Man was made for others. Admiring yourself in the mirror of your soul will cause you to bow down to your shadow self. Later, your knees will become calloused stubs and resemble feet. Then your hands will undergo the same process in the futile attempt to see your, now distorted, shadow. Eventually, the eyes will become larger, the feet diminish, and your life will be one long painful crawl in the dust of loneliness.

It’s better to complement, to love, and help others. It’s really the best way to grow.

Maxims

"Speak softly and carry a big stick."
--old Kenyan saying often attributed to Winston Churchill

"And if that doesn't work-use it."
--Jason M. Parrish

Story

Every person has a role in Life. Everyone has a niche to fill. We all are in a great story, that only the end of time will reveal.

Page 31...or close

Polly arrived home exhausted. She slumped into a chair fully determined to read the first three chapters of the newest best-seller entitled Prey Love, Eat. It was the first (and hopefully last) novel written by the Entomological Society of America that chronicled the romantic adventures of an oft-marrying female preying mantis named Nancy during her sojourns through the Olympic Mountains of the Pacific Northwest.

Five minutes later she fell asleep and dreamed she was walking through the largest house she had ever seen. The number of cobwebs seemed a bit much and with each passing minute her apprehension grew. Somebody in the house needed her help. She felt the desperation and waning hope of somebody she knew, and as she explored the rooms, the sense of that somebody drew her like a magnet.

She came to a room full of books and an enormous hand-carved wooden table in the center. Beside the table was a chair with purple velvety cushions. She pulled a dusty book from the shelves. It contained nothing but blank pages. She took another and discovered it was blank as well.

‘How remarkably,’ she thought.

She flipped through three more books and discovered they too were blank.

“I must fill these books with words,” she said and sat down to write.

‘Hmm…what to write, what to write?” She thought. “Let’s see. Once upon a time…” Her mind drew a blank. The cobwebs, she noticed, were increasing in number. Her anxiety increased. She started anew and felt something tickle her foot. It was a spider inscribed with the letter E on its abdomen and it was methodically wrapping silk around her toes.

“Eek!” she screamed and beat the creature with the book. Polly carefully tossed the dead spider into the trash only to discover it was not quite as dead as she hoped. Nor was the creature happy. Furthermore, the letter E had been turned upside down, (or she had been looking at it wrong), and was now twice its size. The E was really three letters written in calligraphy and read,

L T J

“Enough is enough,” she said and ran out of the room only to trip over the body of Maurice, laying in a coma, and covered with cobwebs.

She awoke in a cold sweat. The clock read 3:33 A.M. and tears filled her eyes.

Page 30...approximately

There’s a certain exhilaration people feel when they walk off the job knowing that, in the next room over, sits a man whose sole purpose in life (for the next 28 days) is to find you and drag you screaming, or kicking, or both, to the Velkladdeur—the second most mysterious man on the planet. The most mysterious man on the planet is so mysterious nobody knows anything about him, hence does not appear (as far as I know) in this book.

Once outside, Maurice felt able to breathe comfortably.

Two women and a little boy walked past. He followed them.

Another person stepped in line. Then another. Soon, a small crowd of people were making their way towards a complex of dome-shaped buildings a mile away…the Hives. Maurice felt compelled to investigate. The closer the buildings, the greater the sense of evil grew on him.

The air seemed heavier, thicker. And, “are my eyes getting blurry?” He wondered.

The crowd walked by a gravel parking lot. “Now is my chance. I’ll act like I’m going to my car, then duck out of site until everybody is gone.”

Maurice scrambled three feet down a dusty path and surveyed the lot.

“Let’s see now. What kind of a car would Mr. Perez, ex-lab technician at Z-Tech drive? The white Mustang? Nope. Too flashy. The black Ford SUV? It would be easy to hide under, but too hot in the April sun. And in this corner we have a green Jeep. Ahh, just right.”

Maurice walked to a dirty Wrangler and peered inside. “Whoever drives this thing must have stock in McDonalds and Marlboro.” The floor was littered with cigarette butts and Big Mac wrappers. It was an older model Jeep, one that required you to punch in a numeric password to open. Unlike the newer versions that only required one to pass your arm over a dash-mounted scanner. The scanner detected the microchip in your arm or ID bracelet, and presto. . .the door unlocked itself. In the decade since Government Motors began building cars with the scanners, automobile thefts dropped to virtually zero. Still, some people refused to purchase new cars and relied on pre-2015 models.

“Ow! Let me go!” shouted a voice. Maurice heard scuffling at the end of the parking lot. Two men wearing identical clothing; black pants, black shirt, and black shoes, were arresting somebody. The Sweep Patrol.

In a matter of seconds, the Sweep Patrollers subdued the man, scanned him, and subjected him to a breath test on their portable GC-MS systems that monitored volatile organic compounds, or VOC’s, that were considered markers for various disease. They also told you what food you ate, how much, and where you purchased it.

A crowd gathered around the scene like a pack of hyenas. And like hyenas, they laughed and stared at the prisoner.

Maurice threw himself to the ground and rolled under the Jeep. He didn’t hear or see the man in black watching him. So when a face appeared some time after the mass of people had passed by, he thought for certain he was caught.

Maurice wanted to crawl away and die. He rolled to his side and saw the face of a tall, thin, grey-haired man with a beak of a nose staring at him. It was Jakob Warder.

“I thought you would be here. He kicked Maurice’s foot. “You awake or not?” He smiled and continued, “sleeping your life away?”

He crawled from under the jeep and looked at Jakob like he had never seen him before.

“Come on. We’ve got to get away from this place,” said Jakob. “Are you ready to for an adventure?”

“Believe me. I’m more than ready.” Maurice crawled from under the jeep and shook his hand. A prickly sensation ran up his arm.

Jakob said, “You wouldn’t believe the trouble I went through to get here. Thankfully, I caught you before you went to the Hives.”

“Hives?”

“Yeah,” he pointed to the dome-shaped buildings. “Sure you are all right?”

“A little light-headed. Why don’t you go on ahead without me. I’ll catch up in a bit.”

”You might find that more difficult than you think.” He looked to the Sweep Patrollers-now placing their hand-cuffed prisoner into a dark sedan. “Come on now. My ride is by the Hives. We’ll take it.”

They joined the parade of people walking to the Hives. The dusty path was nearly a mile from the parking lot to the first of the Hive buildings. With each step, Maurice found the presence of evil growing stronger. A half-mile away and his breathing increased notably. His head hurt and his palms became sweaty. He looked to his traveler friend, whistling away as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Who is this guy?” thought Maurice. “And why is he going toward the Hives?”

“Where am I going?” said Jakob. “You’ll see.”

Maurice’s nerves, stressed all morning, nearly burst at this last comment. They continued in silence.

The first building loomed directly in front of them. People were entering the glass doors that encircled the building at ground level. Nobody was leaving-just entering like a gigantic mouth. Swallowing people. Devouring people. His head throbbed.

“Look here, Mr. Warder. I hate to break the news to you, but I’m feeling a little sick. How about I catch up with you tomorrow?”

“Can you promise you have a tomorrow? What do you think you’ll find when you get back to 331 Newport Street?”

“Maurice stopped and looked at Jakob. “How do you know where I live?” The moment the words came out of his mouth, he realized his mistake.

“I know about you than you think,” said Jakob. “Perhaps even more than you know about yourself,” and in a barely audible voice added, “Mr. Blue.”

They arrived at the front of the building and walked around it. Maurice felt like walking through jelly. He felt compelled to run into the nearest glass door and scream, “Let me in!”

“Don’t do it,” said Jakob in a calm but stern voice. “Keep walking. Look straight ahead. The Hives have a hypnotic music that draws people.”

They came to a short grassy hill with steps leading down to a paved lot with half a dozen white vehicles stenciled with the letters TGC on their sides. In addition to a few motorcycles. “Trans-Genic Center. That’s what the letters stand for. You wanted to know.”

This was indeed what Maurice wanted to know. He said nothing. They stopped by a TGC-stenciled BMW motorcycle.

Jakob undid a clasp on the bike and produced two helmets. He pressed a switch inside them and gave one to Maurice. “This trip might be a little rough. Put this in your ear.” He gave him an earpiece with a transparent wire attached to it. “You’ll have to twist it a little to get it in there.”

Maurice inserted it into his hear with the end of the wire in front of his mouth. “It feels like a pencil eraser stuck in my ear.”

“You’ll get used to it. Won’t even know it’s there after awhile.”

Jakob pressed a switch on his watch and talked. Maurice heard his voice, loud and clear, and faintly metallic, in his ear. “Works by infrared. Useful when you don’t want people listening in on random radio-linked voices.” Maurice got the idea.

Jakob and Maurice jumped on the BMW and headed to the front of the first Hive. They made a sharp right and drove leisurely past four more identical Hive buildings on the same road. Maurice found that the evil presence seemed muted with the helmet. Soon, they passed the fifth Hive.

The road continued on past some abandoned warehouses. Then it led through a massive junkyard of scrapped cars, office machines, and old airplanes. The road became worse and pockmarked with holes. At times, great sections of the road were completely eroded. Jakob carefully threaded his way down the eroded banks and up the other sides. After a time, the junk disappeared until all he saw was a desolate wasteland. No trees, plants, and no farms. Simply an enormous wasteland of rocks and sand.

“We’re going to my place near Canaan Valley,” said Jakob suddenly.

“A little dusty, isn’t it? Why so much dust?”

“Can’t see much. Dust covers hidden cameras, and is hard on equipment. Makes it easy to hide from prying eyes. Useful when you want to be hidden and sometimes you just need peace and quiet.”

“You can hide for only so long before the satellites find you.”

“Not if you’re underground.”

“You live in a hole in the ground. . .like a hobbit?”

“Err, not quite.”

Maurice heard a throaty, thumping sound-like a helicopter. Ahead of them, and to their left, another road joined theirs. A cloud of dust was moving along it caused by a large boxy vehicle with large squares sticking out the sides. Jakob gunned the BMW’s engine hoping to arrive at the intersection before the other car. They arrived the same time, but as the road widened at this point, the two vehicles didn’t collide.

The boxy car, now only a few feet from them and parallel, had an open cockpit and looked to be made of yellow concrete. The two side squares were fairly curved, and swept back. The driver, wearing a helmet and goggles, didn’t look at them. The noise was deafening.

“What is it?” asked Maurice.

“Rhino.”

Maurice looked at the large, lumbering, sand-colored square upon wheels. Black smoke belched from its rear. It smelled like sulfur. The two wings moved slightly and extended outward. At once Jakob shot forward ahead of the Rhino.

They’re hydrogen powered,” came Jakob’s tinny voice over the sound. “Those two wings are boosters. You don’t want to be behind a Rhino when those things fire up. It’s like being stuck behind a jet engine-and very loud.” Maurice wondered if anything could get louder. “They also fire rockets from the wings.”

Jakob increased his speed and soon the Rhino was merely another lumbering dust cloud.

“Friend of yours?”

“Hardly. Rhino operators are not overly friendly. They’re rough people. I call the drivers Ruff and Gruff. Those guys only shave about three times a month and you can never understand what they’re saying. Russell and Buck drive them for a living in between chess matches.

“I’m confused,” said Maurice.

“I’ll explain later.”

“Please do.”

Page 29.75

Candy took out a pen and scribbled furiously on a notepad that, curiously enough, had the words Today's Novel Idea printed at the top. She wrote the following.

Lt. Jones and the Velkladdeur are looking for you. Asking lots of questions. Not safe here. Knows you mised The Call yesterday and didn't go to Hives. Lt. Jones is here-now in waiting room. Must leave!!

"Here you go Mr. Blue," and she handed Maurice the note.

"I see," Maurice replied. He stared thoughfully for a moment then whispered. "I'll keep in touch-somehow. Goodbye Candy."

Candy could only nod and whispered a barely audible, "Goodbye Maurice."

Page 29.5

The next day when Maurice went to work, his I.D. would not immediately scan. After consulting with the electronic guard, he was finally allowed to enter the building.

Candy eyed him suspiciously. She was also dressed auspiciously-for her anyways. She wore a classy dark blue pinstripe pants suit with a Celtic necklace inscribed with the words anam cara on the outer rim and with the English translation soul friend on the inner rim, and to all appearances seemed like a normal secretary with her serious demeanor.

“Good morning, Mr. Blue.”

“Morning, Candy.”

“We’ve had a visitor this morning and the visitor is still visiting.”

It was apparent Candy was nervous and overly business-like. Maurice knew something was wrong when she pointed with her eyes and shoulder towards the waiting room and whispered.

“Mr. Rumple Steelskin is here…from the MOB.”

“Rumple?”

“Yes, Mr. Blue.”

“Mr. Rumple…er…Mr. Wolf.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Wolf was asking for directions to Grandma’s house.”

“Grandma’s house?”

“Er…yes….and since Mr. Lumberjack wasn’t around to …you know, ax Mr. Wolf properly himself…I sent him to the visitor’s lounge.” She then nodded vigorously and opened her eyes wider than he thought possible. Maurice was thoroughly confused by this time, and Candy…he thought was more than thoroughly confused. He blamed it on an overdose of Lifequility.

“Candy?”

“Uh-huh?”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

Page 28

“How did you come about to work at Z-Tech in the first place,” asked Polly.

“Once upon a time, I believe it was around 15 B.G. (Before Google), a fellow asked me,

“Do you want a job in Z-Tech’s Culinary Department?”

“I don’t recall exactly what the job entailed but it had something to do with determining the edibleness of wild mushrooms and clinical trials in the first stage of FDA approval. The amount offered was prodigious and my main thought was, ‘hopefully I get into the placebo group.’ But due to a deep-seated aversion to gambling and a very religious upbringing forbidding drugs and alcoholic beverages, apart from Vanilla flavoring, declined the offer.

That’s not to say I didn’t think about it. With the extra money I could start a side business raising emus on a ranch with salmon and trout streams. Emus lay the world’s second largest egg and one can make Faberge-like egg-purses for the rich and fragile. The omelets would be huge…something like 14 regular chicken eggs equals one emu egg with the only danger being a really bad case of Salmonella.

I could quit the part-time gig as an Elmo mascot at the local kid’s museum and tell people I’m an Anthromycologist at parties serving expensive hors d’oeurves consisting of rare fish, goat cheese, and the non-lethal mushrooms. Mrs. Perez, the beautiful, charming, and witty Mrs. Perez…we met at the university cafeteria and knew we were made for each other when we discovered a mutual interest in big birds, trash-can dwelling life forms, and snuffleupagus sightings…would be at my side. The rich people would come bearing gifts of gold, frankincense, and $25 Starbucks gift certificates and sing praises to my name call me blessed one and a really fun guy. I would wax eloquent and give my opinion on alternatives to an NCAA D1 football playoff system called Stimulus II. And when they ask me deep philosophical questions such as,

“How do they punish a Siamese twin if one commits murder?”

I’ll say, “Bring me a sword!” and stall for time until I think of something profound and mutter obscure Latin phrases until…until I direct them to my Emu-Faberge purse web site on the new and improved Max iPad much to the chagrin of the wonderful Mrs. Perez, Proctor and Gamble, and those seeking enlightenment.

“Lesser Sensory Perception (LSP) is the path to true happiness…still stalling…if one hears no evil, sees no evil, or feels no evil, it is only a matter of time until one disbelieves in evil. So when evil comes, one calls it ‘ungoodness.’ Which, technically speaking, is not an actual English word so one might as well re-arrange the letters to make ‘goosed nuns.’ And everybody knows a goosed nun is a rare nun albeit a definite evil.”

Fortunately, the same fellow offered me another job at Z-Tech in the Pharmaceutical Department.”

“This sounds a bit like Jakob’s Predestination.”

“Or Fate,” said Maurice. “I’m still up in the air on the whole Predestination thing. How about yourself? How did you become the lifestyle editor of the Shenandoah Valley Times?”

“Well, my story isn’t quite like yours, but here goes.

Once upon a time not long ago for people with long memories, nor far away for people with access to paved roads, I was in English class studying things that modify other things. I don't know what the things getting modified were, but I couldn’t help but think what a shallow and hollow existence the modifiers must lead knowing their sole purpose was to constantly assure nouns of their true qualities. Dangling participles, hanging gerunds, or uptight adverbs arguing over objects, both directly or indirectly, was a complete mystery such that I felt deeply disturbed by the whole situation and felt compelled to ponder it. After a particularly lonesome noun spent fifteen grueling minutes getting told how wonderful, great, shiny, tall, and querulous it was, I seriously doubted if there was any hope for the little fellow and wondered if guidance counselors felt the same way about kids with consonant-heavy surnames.

After much ponder a sort of melancholy set in. This, coupled to the fact I sat in the back of the class...on a warm sunny day...by an open window...next to a large fan...and behind a rather large classmate led me into deeper thoughts until a mild depression struck. The sort of depression one feels when you discover Santa Claus isn't quite the jolly old Scandinavian you thought and Milo and Otis aren't truly talking animals. Soon, the depression merged into a cat-nap, which in turn merged onto a human nap. And that’s when I discovered the Law of the Conservation of Entropy.”

“Which is?”

“Brains in motion tend to stay in motion, and brains at rest tend to watch hours upon hours of television.”

“And you want your brain to be…?”

“In a constant state of flux. I decided to become a writer, and rest is rapidly becoming a historically significant event in the Book of Life.”


* * *
Candy Skipper was tired. She had planned on a quiet day at work and wanted nothing dramatic, like yesterday’s Call, to impinge upon her daily plans. When she walked into her office, she was surprised to see an official of Z-Tech’s Monitoring Other’s Business section (MOB) waiting for her.

“Candy Skipper?” the man stood and stretched his hand towards her. “Lieutenant Jones from the MOB. How do you do?”

”Fine, thank you.” She didn’t offer to shake his hand. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for one of your co-workers-Maurice Perez. We are having some difficulty locating him and thought you might shed some light on his location.”

“Yes. Mr. Perez works here. Is he in any trouble?”

“Oh, no. Nothing of the sort,” he said. “It’s just that yesterday he didn’t go to the Hives when The Call sounded. Is he ill?”

“Not that I know of,” Candy replied. She thought the little man from the MOB a little square and just a little cute. “Did you check his apartment?”

“He’s not there and wasn’t seen last night returning. Does Mr. Perez have a girlfriend?”

“Not to my immediate knowledge. I’m sure he’d tell me if he did.”

“You are sure?”

“Quite sure.” Candy felt it quite silly that her heart skipped a beat at this last question.

“Mr. Perez and you are quite close, are you not?”

“We’re a bit more than casual acquaintances. I’m his secretary, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Is he supposed to be in today?”

“You’re asking the wrong person.” And a lot of them, she thought. “Why don’t you just stick around and wait for him yourself,” she smiled.

The little man from the MOB stared at her blankly.

“Why does the MOB want to see Mr. Perez?”

“Mr. Perez is very important right now. The Velkladdeur himself desires to see him, and I have reasons of my own.”

“Ohh, in that case. . .”

page 26

“Something happened at the Hives today, Polly. Have you seen the Goshenites? They’ve changed. They look like people who have spent eighteen hours watching reality television. They’ve been hypnotized somehow. I’ve noticed the same effects on the lab mice at Z-Tech.”

“Do tell me, surely you don’t make them watch reality T.V.?”

“No ma’am. We have a policy against animal cruelty. We make they’re lives as pleasant as possible, unfortunately they don’t live long under carefully regulated coddling conditions of comfort. They grow fat and sleepy and like staring at pictures of cheese.”

“What does go on at the Hives?” asked Polly.

“I think some type of population monitoring or human enhancing activities. I’ve heard the word ‘HIVES’ stand for Human Illuminated V…Enhancement S…Nobody seems to know what the ‘V’ and ‘S’ mean. My co-workers tell me it’s like a gigantic hospital and gaming amusement park. Nobody truly knows except the Perfectabilists who run the place. Some of our own scientists are rumored to be members of that secretive lot.”

“Do you like your job at Z-Tech?”

“You’re the first person to ask me. It’s fun building alien-seeking drones, but lately they’ve started to act odd.”

“It sounds as if you have some reservations and want out of the company.”

“Nobody ever really gets out from Z-Tech, Polly. It’s like the Mafia or grocery-shopping. Everybody knows you cannot enter a grocery store without making a purchase. You can't say, ‘Oh, I'm just looking,’ like you can sometimes do at 7-11 from the hours between midnight and six A.M....at least without a straight face and a mask of some sort. You’re marked for life-literally marked. They insert a microchip in your arm and track your every movement. It’s called ‘getting cained.’

“That sounds horribly punny.”

“So it is…so it is…”

“But you’re not chipped-are you?”

“No, but I do have an ID bracelet I’m authorized to wear at work that acts as the same thing."

Page 25

"That's very good to hear," said Maurice at the other end of the line-his cell phone really as lines of the telephone type no longer existed except in the abstract sense (as real lines do). Which goes to show you that history repeats itself, though not always in the way one imagines.

"That's the only explanation," said Polly. "Cerberus saw your shoes and his cerebral circuits said foreign shoes = alien. What are you wearing?"

"New Balance. They're made in Connecticut. That can't be true. Connecticut is practically part of the U.S. and just because we sold it to Canada...why did we sell it to Canada?"

"To make ends meet was the way I understood it, according to the official MediaCon line.

Erosion

"Satan has in fact a plan against the saints of the Most High which is to wear them out. What is meant by this phrase, "wear out"? It has in it the idea of reducing a little this minute, then reducing a little further the next minute. Reduce a little today, reduce a little tomorrow. Thus the wearing out is almost imperceptible; nevertheless, it is a reducing. The wearing down is scarcely an activity of which one is conscious, yet the end result is that there is nothing left. He will take away your prayer life little by little, and cause you to trust God less and less and yourself more and more, a little at a time. He will make you feel somewhat cleverer than before. Step by step, you are misled to rely more on your own gift, and step by step your heart is enticed away from the Lord. Now, were Satan to strike the children of God with great force at one time, they would know exactly how to resist the enemy since they would immediately recognize his work. He uses the method of gradualism to wear down the people of God."

--Watchman Nee and found online at http://dailychristianquote.com/dcqnee.html

Page 24

“Um…I see. Say, Polly. Do you feel good right now”

“Me? Yep- I feel physically fine. Mentally competent. Somewhat bloated from the egg nog and Mexican tossed salad, but otherwise great. I need a hair-cut and this bothers me a little…not a lot as I don’t have a boyfriend, or soul-mate, or any other kind of primate to impress right now. Emotionally…I feel stable-a little shaky at times, but that’s due to dietary influences and rising/lowering hormonal levels. I feel witty…on a scale of 1 to 10…about oh’…pi…plus or minus a percentage point. I feel smug. A little sarcastic…just enough to irritate people an hour or two from a full-blown tension headache-no more, no less. That’s pretty much how I feel right now.

Lately, I’ve been talking to myself using short declarative sentences…using the intended ‘I’ to save time. I also answer myself using the ‘you’ understood. Most often though the conversations consist of sentence fragments with lots of adjectives. I don’t think this makes for good writing though. Nor does using the word ‘though’ a lot. I read yesterday that good writers use verbs-the action ones-and leave the passive ones to the novices to keep them poor and practicing. I tell myself it’s like reading a John Steinbeck novel...someday I hope to believe it. I tell this to my friends-all of who are invisible by the way. Most of my invisible amigos speak Spanglish which I appreciate since I love Mexican food and can now read the labels in the Hispanic section of Food Lion. Once, one of my friends-from New Zealand-asked me to fetch a trolley before we entered the deli section. I stood there in complete silence for an entire minute trying to translate this into English. A kindly cashier girl- whom I was not trying to impress due to my unique hair situation-asked if I needed any help. I said, “No thank you, I’m just a little confused right now.” She nodded and gave me a shopping cart to lessen my dilemma.

I thought about dating the other night. The Aztecs were good at it and constructed elaborate carved stones showing how to do it right. “The stones are still there,” Raquel told me. “Unfortunately the Aztecs are extinct and the stones untranslatable as nobody alive now speaks Aztec.” The Aztecs caused many problems going extinct, for now, nobody knows how to date properly. Although…the Mayans say we need not worry as the world will end at precisely midnight three years and nine days from now. I wish I were attracted to Mayan men.”

Page 23 (OK, so it's been awhile)

“Polly. It’s me. I’ve been shot, tracked, and drone-handled. Are you busy?”

“I’m reviewing a new eatery in Canaan called ‘Just Desserts.’ It’s run by the local prison. I’ve heard it’s more profitable than making license plates. Is everything OK?”

“Except for the drone-handling by Cerberus I…yes.”

“Oh dear,” said Polly. “Are you sure you aren’t an alien?”

“Never have been, nor ever will be. All I can figure is the drone mistook me for somebody else…the Can man…ever here of him?”

“A dear old chap. Yes, I remember him. Malachi and I nearly ran over him once or twice…certainly no more than three times…and definitely not more than four.”

“Well Cerberus just shocked the Can man into the next world. The drone must have assumed he was a looter when he was found walking about the Plaza. You do know there was a Call for all Goshenites to drop everything and go to the Hives this morning?”

Polly assumed a pensive look that most people make before ordering something in French with hopes it is not a member of the mollusk family or has or use to have tentacles. It was a beast of a time, it was two at the time, and she said nothing but stare at her soles.

A wave of intuition hit Polly.

“Cerberus likes your shoes. All dogs do…even mechanical flying hounds programmed with algorithms by evil men and the Differentia.”

* (ed. Note) The Differentia was a class of scientists in the city-state of Goshen formerly known as Nerds

Light travels

The older I get the more I think the Earth was seeded by people from another part of the galaxy and that God is really a gigantic computer programmer who has engineered the planet almost like its an enormous computer game. We are, in relation to God, like cartoon characters who will one day leave our body of atoms and molecules, get downloaded into a more complex set of sub-atomic particles...we'll call them tachyons since they have as one of their intrinsic properties the ability to move faster than the speed of light (hence are not subject to the sspace/time continuum)...and live forever in bodies that are luminescent.

Page 22

Lieutenant Jones hung up the phone, grabbed a color-coded pen that said, expiration date 5 Nov 2047, and stared at the monitor watching the Plaza. He placed the stylus over a young brunette and clicked. A window appeared onscreen:

Date: 23 Oct 2047
Age: 25
Gender: Female
►more

He clicked ‘more.’ Her family’s closest relatives came up.

Another tap of the stylus.

The screen magnified her image. He zoomed in on her left hand and frowned when he saw the diamond. ‘Strange how some people refused to abandon old traditions.’

Tap…tap…went the stylus as magnification returned to normal. A bearded man caught his attention. Tap…tap…the window revealed little information.

Date: 23 Oct 2047
Approx age: 33
Gender: male
ID: unknown

Unchipper. A call to Central and he would be marked. Lieutenant Jones leaned back in his floating chair and saved the unchipper link to his hard drive, then e-mailed the link to Central. Onscreen, he watched as two Sweep Patrollers immobilized the bearded man with tranquilizers. Nobody asked any questions, nor did they care.

Cash-only transactions in Goshen were almost unheard of nowadays. It would be like paying for goods with gold dust in the early 21st-century. Cash attracted attention to yourself, Sweep Patrollers, Cerberus drones, and (oddly enough) those strange simian-like creatures who wandered the city-state in ever-increasing numbers. Cash labeled you an individual…a solitaire.

Solitaires, while not expressly forbidden, were discouraged and every attempt was made to discourage individualism. Individuals didn’t think like the whole and discouraged unity. Free-thinkers were dangerous.

Four hours of people-monitoring the Plaza wearied Jones. He walked down to the Reality Room, put on his infrared goggles and opened the door to a darkened room. He walked down rows of cubicles seeing people laying on gamer cots with closed eyes and wearing neuroscopes. They were in cybersleep.

Jones settled into the black padded foam chair and adjusted the neuroscopes. He slid his hands into the attached gloves. Almost instantly, the computer read his implanted verichip which identified him as 66-543-8A. A retinal scan confirmed his ID number.

He found himself walking on Madburg Ave in the heart of the club district. He entered St. Bucks Café and Blues. A holographic Elvis and Michael Jackson were singing the duet ‘Love Me Tender, whether I’m Black or White.’ He put a quarter in the juke box (he had an infinite supply of these and never asked why). A blond-haired girl with tattoos covering her arms sang about satellites falling from the sky…watch yourself and death defy.

“So true,” said a weepy-eyed girl beside him. Jones nodded absently. She was a cute girl with nary a single blemish on her pixilated face.

“Did you hear about the latest satellite fall?” asked Jones. “It landed on top of Logan’s Castle.”

She giggled. “Serves him right after closing the water park a month early. Anyone hurt?”

“Nope. Nobody home except Logan himself and some unchippers.”

Five hours later, Jones emerged from cybersleep and returned to work, realized he was done for the day, had 29 more days until the Sucralose and methyl butyrate kicked in, then went home to a night of Lifequility. He found it difficult to differentiate between the virtual and actual world…but then didn’t everybody?

Page 21

Lieutenant Jones was 48-years-old and looked 30. He had never been sick a day in his life, and never passed up the opportunity to say so. He loved being in control. Every day he rose at precisely 5:30 AM and immediately started the coffee maker. Then he drank 8 ounces of water chilled to exactly 40 degrees F. At 6:00 AM, he drank the coffee, ate breakfast, brushed his teeth, used the bathroom, dressed for work, and checked off everything he’d done so far on a list.



He also loved lists, especially the making of and checking off parts. When he did something that was not on a list, he added it to the list and checked it off. At the end of every day he collected all the lists and added them to The List…an on-going database that detailed his life’s history to such exquisite detail that he planned on bequeathing it to Maurice’s next door neighbor as a torture device should the need ever arise.



He departed his townhouse at 6:35 AM. 6:50 AM found him parking in spot 5A of the Z-Tech parking lot and 6:59 AM found him primed, prepped, and prepared for people-monitoring, power-mongering, and list-making activities.



Lieutenant Jones puzzled over how the man escaped. ‘What kind of electrical disturbance could cause the drone to break down?’ He wondered if the Velkladdaur knew he hadn’t quite told the truth in the matter. Truthfully, it had to be an electrical disturbance. There was no other explanation.



30 days.



* * *



“We downloaded the video and see the unchipper in the plaza,” explained Quinton Verbosity, Jones’ lead programmer. “The best we can figure out is the tramp stood directly in the line of sight between the drone and Mr. No-chip while the video was running…sort of like the moon during a solar eclipse. See right here at 17’00”35.6…and then as we go to 17’00”42.7.”



Here the technician fast-forwarded the downloaded video.



“Here we see the plaza empty except for these two.”


“You didn’t get a video of the unchipper’s face?”


“Nope. Strangest thing. All the video shows is the back of his head. When he turned around facing the camera, there either was somebody directly in front of him, or else the video just went blank. It’s prolly just an electrical surge in the wiring induced by the latest Call.”


Jones put his face in his hands, and then said. “Get me a picture of the unchipper anyways. The best you can come up with…a close-up. I want to see what the man was wearing. What brand of watch he wears. His hairstyle. I want to know know the cologne type on his skin. Whether he was sunburnt on this day. Things…things I can put on a list and analyze and ponder. The Velkladdeur seems to think it important to find this guy.”


The technician whistled. “What for?”


“Not certain. But know this. When the Velkladdeur wants his man, that man has something worth taking.”



* * *

“Here you go Lieutenant” The technician laid a digitally-enhanced photo on Jones’ desk. “Abercrombie and Fitch khaki pants and looks like size 32-34 waist. Light blue long-sleeved shirt with partially rolled-up sleeves. The shoes appear to be size 11 black Adidas hiking boots.”


“Thank you. That only narrows it down to about…3,000 different people in this city.”



Lieutenant Jones stared at the picture. The digitally-enhanced photo reminded him of one of the scientists in the other drone-making divisions. Tap…tap…tap…went his fingers.



‘Maurice. That’s his name.’



He called the secretary’s office at the alien-tracking division and got a Ms. Skipper.



“Nope. Sorry Mr. Jones. Maurice isn’t working today.”

Page 20

(Later that afternoon in an unmarked lab, behind an unlabeled door, in a secret hideaway, stood a mysterious scientist whose last name was Jones. His first name was Lieutenant, but nobody except the VelkLaddeur, the National Security Agency, the VISA credit card company, and the payroll secretary knew this. Across an enormous ebony desk sat the VelkLaddeur himself…an even more mysterious gentleman who used no other name than ‘VelkLaddeur.’)



“You lost him?” asked the VelkLaddeur.


“No, Sir. We got him, but somehow he escaped,” said Lieutenant Jones.


“What do you mean ‘you got him.’ If you got him, he would be dead.”


“Yes, Sir. But you see, when we sent in the corpse collection unit, all they found was an old man named Maximus Dudley.”


“Didn’t Cerberus I see the unchipper in the plaza?”


“That they did, Sir. But there was some kind of electrical disturbance that confused Cerberus’s circuitry. The unchipper must have escaped then. The most likely explanation is the drone…once the electrical disturbance ceased…automatically assumed Mr. Dudley was the unchipped man.”


“Maximus Dudley was a chipped man Lieutenant. How could the drone assume otherwise? Machines never assume Lieutenant. Never. What kind of electrical disturbance was this?”


“We’re still uncertain. Our tech guys are checking it out as we speak. Nothing’s turned up yet. It seems in perfect working order.”


“Keep looking Lieutenant. And keep looking until you find the problem. The last thing we need is another unchipped cowboy running around footloose and fancy free.”


“Yes, Sir.”


“I want a full report of the problem ASAP.”


“Yes, Sir.”


“One more thing. See the safe nurse before you leave.”


“But, Sir.”


“You know the Law Codes. Eye for eye and tooth for tooth.”


“What if we don’t find him?”


“Thirty days Lieutenant. You have thirty days before the methyl butyrate is released.”


Lieutenant Jones left the VelkLaddeur’s office. The last thing he saw was his Cheshire cat-like grin. It unnerved him.


Lieutenant Jones grumbled to himself as he walked the long corridor to the safe nurse’s lab. He hated this building. Every conversation was under constant surveillance, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. One couldn’t even grumble aloud without it going on record. Secretly, he was glad when it was quitting time. Working for Z-Tech gave one a headache. One couldn’t even go to the bathroom without some roving mechanical Cyclops staring at you. Yet, this was the case for all government buildings…constant surveillance…always watching.


Lieutenant Jones entered the safe nurse lab where he instinctively held out his hand and passed it over the receptionist’s scanner. It beeped.


“We’ve been expecting you,” said a thin, middle-aged woman with short hair, plain face, who could easily have passed for a man. Her name tag said Leah. “Dr. Charan will see you now.”

She led him to a small room with pink walls and told him to sit on a table. Leah closed the door and left. He tried the door. Locked. The room was bare. No cabinets, tables, or anything to suggest he was in a doctor’s office, yet he knew he was monitored. A moment later the door opened.


Dr. Ali Singhe Charan was short, bald, possessed bushy gray eyebrows, and a wrinkly forehead. “You know how this works,” said Dr. Charan immediately. “Same principle as the V-chip in your right arm. This will be in your left arm. Roll up your sleeves.”


Jones rolled up his left sleeve and relaxed as Dr. Charan rubbed alcohol on his arm. Then he picked up a needle, inserted a rice-sized capsule, and carefully injected it in Jones' arm.


That’s it?” he asked.


“Yes,” replied Dr. Charan. “In 30 days the capsule is programmed to release 100 micrograms of methyl butyrate and 50 micrograms of Sucralose. First you fall asleep, then the heart stops beating. So quick, easy, and painless.”


“And the antidote?”


“There is no antidote for the red capsule. We remove it manually.”


Lieutenant Jones forced a grin. “I feel like Damocles.”


“You are Damocles,” said Dr. Charan.

Page 19

He sensed the drone scrape cells from his skin. Just a few were needed for a complete DNA analysis. Out of the corner of his eye he read the name ‘Z-Tech Cerberus I’ painted on the drone’s metallic underbelly. Maurice closed his eyes and willed himself into something like a trance. As a scientist working in the industrial section of Z-Tech, he knew the machine was analyzing his skin cells and when it discovered he was not at the Hive Complex…or at work, he stood a very good chance of being zapped with an uncommonly large voltage usually reserved for the undesirable classes.

He could tell by the beeps and whistles sounding from Cerberus I that the initial results were calculated.

Heart rate: 80 bpm
Blood type: O+
Height: 1.98 m
Weight: 51.1 kg
ID Number: 63MX4R_hss

“Why did the drone register me as 63MX4R_hss?” he thought. He had never been chipped before. Z-Tech kept prodding him to do so, but something about the process bothered him.

He felt the sensor remove from his body and recoil back to the drone. It flew away. Maurice relaxed.

Sometime later he heard voices on the plaza. He rolled over and gasped. The Can Man was lying beside him. His eyes stared directly into Maurice. A thin mucus covered them.

The Can man was dead.

Maurice rolled away and emptied his stomach. A minute later he left the tarp in time to see the first people emerge from the Hive Complex. “Something is different about them,” he wondered. “Their eyes. . .they’re glazy…hollow…lifeless.”

The Maine Character

For those of you who are interested.

All these posts that begin with (Page 18, page 16, Page...) can be found, read, and perhaps even commented on at my latest groovy and wonderful blog called The Maine Character.

Page 18

A high-pitched wailing cry pierced the air. Maurice inhaled deeply and felt a thrill run throughout his body.

Instinctively, people everywhere in the plaza emptied their pockets of everything-receipts, credit cards, pens, watches, necklaces, even cash, and immediately laid it down. He hesitated, even though he knew this would be classified as unusual behavior. They would scan him, and later…what would they do? Take him to the Sweep Patrols? What was there to hide? Surveillance cameras covered over 98% of Goshen. Still, he hesitated, thought better, and pulled out a wad of cash and a handkerchief, and shoved it in a crack in the nearby concrete wall.

“Of all the times for the Call-it had to be now,” he thought. “I should have known better than to take a stroll through the plaza.” Most took taxis, but he liked wandering the plaza’s cobble-stoned streets with their quaint little shops-careful not to buy anything lest he arouse the Sweep-Patrols.

The countenance of everyone had changed at this latest Call. Everybody looked like hippies in a drug-induced stupor. . .hypnotized. And they all proceeded methodically towards the Hives. He felt ridiculous leaving his money out for the entire world to see. But everyone knew the Law and the Sweep Patrols were always more than happy to remind you.

“I don’t care what anyone thinks. I’m not going to the Hives.”

In short time the plaza was nearly deserted. A few stragglers hurried past, but other than that, nobody remained. The many shops surrounded the brick-lined square remained open but empty. He walked in the opposite direction from the Hive complex keeping his head down to avoid suspicion. Not everyone, he noticed, headed towards the Hives.

Maurice picked up his pace, and came to a deserted street. He felt the Presence. It was the same Presence he felt during his dream about the great stone giant in his dream. This time he knew its name.

“Velkladdeur is coming. He’s at the end of the street.”

Maurice’s uncanny intuition dramatically increased at the siren’s call. He felt Velkladdeur, the chief of the Prime Minister’s secret police, approaching in his mind's eye.

His hair stood on end. His skin crawled. He turned and walked back towards the shopping plaza.

The plaza was empty. A wave of nausea hit him. He gulped and ran towards the only door left open. Too late. It snapped shut.

“This is not good,” he thought. “Hide. I must hide.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a tarp-covered park bench adjacent to a construction site. Velkladdeur’s presence was gone, but something else approached. Drone. A flying Z-Tech globe that detected motion. A flying machine, basketball-sized, that sensed the smell of blood. He felt the flying droid hovering around the corner. He turned towards the tarp and nearly ran into a homeless man-the Can Man.

The Can Man was a balding fellow with short, curly, greasy, brown hair. You smelled him before you saw him. The Can Man was recognized by his clothes, since he always wore the same thing; faded blue-jeans, tee-shirt, and faded denim jacket-even in the middle of summer. People said he had a wardrobe full of identical outfits, sort of like a regular Ernest P. Worrell of whom he bore a slight resemblance. The Can Man walked around the city with a black garbage bag collecting aluminum cans to get insulin money for his diabetic wife. There was a slightly devious look in his eyes. Not enough to commit a big crime like murder, but perhaps a pickpocket or two.

Maurice glared at him and then grinned.

“Sorry,” said the Can Man in his soft timid voice. Maurice ran on.

He dropped to the ground and rolled under the tarp. Seconds later the drone rounded the corner and hovered over the very spot Maurice stood. It paused for a moment as if sniffing the air, and then silently buzzed through the air zigzagging to detect the subtle change in the air temperature. It hovered above the tarp-covered picnic table. Maurice froze. The flying drones, some no bigger than a sparrow, detected humans by heat and movement. Lay perfectly still and there was a chance one could avoid detection.

“Steady. . .steady, Maurice,” he told himself. “Don’t move.”

Every muscle in his body relaxed. He could feel the faint metallic clicking of the man-hunter probe slowly ejecting from the drone.

He sensed rather than felt the tip of the long, snaky probe rest against the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure if the probe registered his existence or not. An alternate thought struck him.

“It thinks Mr. Can is me.”