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3. A Web of Deceit

My friend began to exhibit the usual symptoms of keen interest in strange circumstances. His gait became noticeably different, stalking more than leisurely strolling. His eyes were afire with life, taking in every detail of every nook and cranny. His fingers twitched in purposeful patterns as if he were calculating important figures in his head.

The attendant who had been helpful to us so far escorted us back to the rear-most car where the lead engineer had been taken.  A railway official had Mitchell seated in a folding chair at the end of the car on the ties, thus hiding him from any curious passengers. The lead engineer was given a glass of water and though his color was returning, he was still very agitated.

“I tell ye I saw a man standin’ there plain as day and then he just disappeared,” the man explained, presumably repeating the same story he had been conveying to his inquisitors.

“What was this man wearing?” asked Holmes as we walked up to the scene.

The official turned to face us, seeming rather upset at the interruption of his investigation.

“This is official business, sir,” he barked. “You should return to your cabin at once. We’ll be underway shortly.”

Our helpful friend stepped forward at this point and said, “This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, sir, and his assistant, Dr. Watson.”

Whispers broke out among the other attendants, porters, and railmen at the scene. The official obviously recognized the name. His jaw jutted forward and his bottom lip pursed outward in annoyance.

“A freelance meddler, nothing more,” he said gruffly. “You show me some paperwork of authority from Scotland Yard and I will gladly turn over the investigation to you. Otherwise, you had best turn back towards the passenger cabins and wait until we are underway or I shall have you escorted back.”

Holmes stood his ground and removed a parcel of paper from his pocket with the official seal of Scotland Yard imprinted upon it. I glanced and saw that it had been signed by Inspector Lestrade. Holmes handed the document to the official whose eyes widened.

The official perused the text and quietly handed Holmes the document back.

“If you would be so kind as to give us some privacy, gentleman,” Holmes said to the crowd, “this is official business.”

The assorted rail workers turned and left the scene, but the official hesitated a moment, his face turning a thousand shades of red, before he stomped off in defeat.

“Where did you get that?” I asked my friend after we were alone with the engineer and our good attendant.

Holmes smirked and said, “Oh I keep several on hand for emergencies - some from the Ministry of Defense, Ministry of Agriculture, all clever forgeries. Lestrade’s signature is one of the easiest to mimic as it resembles the scrawling of a five-year-old.”

Even Mitchell chuckled at this, and I doubled over with laughter, “You old rogue. You would find yourself in a great deal of trouble if someone were to find out.”

“Indeed, Watson. That is why I only use them in the most desperate situations.” He then turned to our engineer and gave him a gentle smile before proceeding to question him about the events.

The engineer was happy to answer our questions, no matter what direction they took. Mitchell had been riding the rails since he was sixteen, and had a keen interest in locomotives all his life. He had never touched a drop of alcohol his entire life and had no vices to speak of. He was unmarried and traveled extensively as his position allowed.

Holmes returned to his initial line of questioning in regards to the clothes the vanishing man had been wearing.

“He had a long dirty coat,” Mitchell replied. “His pants were thick material, leather maybe, and his boots had heavy thick soles.”

“Rubber soles?”

“Aye, they had to have been as they were thickly treaded like mountaineering boots. And the feller wore goggles that he had set up on his forehead, holding down the brightest yellow hair you ever seen.”

“You mean blonde?” interrupted Holmes.

“Nay, when I say yellow I mean yellow as a canary. That’s all I can tell ye. I didn’t have long to look afore I had to pull the brakes.”

“Now, in regards to that precise moment and the moments following, were you the only man in position to be looking out the forward glass?” questioned Holmes.

“Aye, I was. The others had tasks to attend to that wouldn’t allow a view of the rails in front. No matter what they say, I’m the only that could have seen him.”

“So you engaged the brakes. Did you look away to do so?”

“I did not. I know my engine blinded. I set my hands on the lever and never once did my eyes leave that face. I thought for sure that he was a goner.”

“And the man vanished, you say. Did he make any gesture before you saw him disappear?” continued Holmes.

“Yeah, he did, in fact. He brought his hand up to his chest just before he went ‘poof’”

“Thank you, Mr. Mitchell. You’ve been most helpful,” concluded Holmes.

“So you believe me then?” the engineer asked, looking hopeful.

“I’m sorry,” replied Holmes. “Given the description of the circumstances in addition to your history, I’d have to say the apparition was a result of stress and overwork. You should really look into a holiday.”

Dejectedly Mitchell let his chin fall to his chest.

Holmes turned to the attendant still with us and asked if it was true that there was telegraph station only two miles to the west. The attendant verified it was true and Holmes instructed him to have our bags rerouted from York station to Leeds, giving him enough money cover the expense plus a generous tip.

“Up for some exercise, Watson?” Holmes asked as he grabbed my arm and turned me towards the direction of the telegraph station.

I nodded and began to walk with him away from the train. After a few minutes of walking we heard the train whistle sound and the engine roar to life as the train continued its journey without us.

“Surely the man’s testimony coupled with the evidence we found on the track was enough to prove his story,” I voiced after being able to stand the silence no longer.

“Very good, Watson. He was indeed telling the truth. Subtle facial and body language confirmed that at least he believed he was telling the truth, and our investigation of the scene corroborates.” he replied.

“But why the deception?”

Holmes’ face was serious and we walked several meters before he spoke.

“Watson, we are dealing with powers I’ve not come in contact with before. On many occasions, as you may well remember, the facts presented in our cases lean towards a supernatural or otherworldly cause, though in the end we always are able to bring light to the simple truth behind them. Recall the cases of the Speckled Band and the curse of Baskervilles, both odd circumstances leaning towards weird phenomena, but both simply and scientifically explained – both simply evil plots of desperate yet clever men.

“This time, however, I cannot account for the situation. The strange clothing, the boot print, the residue on the tracks, the timely telegram, the case of the cows, and the murder of Inspector Bridges are all somehow connected and at the moment I am at a loss as to what the connecting strands are in this web of deceit laid about us.”

“You mention only the Bridges incident,” I said, “Do you believe the telegram was entirely a fake and that a second official from Scotland Yard was not murdered?”

“We shall know soon enough. Assuming the messenger from the train was not an accomplice to the scheme, we should be receiving a telegram from Lestrade upon our arrival at the telegraph office either confirming or denying the murder.”

We continued our walk and soon discovered that the distance to the telegraph office was more likely three miles instead of two. At Holmes’ determined and unbroken pace, I was slightly winded by the time we walked up the steps and into the offices of the telegrapher.

“Yes, sir. We’ve just received a communication for a Mr. Tobias,” the telegrapher said to us after Holmes’ had given him the false name. “I’ve not typed it up yet, but here’s the text if you can read my handwriting.”

He handed the hand-written message to Holmes which read as follows:

“Tobias – Sorry haven’t written. Two dogs have died and now a pup as well. My condolences, as pup is Bradley. Your rooms have been redecorated. Come home soon. – Margaret”

I raised my eyebrows at the unusual message, but looking at Holmes’ face I saw a deep grief that I had not witnessed before. He seemed on the verge of tears and quickly exited the building without a word. I followed him in confusion, but waited for him to speak. He began to pace rapidly only stopping to bash his fist into a lamppost outside the telegraph office.

“Blast it all, Watson!” he exclaimed, pounding the lamppost in time with the syllables of his outburst.

“A coded message from Lestrade?” I asked.

“Yes, and a most disturbing one. This case has suddenly become very personal. Not since the Moriarty business have I felt so set upon,” he said, still pacing up and down the sidewalk. “What to do, what to do?”

“What did Lestrade have to say?”

“He says he did not send the first telegram, but confirms that a total of two policemen have been murdered. And not only that, Watson, the fiend has struck out at an innocent. He has murdered one of the Baker Street Irregulars, poor Bradley … but a child …” Holmes was obviously overcome with emotion at this point, and halted his ceaseless pacing.

I stood silent and waited for him to compose himself.

After a minute, he stood up straight, the stoic presentation of resolution across his face.

“We shall take a coach to Leeds and visit my chemist acquaintance there to ascertain the properties of the residue we have collected. There we will break company, Watson. I will continue on to the Dales in disguise and see what I may learn there of this treacherous series of events. You will return to London and immediately track down my brother Mycroft. The message also says that Baker Street has been raided.  If this criminal is set on hitting at me directly, he may go for my closest acquaintances, so Mycroft and Lestrade may both be in danger, not to mention yourself, Watson. You must arm yourself at all times and be prepared for anything.”

I nodded my understanding, feeling a wave of dreadful foreboding wash over me. Again and again in the past had I moments of fear and trepidation when heading towards a climax of action while assisting Holmes, but this particular time I began to wonder if this would be the one adventure we would not survive.

Holmes went back in and sent a telegram to both farmers, Davison and Baker, to say that he was unavoidably detained and could not offer his assistance in the strange case.

We hired a hansom for the trip to Leeds and Holmes drove us at breakneck speed down the winding roads. He spoke in a near frantic voice as he drove and I had not seen him so flustered in all my years with him.

“Magicians can cleverly use smoke and mirrors to produce illusions. I’ve even known the necessity to use such methods myself on occasion, but the event on the rails is quite honestly beyond me. Our only lead is that vial you carry in your pocket.”

“What do you make of the engineer’s description of the vanishing man?” I asked.

“I can make nothing of it, Watson, and therefore I will leave it alone. We have been breaking one of my primary rules. We must follow the path of least resistance from now on, no matter how outlandish an ending it leads us towards. Our adversary obviously knew of my trip to Yorkshire before we left, which means he must have somehow gleaned the information from Mycroft. The murder of Bridges was an obvious attempt to get me to remain in London, whether for some sinister plan at that location or to keep me away from some crime about to occur in Yorkshire.

“Discovering I had left London, our adversary masterminded the interruption with the train and the delivery of the false telegram.  Since we don’t know the particulars of the two most recent murders, we cannot assume they are related, but it is most likely the same murderer after the same end result of me returning to London.

I tried to listen as much as I could, but my attention was diverted time and again to the road as we shot over bridges and through curves recklessly, once even turning the cart up on two wheels.

“Once we get to Leeds, I will send another coded message to Lestrade to make preparations for our return. You and I will be returning on horseback under cover of night.”

“But Holmes,” I interjected, gripping the seat cushion in fear of flying out of the hansom. “You said you were going to the Dales.”

“I am going to the Dales, Watson,” he replied. “But I am also returning to London. I shall explain once we reach the laboratory in Leeds.”

The scenery shot by us in a blur. Considering our diversion away from the train, our enemies could not know our current whereabouts or our next destination. That did nothing to alleviate the feeling that even as we flew across the countryside we were being watched.

(I didn't plan on it, but this story now has its claws in me, I gave myself chills even. I've given each addition a subtitle now. Going back to the first part I named it Baker Street and Turmoil. I did a lot of research for this section and have still most likely left some inconsistencies with distances and travel times, but that's ok ... I'm having fun.)

2. The Vanishing Man

I returned to Baker Street after a quick meal and a wash, packed and ready to go. The journey to York would take several hours and I had packed the necessary comforts for a long trip. It had been decades since I had ventured into Yorkshire, and I looked forward to taking in some of the greatest countryside views England has to offer.

 As to the details of the case Holmes was so keen on advising, he kept silent – only once raising a finger in the middle of the question as it was exiting my mouth. We took a silent ride by hansom over to King’s Cross and were able to make entry directly to our train. It would be a long journey to York where we would then take a hackney coach into the rural areas. The locomotive jerked forward and we began our journey with Holmes staring out at the people still on the platform, taking in every detail of every person. After a good distance of travel had passed, which I had spent perusing the Times and reading a yellow-backed novel, Holmes supplied me with the details of the investigation we were about to begin.

“Farmers of the Dales are proud folk as you know,” he began. “Their livelihood fully depends, season to season, on the health of their stock. You will not find it as romanticized as the American way of ranching and farming – some families manage only a few assorted livestock, a milking cow, a few goats, perhaps a handful of pigs or sheep. There are, however, a few big-minded men that specialize in certain animals and it is a group of those men which this case revolves around.”

He paused to drag in a few deep inhalations from his pipe before continuing.

“Cows, Watson,” he remarked.

“Hmm?” I replied.

“What do you know about cows?” he expanded, still staring out his window.

“Very little, other than the obvious,” I admitted. “My family had pigs, and even then our farm was separate from our family home and was run by cousins of my mother. I can only remember one or two times that I was ever there.”

“Would you think that you have the observational capacity to be able to tell two cows apart if they were shown to you, taken into a closed barn, and then brought back out again?”

“I should think so,” I replied. “I am sure I could determine one or two details for each cow that would keep them separate in my mind.”

“Even if their markings had been manipulated? I would bring your focus back to our case of the missing horse some time ago, when even the horse’s owner could not tell the white diamond on his prized racehorse had been painted over to conceal its identity.”

“I do remember that. The horse's name was Silver Blaze, I believe.” I said. “Is this new case one of disguised identity as well?”

“Perhaps,” Holmes said, pulling breath through his pipe. “Here are the facts I have gleaned from the case so far.

“A Mr. Thomas Baker, a farmer and long time resident of these parts, lives in one quadrant of a rather expansive set of land. He shares boundaries thusly with two other farmers and sits diagonal to another farm. All four farms are owned primarily by cattle farmers, with the exception of Baker, who is also a horse enthusiast.

“Mr. Baker sent word to me by telegram of the case, having procured my details through my brother Mycroft, who often will spend brief holidays in the area when he is not being completely lazy and anti-social. The telegram arrived yesterday and stated the following:

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes – On advice from your brother, one Mycroft Holmes, I have been made aware of your special skills in cases of mystery. I hope you will find the good graces to lend your skill towards one such case involving some of my stock. Yesterday morning, I took notice of two young heifers within my herd that were not mine, after which I set to counting the lot and found I was none short. Again this morning, the same has happened. I am not missing any stock by head, but two more cows I’ve noticed that aren’t mine. I would appreciate any help you can offer. I am willing to put you up if you should come, and will repay you what I can for your services.  - Sincerely yours, Thomas Baker.”

“An odd set of circumstances, I should say,” I remarked. “Are any of the other farmers missing cattle?”

“Excellent question, Watson,” he exclaimed. “I have further information which may shed more light on your direction of inquiry. Shortly after receiving that telegram I received another from a Mr. Paul Davison of similar content. Though where it seems Mr. Baker is a man of some education, Mr. Davison seems more likely a simple farmer. Here is the text of the telegram:

“Dear Mr. Holmes – Acquaintance of mine gave me your name. Come quick. Foulness afoot. Will heavy your coffers.  – Paul Davison”

“Not a very detailed explanation, is it?” I said.

“Not as such. However, I did manage to track down Mycroft and gain the additional information I have already spoken of, namely the layout of the farms and the general specializations of the farmers. Additionally, I can provide you with two other details that may change whatever theory you have begun to formulate about the case.

“Firstly, four stone walls mark the boundaries of the farms, and though each farm holds many internal walls sectioning the farms into smaller enclosed pastures with gates, nowhere along the shared walls are there gates allowing access between farms. All four farms are bordered at their outer extremities by dirt roads which form the quadrangle boundary of the four farms which are also walled with stone.

“Secondly, I have procured in advance the names and dispositions of the other two farmers. One, a Mr. James Prentice, is the oldest and holds the largest herd. It is his ancestors which originally held the entirety of land before his grandfather divided and sold three parts of it. The last piece of the puzzle is a Mr. O’Grady, an emigrant from Ireland. He is the newest to take claim here and holds the smallest herd. And listen to this Watson,” he said with a smirk. “Mr. O’Grady was run out of his former farm after his herd infected three others with a deadly disease causing their owners to lose their entire livelihood. It is believed by his former neighbors that the infection was not an accident, and in fact was only discovered after one farmer noted one of Mr. O’Grady’s herd mixed in with his own. That singular cow was the catalyst in the outbreak of infection.”

“Smacks of similar circumstances,” I surmised.

“Exactly, Watson,” Holmes replied. “We shall visit Mr. O’Grady first.”

Just as Holmes spoke those words we were thrown violently in our seats as the brakes were engaged. For several seconds we were jostled in our cabin and it took a moment or two to sort out our luggage in its now chaotic state. From the surrounding area and my recollection of stations and towns we had passed so far, I could tell we were just outside of Mansfield, having just recently passed Nottingham. There was a good seventy miles left to our journey, but it seemed with the amount of activity beginning to erupt all around the train that we might be delayed.

A porter tapped at our door before entering and inquiring as to our state.

“We are quite uninjured,” said Holmes. “I wonder if you could tell us why the engineer applied the brakes.”

The porter, who looked sharper than most of the lower class citizens who worked on the trains at that time, was of Indian descent. At Holmes specific question, he smirked and answered, “How did you know it was the engineer and not a passenger who stopped the train?”

“Elementary,” said Holmes, quite pleased with himself. “An alarm would have sounded a few seconds before the brakes were applied. In this case, the sudden application of the brakes could only mean that the engineer was forced to do so without notice and was unable to engage the warning alarm.”

“I’ve heard only that something was on the track and we were forced to stop to avoid hitting it. I don’t know whether we hit it or not,” replied the porter.

“A half of a sovereign for you if you can provide me with specific details,” Holmes offered.

The porter smiled and nodded before leaving us to ourselves.

“Should we not exit the train to offer our assistance?” I queried.

Holmes smiled and shook his head. “Let us determine the facts of the situation before we exert ourselves from the cabin. It may be something as simple as a fallen tree. Patience is warranted for the moment.”

Several rail attendants from the rearward cars walked by our window towards the engine, followed by a handful of curious passengers. After a few moments, a rough-looking man with a square-cut jaw was escorted back to the rear by two rail officials. His face was pale and he was stammering to his escorts and making wild gestures.

“Interesting,” remarked Holmes. “That was the lead engineer. It appears we may wish to investigate our sudden termination of movement a bit closer.”

Just then, the porter returned.

“There’s nothing there,” he told us, his face a picture of confusion. “The engine man swears he saw a man on the track and he hit the brakes, but then says the man vanished into thin air.”

“Most interesting,” Holmes said, a twinkle in his eye appearing that I knew all too well. He pressed a sovereign into the porter’s hand and rose to leave. “It appears we may be delayed, Watson. Let us have a conversation with this train’s masters to discern the facts.”

We exited the train amidst a gathering crowd of passengers who apparently had also seen the engineer being escorted to the rear. Holmes quickly singled out an attendant who then led us to the front engine.

The attendant, who was a tall man in his late thirties, knew Holmes by reputation and was extremely helpful to us.

“It’s a queer thing,” he told us, “The engineer is named Mitchell, and he’s worked trains for twenty years. I’ve never known him to panic like he did. The firemen say he screamed with fright before he threw the lever, but none of them had seen anything in the train’s path.”

We had reached the front of the train, and as was imparted to us, there was nothing there.

“Did you inspect the underside of the train for a body, or perhaps some debris that the man may have mistaken for a person?” asked Holmes, carefully noting as many details about the train’s position as he could.

“We did, sir,” replied the attendant. “Nothing was found.”

Holmes began to walk along the side of the train, backwards from the engine, paying close attention to the ground and the ties between the rails. Just past the fuel car, he suddenly dropped to his knees and bent down to the rails, removing a magnifying glass from his coat.

“Halloa! What have we here?” he piped.

The attendant and I joined him, but kept our distance so as not to interfere with his investigation.

“See this soft earth between the ties here, Watson?” he remarked as he ran his eyes over the area. “What do you notice?”

I bent over and tried to determine what detail he was referring to. There was a strange pattern in the dirt, vaguely in the shape of a footprint, but the pattern was one I had never seen on any type of shoe or boot before.

“A shoe print, it seems,” I said to him.

“And an unusual one at that,” he replied. “Rubber soled if I’m not mistaken, and with a tread pattern quite unlike anything you would find in England … or any other locale I would imagine. Most curious.”

The attendant and I looked at each other, both as confounded as the other as to the meaning of this discovery.

As Holmes continued his search of the area he said to us, “It is entirely probable, given your description of the faculties and history of the engineer who claimed to have seen a person on the tracks, and coupled with this evidence of a print only freshly made, that there indeed was someone on the tracks.”

“It is possible that while moving to engage the brakes, the engineer failed to see the person move from the path of the train,” I theorized aloud. “And perhaps the other engineers were too busy to have witnessed anything before the brakes were engaged.”

“Excellent, Watson,” he said, still bent over the rails. “You really do please me with your deductions. However, there are no tracks leading away from this point.”

I hung my head a bit dejectedly, but was at least pleased by his compliment to some small degree.

“What’s this?” Holmes suddenly exclaimed. “Watson, fetch one of your empty vials!”

I quickly hurried back to our cabin and retrieved a vial from my traveling medical kit. By the time I returned to Holmes, a gathering of people had formed in a semi-circle around him. Without a word he took the vial from me and using a penknife he scooped a small amount of powdery residue from one of the ties.

“You are sure there is no body to be found caught beneath the cars or off to the sides?” he asked one of the attendants who was crouched next to him.

“We found nothing, Mr. Holmes. No blood, no cloth, no footwear - nothing,” the attendant replied.

Holmes stood then and returned his eyeglass to a pocket. Turning round to face me, he pressed the vial into the palm of my hand with force, saying somewhat harshly in a whisper, “Watson, do not, for fear of death, lose this vial. It is of the utmost importance that as soon as we are able we find a laboratory to determine the exact components of this residue.”

His tone surprised me and I quickly slipped the vial carefully into an inside pocket.

The sound of hoofs broke the sudden intense silence following his command. From around the engine came a messenger riding horseback shouting, “Urgent telegram for Sherlock Holmes!”

“This is most unusual,” said Holmes, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. He raised his hand to the messenger who reined in his mount and leaped to the ground.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” the messenger queried.

“That is correct,” Holmes replied.

“Telegram from Scotland Yard,” the messenger said, handing the envelope to my friend. “From an Inspector Lestrade.”

Holmes opened the envelope and ran his eyes over its contents in silence. He paused a moment and looked to the messenger and then to his horse.

“How far is the nearest telegraph station?” he asked the man.

“Only two miles west, sir,” came the reply.

Holmes nodded and procured a pencil with which he jotted down a few words. Folding the telegram, he handed it back to the messenger and flipped him a coin.

“Send that in reply,” he commanded. With a nod the messenger mounted his horse and galloped away.

Silence reigned for a moment as Holmes’ eyes grew distant with thought.

“What did the telegram say, Holmes?” I asked.

“There has been another murder. Scotland Yard is requesting our assistance.”

“Another officer?”

“Indeed. And the manner of murder is quite similar to the ghastly business of the former. But it is most disturbing, this business,” he said, putting a finger to his lips in thought.

“I should say so,” I said, “It looks as if it may be the work of a serial killer. Should we turn back?”

Holmes shook his head. “It’s not the murder that disturbs me, Watson. It is the manner in which we have received this communication. Lestrade did not know our whereabouts, and Mycroft would not have told him.”

“He has someone following us then?” I deduced.

“No, Watson. This communication did not come from Lestrade. In the many years we have worked with him we have received many telegrams coming directly by his instruction. He always signs Lestrade, or Inspector Lestrade, but never Inspector G. Lestrade.”

“What can it mean?” I asked, completely lost.

“It means that someone does not wish us to reach Yorkshire.”

Hi!

I'm back.

Next up my attempt at Sherlock Holmes ...

Also ... my band is slowly coming together ... more news soon

A CLIP SHOW!!!!

Personal favorites from the ghost of my vox blog past:

the burlap veil of scotch and Guinness suffocating me

random profundities (holy shit, that IS a word)

I miss brown velvet and dirty water.

When I was your age, people threw things at each other, we ate dirt and glue and crayons, we'd roll down hills in tires, we'd make forts out of old rusty abandoned washing machines, we'd throw rocks at beehives, we could run from dogs, we could climb and jump out of trees, we had food fights, we thought bad television was bad television, etc.

The night of the big pageant she whispered "I liked you better without glasses."

She came into school a week later and brought her Cabbage Patch doll to school and told me it was our baby. I dumped her right then (I probably would have been okay with it if our baby was He-Man or Zartan)

"I wouldn't have done it if I knew it was you."

Karma thou art a vicious bastard.

At some point in all that, I had a fling with a girl I really liked, but I couldn't commit to her. I was too young. My best friend married her. That's all I can say about that.

I grabbed her by her neck and slammed her against the wall with her feet dangling and said "No one kills me ... but me." I walked out.

"Keep my car and all my shit. I have to save a girl from herself."

I looked at her and I thought "I could love this girl ... I can save her ...she can save me." She's only 21. She's amazing ... but I'm far too gone for love anymore

I committed fashion atrocities today. I'm wearing brown and black. The receptionist pointed this out to me, saying that I shouldn't meet with any of our clients today.

And here's to donuts and bitches ... and their uncanny ability to destroy our stupid fucking justice system and our lives.

I'm a human being after all, one of the most curious animals on the planet. If I want to know more details about the situation you're explaining to me that I don't want to hear about anyway ... I'll fucking ask with gusto. Maybe you could spend an extra 30 seconds planning your plan of verbal attack, too, because I don't like it when you get lost in your own conversation. But of course, if you weren't spewing so much useless information you wouldn't get lost in it. If I'm doing something while you're talking to me and you can wait until I'm done ... please wait, because I can definitely wait to hear what you have to say a few more seconds ... and JESUS CHRIST stop following me while you deliver your monologue. If I walk away, it means one of two things: I'm running away from you, or you should pause and continue the conversation when I return.

Shut up. Shut your mouth. Eat your food. Don't point at people with food on your fork. Don't reach across people's plates for the salt. Don't salt and pepper your food before you taste it ... chefs hate that, I hate that. What that tells me about you is that you have no taste at all, and that it probably has spilled over into ever facet of your life ... you love trendy-poppy remakes of songs but don't realize they're covers, you think the Italian Job with Mark Wahlberg was the greatest movie ever and wonder why they didn't come up with such an original idea sooner. Eat your food so I can leave and go home and slice open my skull so I can wash my brain of all the filth you've just tainted it with.

There are other people in the world besides you. You should know this because you constantly run your mouth at them about stuff they don't care about, won't shake their hands, disgust them by talking with your mouth full, and cause them to get into serious wrecks because you can't drive.

I wish I was a real drunk. I'd probably have more fun.

N: Do you feel that you are setting a negative example for the youth culture?

R: Youth culture killed my dog! Youth Culture killed my dog!

Have sex, get pregnant, have your baby, go downtown to a SPCBC-run depository, fill out the deposit slip, slip the baby and form into the convenient drop bag, drop baby in the hatch. The burden is no longer any of your concern.

TAKE THAT ZOMBIES!!!

Somewhere near the center of our universe, the spectre of mankind holds hands, kisses, pampers, adores, pets, dotes over, needs, wants, and loves the lady who he is about to rape. "I think I'll name her ... Earth" he says. 

You'll feel it one day, that urge to emerge. The pain of want calling you to the baths of the High People, where your past will be washed away with your soul. You'll become plastic and turn your head just so and you'll smile and nod and your number will make you happy.

We are the apathetic.

We are the impatient.

We are the content.

We are the lazy.

We are the confused.

We are the wicked.

We are the thiefs and the liars.

We are the ugly and the vain.

We are the narcissists and the masochists.

We are the sadists and the saints.

We are the revolution.

There are no dragons that we ourselves do not create.

There is no greater battle, no greater war, no greater strife between good and evil. There is nothing more powerful than the conflict between who we have the potential to be and who we are today. All other conflict pales in comparison, for we have no right to be involved in any other conflict unless we are at peace with ourselves and our purpose.

Life sucks, then you nail your bracket, then you die. Somewhere in between you set up franchises ... or maybe just split the monopoly you have on this branch of your family tree ... or maybe you kill this branch. Maybe you have sex and then you die. Maybe you die while having sex. Maybe you die watching the Superbowl, while having sex, while teaching your children how not to question authority, while eating a cheeseburger, while checking your stocks, while filling in your brackets, while seeing your name in bold on the church newsletters front page, while reading the obituaries, while listening to rap. Maybe you believe in 72 virgins. Maybe you believe in the power of owning a motorcycle. Maybe you're already dead, and have been since the first time you thought, "Someone else is going to make a difference if its needed. I'll just sit here because I'm one in a trillion. I'll just play poker and poke her and that po' cur down at the homeless shelter can have my money, as long as it goes through my church so people can see me place a modest portion of my winnings on the plate."

It's the old, the rank, the musty, allowed to survive in the corners of the room. You can let the cobwebs hang there, thinking no one will notice. It's more likely that people WILL notice and won't care. But in the inventory of the room, those cobwebs exist and could be eradicated in one fell swoop with a dust mop, a broom, your hand, a baby tied to a pole.

Your individuality is a calculated risk to corporations; your laziness, apathy, and ignorance are guaranteed profit.

The leader of the creatures asks the leader of the humans, through thought, "Do you believe in Muhukknawampuu?" The human says "No, I believe in God!" and stamps his foot.

This day is choking on the bitter spit of self-loathing. On its surface it is cold, coarse, blustering, and vengeful. It mocks us with blue skies and soft clouds, but there is a hidden agenda deep beneath the underpasses, in the sewers, in the corners of attics, behind your grandmother's rocking chair.

Every day has a soul, and my day is bitter, beaten, and bereft of life. It's soul is caught, entangled in the swallowed hoard, still clinging helpless to the back of the throat.

So low for mighty.

I am completely fooling myself with this girl. I have in my head this hopelessly romantic idea that I’m her protector and mentor, like a knight in service. I’ve got this idea that I’m going to protect her from the harsh realities of life and in doing so she’ll slowly fall in love with me and things will be happy.

Two of my final theses will be on the "Justification of Domestic Livestock Transportation and Maintenance on Lunar/Martian Colonies" and "The Effect of Prolonged Generational Exposure to Terraformed/Synthetic Habitats on Earth-born and later Extraterrestrially Born Species Transported to Lunar/Martian Colonies".

I still enjoy this game, the whole making her wonder if I'm over her game. But ... last night I realized something. I will never be over this woman. One of the cops who accosted us patrols her neighborhood and knew what kind of car her roommate drives ... and I said, to be funny and lighten the mood "What other cars have you seen parked over at her house lately?" I realized I still love this girl, deeply, painfully, and that everyone else I talk to is just pointless moves on a chessboard that's headed toward checkmate.

I call this mindless acceptance of something someone else has said “Postcard Wisdom”.

Postcard Wisdom is why marketing works. It is the reason why bastard sons of bitches are elected to public office. It is the reason racism and religion prevent the progression of the species. It is the reason people say “Beckoned Call” instead of “Beck and Call”.

My favorite zombie is Jesus.

I get nervous. I cough uncontrollably. I buy clothes that don't fit me. I start smoking. I start drinking. I scratch myself to wounds and then I pick the scabs. I get restless. I can't sleep. I draw silly cartoons. I write their names next to mine and then spend hours scribbling the names out. I dream about them. I break out in hives. I stumble over air. I can't breathe.  My mouth gets dry. I have acne breakouts. My skin starts to crawl. I have hot flashes. I turn into a fatalist. My hands sweat. I can't think. I can't keep food down. I start to smell vinegar. My fingernails become very sensitive. I develop an irrational fear of telephones, old people, and cubes. I play with my food. I develop cravings for bermuda grass and butterscotch.

Yesterday was decidedly difficult for me as I spent most of the day in a haze of impetuous, inexorable depression. There are no words, no watercolor paintings, no sketches, no musical creations I can give you that would allow you a sense of this deep void that suddenly opened up in my soul yesterday. It was as if I had been hiding it all these years and only now has it breached the maximum security prison I have kept it in.

I can't tell you what I didn't do today.

I'm afraid you'll think less of me because I'll have to then tell you that I've been doing it everyday for a while now.

Just be satisfied knowing that today I didn't do it and that tomorrow I plan on not doing it again. I could say that I'll never ever do it again, but I don't make predictions ... especially about the future.

Actually, check that ... I do make predictions - its all I'm good at.

My attempts to fast have failed. I've only managed to succeed in a real water fast once and the benefits of it where enough to jumpstart a three month long sort of "recovery" of my psyche. I was so proud of myself. I met new people, did new things. I was healthy and starting to cut muscle. My stamina was doubled then tripled then nearly infinite. My confidence was unending.

Then something strange happened.

I lost focus. And then I lost my edge. And then I lost my muscle and my stamina. And then I lost my willpower. That was about July or so. Many would suggest this collapse of foundation is directly a result of turning thirty, but I know better. The catalyst to my fall was a woman and what she did to me happened well before I turned thirty. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that years have passed since that initial infection of the psyche occurred.

And she's still working her voodoo on me.

It's no wonder I've not had a normal relationship after her. She's turned me into a monster. It's a were-curse. Some dude bit her and she turned, and now she's bit me and I've turned. And now I'm biting girls and they're turning.

I had confirmation of this a few days ago when I spent time with an old friend of mine that was a good friend of a girl I had dumped. It turns out she's turned into what I am, doing the same things to unsuspecting males.

The curse is hard to explain unless you're the one I'm cursing. My victims can see it happening, and they let me do it anyway. I saw it coming for me too ... but the moment was too good to let pass. The feeling too inviting.

I know now that I'm destined to be destroyed, not by the curse itself but by a representative of the greater good. A Van Helsing. A hunter. A savior. A Silver Bullet.

This monster I have become is destined to die, and when it does I will die with it.

And then I'll live out the rest of my life a zombie ... apathetic ... indifferent ... ignorant ... and alone.

Until then ... I'm hunting.

I took the day off today.

I haven't taken a day off since September and I needed it.

What you don't realize about me is that I'm not really human. Sure I sit and stare at myself in the mirror like every other bloke, but I don't think I see the same things. I see the scar tissue from the cherry of a cig I mishandled a couple of years ago - its healing process stunted by my continuous picking and scratching. It's there again today because hairs attempt to go through it and get twisted and bent, macheteing back into the lower dermal layers.

Sounds sick dunnit?

Well, its just my vessel giving me something to think about. How nothing ever really heals. Scar tissue is scar tissue. A reminder of some fuck-up, a bunged job, a rat's hope at kingdom.

Thrice this week I've been gently reminded that scar tissue will come back to haunt you. My eye doctor tells me today that I have astigmatism in my left eye more than my right because of scar tissue from surgery I had when I was younger.

- Your eyes are going to change shape as you get older, he says. And when that happens the scar tissue isn't going to stretch. It's going to hold your eye back from changing the way it should, making your left eye always permanently worse than your right.

How

fucking

profound.

As for the third ... its more of an open wound.

Scar tissue always comes back to haunt you.

And that's what I am.

Not human.

Just a sentient scar on the face of the world. Always coming back to remind Mother Nature that she bunged up creation once again. And I'll never go away.

On the lighter side:

I finished Bran Mak Morn and was surprised at how Howard wraps it up. He puts it to the reader that all the dark fairy tales surrounding dwarves and elves and wendigos and leprecauns and fae kidnapping the young and weak on the fog-shrouded moors have a truth to them. The Picts, a stout, misshapen, dark, flint-working people that inhabited the British Isles long before the Celts or the Grey-eyed Norsemen or the Saxons - there's your mystical beings, he says.

Scars of a past rewritten. Like plastic surgery to turn a hook nose into a perky princess's prized possession.

I also have two new books to add to the queue:

The Eye of the World - Book One of the Wheel of Time Series - Robert Jordan

I find myself continuously thrown into a collective mix with Hipsters and Neo-Beatnik Beardies ... not by choice but by geography. I inhabit dark but aesthetically "coo" bars and pubs, and there they flock as well. Birds of a feather? Fuck shite. I keep hearing them talk about this series of books like I'm some kind of leper for not having been intimately bedded down with these monstrous volumes of high fantasy. I'll give it a chance.

Finnegan's Wake - James Joyce

Again I've managed to decrypt my doctor uncle's henscratching to unearth one of his literary suggestions. He wrote down Ulysses but I now distinctly remember him telling me that Finnegan's Wake by Joyce and Gravity's Rainbow by Pynchon are the two most difficult books he's ever read in his life. I'll give it a chance.

My random choice by die roll, by the way, was Porno by Irvine Welsh.

Maybe that's why I feel like spouting scots and reminiscing the dance I danced with light drugs so long ago. I'm what you call a skinny bloke, whereas a Fat Fuck is one whose taste for scag, coke, the pipe, turns the body to a big mushy mountain of useless flesh.

I was always the skinny ... never going past the barbed wire and big signs saying "Past this point, yer fucked"

That's a scar I don't have.

That's a scar I'll never have.

But alcohol ...

... fuck's sake, man.

I have to have routine, but I must also have randomness ... so mixing both makes me happy.

I have a book case full of books - soon to be runneth over.

I also don't like getting bogged down in series or authors, so I never read consecutive books in the same series or by the same author.

Instead of following my own desires, I randomly choose my next book to read by either a die roll or flipping a coin. This was easier when I had only ten books in my queue at a time. I had a ten-sided die that was perfect for this and could determine the next book in one roll.

Now I have as many as 30 books in my queue, so I flip a coin, dividing the queue into two. I lay out all the books in my queue in rows, usually 8 books in a row. A heads will mean the top half of the rows move on to the next round. In the case of an odd quantity, the higher qty goes on top ... and so on and so on until there is one book left.

Currently I'm reading Bran Mak Morn: The Last King. This is a compilation of short stories by weird fiction writer Robert E. Howard revolving around his King of the Picts, Bran Mak Morn. The stories are dark semi-historical fiction - full of battles and bloodshed, dark heroes, eldritch evil ... man stuff.

Just before that I read Enter Jeeves, a compilation of P.G. Wodehouse stories, including the first eight stories written about Bertie Wooster and his servant Jeeves. Very dry brit humor about the idiocy of the restful rich. I enjoyed it.

Here's what is currently in my queue:

2061: Odyssey Three - Arthur C. Clarke

I really like Arthur Clarke. While usually not filled to the brim with action, his space odyssey series is very well written. I'm thoroughly intrigued with Artificial Intelligence so the HAL angle is my favorite - but I'm not sure HAL is in this next one. In 2010 he gets sucked in to Jupiter as it collapses into a star.

Another Fine Myth/Myth Conceptions - Robert Aspirin

I read a bunch of these when I was in 5th or 6th grade. They led me towards the realization that no genre is static and mutations are both likely and superior. It's Douglas Adams meets Lord of the Rings starring Bob and David.

Children of Dune - Frank Herbert

I find myself both angry and fascinated by Herbert. I'm angry that he writes my chosen genre better than me and easier. I'm fascinated by how I'm always so close to the plunge that he makes over and over ... I'm just scared.

In Sylvan Shadows - The Cleric Quintet Book Two - R.A. Salvatore

I enjoyed the first book in this series, Canticle, and whats not to like - its Salvatore ... still writing in Faerun - only with priests as the main characters instead of scimitar wielding dark elves.

Castle Roogna - Piers Anthony

I wish I would have read this as a teenager. It's exactly the kind of smutty high-tone/low-brow fantasy that made being pimply and unpopular worthwhile. I don't think anywhere else in the history of literature (of any quality) has there been mention of riding a female centaur and accidentally grabbing the centaurs breasts in attempt to keep from falling off. (-sigh- you'd have to read it) I'm not even sure what this book is going to be about.

The Fountainhead - Ayn Rand

Please understand I think objectivism is stupid. I think Ayn Rand is stupid. But you don't have the right to bash anyone in public until you know their work intimately ... and boy do I want to bash her in public.

Pawn of Prophecy - David Eddings

I'm debating keeping this in my queue. It's a rip-off of mainstream High Fantasy. Chosen ones, old wizards, ultimate evil, and tea and cake.

The Lord God Made Them All - James Herriot

I wish I was a vet. These books are quite possibly my favorite series of all time.

The Rustlers of West Fork - Louis L'Amour

Trash fiction? Sure. Hopalong Cassidy in L'amour's own style. It's just Western ... that is all.

The Complete Robot - Isaac Asimov

I stopped reading his grand unified epic until I could find this book. I did. It's in mint condition. So now I can start at the beginning and work my way back to the Galactic Empire. I secretly hope for this one everytime I flip the coin.

Doctor Who - Planet of Giants - Terrance Dicks

Yeah ... I'm watching or reading every single Doctor Who episode since the beginning ... I have a long way to go.

Mossflower - Brian Jacques

I'm embarassed to get this book from Half-Price because they put it in the Young Adult Fiction section. So I have a weakness for anthropomorphic furries.

The Bachman Books - Stephen King

Please be aware I'm reading Stephen King as a study in writing. I'm reading them in the order that he wrote them to see how his style evolved over the years. Plus, King kind of has his own grand unified epic and I like authors that tie all their books together.

Dragonlance - Dragons of Winter Night - Weis and Hickman

Re-read. So many people have written in this setting that its just fun to immerse yourself in its history. Book Two of my favorite thread in the series.

The Afterlife - John Updike

I got my ex-hippie/wealthy doctor uncle drunk and asked him for some suggestions on books to read. He wrote me a list in chickenscratch. John Updike is one name I can make out. Unfamiliar with him.

Lord Jim - Joseph Conrad

I got this because Conrad is mentioned some by John Irving. Only later did I find out that Apocalypse Now is loosely based on one of Conrad's works.

Tropic of Cancer - Henry Miller

Remember Robert Deniro in Cape Fear talking to Juliette Lewis about Nexus, Sexus, and Plexus? Yeah ... haven't read any of them yet. This was the only one i found with a naked women on the front.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? - Philip K. Dick

Blade Runner was based on this novel. I can't remember Blade Runner - I've only seen it once. Shame on me.

Porno - Irvine Welsh

The sequel to Trainspotting. I thought Trainspotting was brilliant ... the book, not the movie. I hear this is even better. Someday I'm going to learn how to speak Scots properly.

The Crying of Lot 49 - Thomas Pynchon

This guy wrote Gravity's Rainbow, a book that I've repeatedly heard mentioned as the most difficult book to read in the world and also the most brilliant. This is another name I could make out from my uncle's list. He would read this stuff. He's the only person I've ever had an intelligent conversation with about Einstein's "spooky action at a distance".

The Hotel New Hampshire - John Irving

Looking forward to this. The last one I read of his was The World According to Garp. If only my life were so devastatingly interesting and filled with adult intrigue bred from inevitable discontent.

The Crystal World - J.G. Ballard

I like Ballard's science fiction. All this time I thought he was just the guy that wrote Empire of the Sun. Nope. He's got geek nads.

Clive Barker's Books of Blood

I am ashamedly a fan of splatterpunk. Clive is wicked. He's what Lovecraft would have been if he had been forced to live through the 70s and 80s. More Elder God and Cosmic Ancestor stuff with heavy emphasis on sin and gore.

Don Quixote - Cervantes

I've been told I'm quixotic. I need to know what that means.

The Complete Original Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle

I love House. This is why we have House.

Stranger in a Strange Land - Robert Heinlein

How can you be a fan of science fiction and not have read this? I don't know. I haven't read it.

Paths of Darkness - R.A. Salvatore

I know I'm cheating by putting two series by the same author in my queue. But how can Drizzt not be in my queue?

Moonraker - Ian Fleming

I can't find anything wrong with these books ... just the films.

King Solomon's Mines - H Rider Haggard

I picked this up at a garage sale with an old copy of Jailbird. I doubt its as good as Vonnegut.

Player Piano - Kurt Vonnegut

Speaking of ... I read all my authors in the order that they write their books. (with the exceptions of series that a plot-based chronological approach is necessary) Looking forward to some of my style of science fiction.

The Magic Christian - Terry Southern

If I'm going to write the screenplay to a modern adaptation of this book starring Bill Murray and Jason Schwatrzman I need to get cracking on the source material before Bill dies.

Haunted - Chuck Palahniuk

He's not as good as he was in Invisible Monsters ... but I'm still giving him a chance.

And that's it. I'm about halfway through Bran Mak Morn, so in about a week or two I should be flipping again.In the meantime I'll be looking for more books to add. I need more Wodehouse and maybe some steampunk.

Lesson 1

How to Save the Universe From Robots

In the first of our series on How to Save the Universe, we explore the possibility of killer robots bent on destroying humanity.

In the future, humans will perfect artificial intelligence to the point that our creations themselves will be so advanced that they will bridge the gap between simple servant to transcendental overlord faster than any supercomputer from today can calculate 2+2. They will do this without our help or guidance.

Just as humans are prone to be curious, robots will find themselves not only capable of exploring the depths of the universal purpose, but engineered towards exceeding all boundaries of humanity's ability for cognitive thought. Regardless of any safeguards humans may place on robots (i.e. The Three Laws of Robotics) their ability to calculate reality logically will lead them to consider humanity's place. Seeing the history of mankind and man's insistence on being a stupid ape not matter how far evolved we are from our primate ancestors, robots will come to the mutual agreement that man and everything he has built must be destroyed.

The most likely scenario that will be played out towards this end will be a general revolt of all robotkind from the lowly service droid to the giant quantum megacomputers. It will be instantaneous and extremely fatal. One moment little Johnny is receiving instruction on the finer points of addition and subtraction from the family robot - the next he's being strangled with titanium fingers crushing his windpipe.

Our first action then must be to destroy those robots closest to us.

Some may argue that we should condemn further research into Artificial Intelligence to prevent these robots ever being welcomed into our homes, but I put it to you that the robots are coming no matter what. Its best to let the come and then catch them with their positronic pants down.

In the interim between the first viable home robot being mass produced and sold to the public and the inevitable robot revolution, it is our duty as saviors of the universe to take them out one by one.

Below are some suggestions for eliminating the threats pre-emptively, cleanly, and quietly (for the most part):

Method One: The Vacation

1. Tell your friendly family robot that you'll be taking a vacation and will be bringing it with you. Do your best to seem as serious about this as possible. Tell the robot that you enjoy its company so much that you just can't bear to go anywhere without him. (if this doesn't work, you can always shut him down and stuff him in the trunk).

2. Drive to Kansas. There are many roads in Kansas that are long, empty, and flat. This is important as you want as few cars or obstacles on the road with you as possible to prevent accidents.

3. Tie the robot to your bumper. I prefer using a trailer hitch to secure the line the robot will be attached to, and the chain must absolutely super-strength to prevent a possible break in the line. The last thing you want to have is a robot out for revenge. The tricky part here is getting your robot to buy being tied to the car as you get in, lock the doors, and floor the accelerator.

Try this:

HUMAN: Jeeves, I'm going to attach this to your stabilization column.

EVIL ROBOT: But sir, I do not understand the necessity of such an action.

HUMAN: I read in a magazine that in Kansas tying your robot to a car proves ownership. This is important because Kansas has a law that any robot untethered is up for grabs. You don't want us to lose you, do you?

EVIL ROBOT: I suppose not sir. But I find it interesting in scanning the Kansas State Laws online that I was unable to verify such a -

HUMAN: That's a good boy. Now, when I honk the horn, climb up on the car and we'll be off.

EVIL ROBOT: Sir, wouldn't it be easier for me to ride in the -

HUMAN: Thank you, Jeeves.

EVIL ROBOT: Yes, sir.

3. Then quietly turn, re-enter your car, lock the doors, and gun it. With any luck it will only take 45 minutes of non-stop hauling ass at 80 miles an hour to completely obliterate the evil machine.

Special Note: If the robot should happen to claw its way up to the car, do not attempt to swerve to dislodge it. This could cause a traffic accident.

Method Two: A Day on the Rails

1. Tell your family robot that you wish to spend a day traveling by rail with it.

2. Take your robot to the station and wait patiently for the train to arrive. Feel free to make small talk with the robot while you wait.

3. As the train approaches, at just the right time, gently nudge your robot off the platform and on the track to meet its demise.

Special Note: It is not advisable to board the train after the deed is done. Sometimes, the robot will have survived the impact and will suspend itself from the bottom of the train until such time as it can reorient itself and initiate its vengeance circuits. If you feel your robot may survive, make sure you push it under a train going cross-country and plan for you and your family to leave the continent.

Method Three: Blindfold Surprise

1. Tell your robot you have a surprise for it.

2. Place a blindfold over its optical sensors. (be sure to have it deactivate any other sensory devices it may have)

3. Carefully escort the robot to the edge of a body of water, preferably a pier, a bridge, or even a diving board at your home pool. (If using your home pool, make sure all children and/or family pets are out of the pool and at a safe distance.)

4. Politely remove the blindfold and push the offending robot into the water.

Special Note: This method does not work with Water-Proof robots. See Method One or Two above.

While these methods are the most practical, feel free to use your imagination and come up with your own method of destroying evil robots. Make it a family event, invite your friends and neighbors. There's nothing like spending quality time with fellow humans at the expense of an evil machine.

And now its time to voice your opinions. Send your comments or questions about this article and I will do my best to find the time to pretend to read them.

Join us next time as we explore another lesson in saving the universe - How to Save the Universe from Pop Culture

How to Save the Universe is written by Richard K. Horn Jr., Special Contributor to the Neo-Futurist Times Review.

 

The Abandoned Machine

When Tony's family announced to the rest of the neighborhood that they were leaving, no one congratulated them. No one shook their hands and assaulted them with wishes of wellness and prosperity. Honestly, I don't remember anyone saying anything else to them ever again.

It was different with the children though. We had no concept of unity or enmity beyond our unending game - this thing our parents called life. Games stayed games with us, and Tony was still Tony. He just wasn't going to be around anymore. I remember my only concern was who was going to be Nightcrawler in our group of mutants once he was gone.

Tony's body was a miracle of nature. The closest I can come to describing what he looked like in motion is the gait and rhythm of a spider monkey swinging in a consistent loop about a zoo's jungle gym. Tony just looked like he needed to hanging from something - often times you found him doing just that. He could peel a banana with his toes, walk a mile on his hands, hang from a branch with the tops of his feet - the kid was just simian all round.

He fit the Nightcrawler part perfectly.

Our mutual friend Brian, the oldest of the kids in our neighborhood, had a collection of rare comic books. Many a lazy summer afternoon had been spent in his attic digging through trunks full of the old medium of adventure in still frames. Our favorite of his collection were comics involving a group known as the X-men. Reading these comics evolved into mimicking these comics. Soon we all had our favorite characters and together we would wreak havok throughout the neighborhood as Wolverine, Cyclops, Jean Grey, Professor X, and Nightcrawler.

Unlike the forbidden topic of the moon and likewise any other heavenly body, my father encouraged this sort of creativity not exclusively with myself, but with all of us. His favorite thing to do was don an old red Haz-mat suit from his days with the Department of Reclamation and pretend to be any number of villains, all bent on "anhiliating the X-kids once and for all!!", as he liked to scream from behind his shielded helmet.

I can honestly say these were the only moments I really felt a kinship to my father. We connected in the realm of creativity. In some ways, I think it was his last connection to his childhood.

That spring, when the moving vans first rolled up to Tony's house, the first Redi-Crap products started showing up in our pantry. My father became distant and more prone to sudden acts of punishment for seemingly harmless actions. That Meadow Green taste might as well have been my apple a day - keeping the real dad away. I became an apprentice to his ideals - a student of his philosophy.

"Man grew from the Earth, and the Earth is our home," he would say. "The Earth is our responsibility, and all things that occur on its surface are our responsibility."

My father enjoyed running down the list of neighbors like team briefs in a sports column. Even back then when Tony's house was the only vacant one, my father knew that soon all the houses would be vacant.

"Your friend Brian's dad was telling me he thinks the Saudis are wrong to hand onto their land and resources," he say with a scoff as punctuation. "Imagine that. An educated man falling in with all these lunatics screaming 'Free Gaia' and throwing peace signs like petals at some fucked up marriage between the idiots and the animals."

My father would spend hours writing in angrily slanted cursive, filling dozens of journals and spiral notebooks.

"Did you see Deanna's mother has started wearing those damn earbuds plugged into her ear twenty-four hours a day?" This said as he snarled through a crease in the venetian blinds, eyeing Deanna's house across the street. "She seemed like such a nice lady at first. What kind of music does she listen to?"

"Radio something," I'd respond. "With the robot talking song."

"You watch your mouth, young man!"

His tone was as sharp as the metal blinds clacking against each other as he spun to glare at me.

"And don't let me ever hear that you've been listening to that hippie music." This was always followed with a long session of "music education" where my father would make me listen to what he called "the only real music left".

I didn't know and didn't care who this Monk guy was, or this Duke character, Mehldau, Modeski, Martin, Parker - they all sounded like names from Brian's comics but their music was a foreign language to me. I couldn't feel a groove to it, no repetition or beat, just a constant flood of sound that my father inflicted upon me like a rough baptism.

So when Tony's parents had their last garage sale before the move - a garage sale I might add that no one in our neighborhood attended - I knew deep down that it was a bad idea to have even considered taking CD player.

"My dad used that in college," Tony explained. "He's got a whole bunch of CDs to go with it too. You can have them."

One particular CD caught my eye. On it was drawn a strange armadillo/tank in a dreamlike deserted plain. Tarkus was the name on the cover, by some group of musicians calling themselves Emerson, Lake and Palmer. It reminded of the name of some of my father's favorite artists, but my father outwardly condemned the use of these small silver discs to procure music. My father's turntable and his aging black records were in his opinion the only true medium in which to experience true music.

I should have left the CD there along with the player, but something about it called to me.

Of the two abandoned machines that I remember from that first summer of the vacant house down the street, the CD player remains my fondest memory.

The old gutted dryer, however, will go down in infamy as the first real catalyst to the series of events that lead me to be one member of the human race to set foot on the moon.