He
lived on, was considered a hero. But heroes are often mistaken people.
They really are. I’ve thought of it a lot over time. I’ve come to feel that
what we call courageous is really stupidity... or desperation. It’s often a
combination of both.
I wanted a lady, in 1998. I didn’t get one, though a desperate lady
tried to buy me up like a piece of meat (that’s the kind of school I went to:
Full of millionaires). Either way, that’s life. I lost my life that year, but not
in the way I wanted to.
“And to Christ, a Cross... And to me, a chair... I will sit and earn the
ransom from up here.” I don’t know what Live is trying to say here. I
really don’t. I know what it means to me. The song, by the way, is
“Selling the Drama”, and it’s something I do quite often... maybe too much
for some of my sensitive friends. Either way, that’s life.
I’m trying to say I died for you. I really did. You might be calling me
a Christ and falling out of your chair. I hope most of you are not doing
that. More than this, I hope you’re calling me a Costner. That would be
more realistic. In Venezuela, I went for it all. I got shot. I’ve done that
before... and I was made a hero.
I went to jail for free speech, and I’ll do it again. Call me a wacko.
Don’t sent me money yet. I’ve done it for you. More than this, I did it for
myself. I couldn’t live in a world without free speech. I really couldn’t. I
couldn’t live in a world where Nike has more power than me. Maybe they
do, maybe they don’t. If they don’t, I’m going to make fun of them. And if
they do? Good luck, people. They’re coming after you next!
 --Eddie Corona, in a tribute to mentor, hero, and friend, Gaud
Rockefeller .. .