TOO MANY SPIES, The Raw First Draft

 

The intention for publishing this early draft of "Too Many Spies" is to give you an inside look at what will become the final cut. 

Sure, but the real reason?

I want to give you this offer: the chance to preorder your official limited collector's edition.

X97-1-2-3-4-5-6 ADDENDUM TO “LOONIE SPEAKS”

“TOO MANY SPIES”

Or

“SO MANY JOLLY SPIES”

Or

“TOO MANY JOLLY SPIES”

By Robert Farmilo

November 15, 2002

This one is for ____.

I remember you.

NEW YORK CITY, SEPTEMBER 20, 2003

***

Chapter 1

DO YOU BELIEVE IN MAGIC?

Last week I saw a magician walk down the street.

He turned into a supermarket.

A man was bent over a small fire that he’d made to burn documents. The documents burned inside a large, metal, waste-paper can. The documents being burned were of a paper made thick and strong, fit to last a long, long time. In fact, they were almost impossible to burn unless you knew the trick. The man burning the papers knew the trick. He knew many tricks and used many names and he was the servant of his master.

He knew that spies from three different nations were closing in on him. They wanted the documents. They wanted him, too: If they could catch him...and keep him. He knew they knew that catching him and keeping him was basically impossible, but they were going to try.

The man burning the papers wasn’t at all concerned about the spies. It was the others, the strangers...he had to be careful when dealing with the strangers. He could feel the strangers nearby, and coming to get him, bent on stopping this trifling little magic trick of enslaving a planet.

The fire lit up his face, and what you could see of it was barely distinguishable from any ordinary fellow you might pass on the high street. Somewhat round face, somewhat square, somewhat long and somewhat light, and then again, a bit dark, what with his dark hair, and the way the hat he wore cast a shadow over his face. Except now that the fire was burning at it’s brightest, his face had parts caught as red and pink, his eye sockets flickering from dark to light; the skin of his face seemed to be in motion as the burning papers clawed and writhed, turning into flakes of ash that floated up with the flames and smoke.

The room he was in had one door and one window. He had duct-taped the joints of both window and door frames. Both were closed. The bare floor and scant furniture had nothing to do with him. It was the last place anyone would look for him. So for a moment he was safe. The pages burned, smoke filled the room. Soon he would be ready to leave. The moment of being temporarily safe was coming to an end. He could feel it. If he wasn’t careful, the strangers would come and get him. Well, maybe he could deal with them...if he was lucky. But the man did not feel lucky with the strangers. Spies he could deal with. The strangers were different and definitely not human.

The papers burning in the metal can saved someone else, not him; he was already being hunted for what he knew. He thought, “I am a very popular fellow. So many ardent new friends. So many avidly curious investigators. So many jolly spies!”

And this was true. About the many spies. Not about the jolly part. But the man was teasing himself with a word like ‘jolly’. He knew it laughed at them. “They are but buffoons who think they are oh-so clever. Yes. What wouldn’t they give to have these papers, eh?” The man spoke out loud, “Oh, but they’d never believe it all. Not one word past the mention of a non-human. Though now that I mention it, they might believe in a non-human after all the fun we’ve been having. And the cube? Oh, they’d smile at the cube. Oh yes! The cube would be laughed at.”

He paused for a moment and then said to himself, “Ah, but after all that has happened, perhaps some of 'em would believe about the cube.”

The man was shaking his head and laughing, but quietly. The smoke from the burning papers had gathered under the ceiling and crept throughout the room. He fed the last pile of papers into the can. The smile on his face was a mixture of malice and sweet regret. His thought, “I wish I could let the whole world know...now wouldn’t that be something?”

***

The spies hunting this servant of a master were divided into three separate groups of spies. This was because the spies of three different nations were chasing the man in the room that was burning papers: each group ignorant of the others and their hunt for the man burning the papers. Within a few minutes, this was going to change, and they would all know that they’d been played. Like a shaggy snake story, the tale of intrigue had wrapped its way round the minds and throats of the elite secret agents. The top men of each secret service had sanctioned a full operation to hunt down the man burning papers.

Of course, these top men of these three separate secret services had to report to someone. I am sure they would have kept it a secret from their leaders if they could have. As you will come to see, the leaders had already been approached, as it were, and collaboration was required. So the spy-masters did report, individually, and in the utmost secrecy, and directly to the leader of their respective nations. The leaders of each of the three nations had not blinked when they first heard the news: Already been tampered with. Already been seen by the master magician, and shown a few tricks in private.

But that was one long, weary year ago, and now it was all different.

One year ago, top secret scientists and generals learned of the existence of small objects that could do amazing things. One of the top secret men had giggled like a child when he first read the reports. Such impossibilities!

The rest of the top secret scientists knew to keep their mouths shut. And wait. And see. For themselves.

The source of the information only heightened the bizarro-buzz set off at the mention of what the objects were purported to be able to do.

Of course this was before the downing of the

World Trade Center.

When that happened, they had to keep very quiet about what they had been told, and so did the heads of the three secret services. No one could ever know that they knew about what was going to happen, and did nothing to stop it from happening. It would hurt the credibility of the three different secret services.

No fear of that ever happening.

The truth was so whacked the world would need proof. And the proof was going up in smoke. The letters of everything, all the last parts of the book of instruction, were being burned, and with it all the hope of a human every being able to control ultimate power, the power of imagination being made into reality.

The few who knew of the papers real powers were all seriously freaking out at the idea of not getting their hands on these papers.

The spy masters of three nations knew the truth.

Naturally, these three secret services spied on each other, on themselves, and as many other nations as possible. Spies spy, after all.

So, now, the forces of three separate nation’s secret service agents were converging on the man burning the papers. All these agents had been fed some made-up plausible fiction about why this one man was so valuable, and especially alive. Whatever other bullshit was being pandered, they all wanted this one man alive. He’d broken too many hearts.

***

Broken hearts had nothing to do with why the man was burning the papers. Too much incriminating evidence, and of the kind that would reveal far too much of this man’s master. Even that he existed.

The rest of why he was sought had to do with fantastic details of the book of instruction and a secret to magical powers, a new force, the big leap forward, and a potential weapon of ultimate power: The formulae and procedure to make Medula-X.

For humans, Medula-X was the necessary one product they required to be able to perform Real Magic. Without any incantations from some Book of Instruction or little magical wooden carvings.

Real Magic just by thinking whatever you want or don't want. Whatever. The sky wasn't the limit. All from taking a sip of the potion.

Medula-X.

NOTE: This Medula-X part may not survive as is. 

The man burning the last of his papers was lying down on the floor. The smoke was thick. The duct tape sealing the window and door kept the smoke inside the room. A nice neat job. He stuffed the very last pieces of paper into the can. They furled into black flakes, eaten by gleaming embers, and turned into smoke and ashes.

The man was grinning. He was very happy. He was thinking, “I only have to wait for them. There have been enough hints, surely?” He knew this to be so. But he was a man counting his treasure, and far from finding it insufficient. In the thick smoke, he sighed in contentment.

He could hear the secret agents closing in.

***

Bertle McPhee was an occasionally placid oaf and very good at his job. He was the sort who knew a good thing and stuck to his own sliding scale of 'Benefit Versus Inconvenience'. Any decision he made went through this simple filter.

Bertle was considering a decision.

He was looking at a man he was sure worked for the British secret service. It was all wrong. This quiet British agent dressed up as a bike courier. Bertle picked up a pair of binoculars and took a good look at the fellow’s face.

A track of movement pulled his attention to another man who he knew from previous briefings. Bertle hissed, “Anatolva...holy screams from the dead, dead past. Anatolva, in the living flesh, I thought he was dead...Ned, Ned, listen, I’m telling you, I’m looking right at good old Anatovla...and guess who HE'S scoping?”

A voice hissed in his earpiece, a thick, rich and precise voice. “Damion Winn-Withers? And look, at the cigar store, isn’t that Chatty Cathy? Trying to be a ho?”

Bertle wanted to chuckle, but he was too impressed at seeing Anatolva. The voice in his ear said, “I don’t think they KNOW we’re here...but, they certainly must suspect WE might be around....”

Bertle grimaced. But only for a moment. The decision for what action must be done went through his simple filter. He knew what they had to do. “Ned, we’ve got to remove the competition, now. You hear me? Just knock ‘em out, strictly a stun, subdue and remove, okay? And like right now, Ned? You on it?”

The voice in his ear hissed, “Yes, done, keep your eye on the birdies....”

“Oh!” went Bertle. It was the sound of empathy. Anatolva had taken one very special dart right in the leg. The dart was a specially constructed syringe with a high-powered gas injected stun drug.

Very potent.

Anatolva grasped at the little dart, pulled it from his thigh, threw it away, trying to get at something, perhaps a gun? Bertle and Ned would never know. Anatolva wheeled around, and tried to stay on his feet but the stun drug wouldn’t let him. He was staggering like a drunken fool. He fell down and then began crawling. He made it to the curb and went to sleep.

The British agents had been hit with darts. They too were down. Chatty Cathy was slumped against the side of the cigar store. She was drooling and weakly waving her arms as if this would help her to get up so she could run away. Damion Winn-Withers had fallen with a pathetic single purpose of resistance to the stun drug. But it was no use. He was unconscious.

The voice in Bertle’s ear hissed, “That ought to flush out the rest of ‘em...”

“Just get Anatolva, Ned. Get him before his team tries anything...and get him parked at The Point. I don’t care about the Brits. They can go to Sparks, okay? Let him keep them for us.”

Ned’s voice hissed, “Sure, Bertle. See, we’re getting ‘em all now. Just might make it before....”

Bertle cut in quickly, “Ned, that’s good. Now...bring in the back-up and close this whole thing down, area seizure, I want it done, now. You hear me, Ned?”

“…Making it so, Boss.”

Ned’s hiss was absent for a few moments. Bertle watched the removal of the downed secret agents. Three separate ambulances and six police cars had arrived. But this was a small part of a much larger operation. Bertle was not celebrating, yet. Even so, he had the feeling that maybe he might just get their first. He looked at the door of the building he would go in to get their first. The door led inside a runty, old fart of an office building, nine stories high, and once a fine building. He could see that. Now it was a junk pile, and barely able to keep the appearance up past being a derelict. It was a building full of lost dreams. Half the offices were empty.

Bertle looked at the building blue prints. He had them up on his computer screen.

“Ned, what’s going on?”

“All secure, Bertle. It’s all happening...should be ready to go in any second....”

***

Dmitri Rasplivitch shook his head. The Americans had taken Anatolva out. This was not good news. But there was nothing he could do about Anatolva. Dmitri sighed, and tapped his head gently. He wanted a drink of alcohol. He wanted to smoke a cigarette. He wanted to be far away from this madness. Covert action in the United States, and with deadly force acceptable, IF the prize was captured BEFORE the British and the Americans and anyone else. If they did not get the prize and had resorted to deadly force, well, of course, if they got away, and could get out of the country, well maybe they’d only be killed for failing to get the prize.

A voice hissed in his earphone. It was the voice of his second in command, Yuko Prenyenko.

“Comrade General, there is no hope now. The Americans have secured the area. Really, Sir, I have lost contact with both Zeen and Boris, and I cannot contact any member of their teams. I can see the Americans, everywhere. I think we may have surprised them, but it was the British who gave it all away. Imagine using Winn-Withers? Too obvious.”

Dmitri Rasplivitch did not mind being called Comrade General. Not by the useful and resourceful ox, Yuko. Speculation about who ruined the surprise could be savored another day. Dmitri and Yuko were survivors of many stupid, botched and belabored operations. As a result they were both connoisseurs of disaster.

“Yuko, I want you to get all your people out of there as fast as you can. I mean, you run for your lives. Clear out, and get right out of the country. We have no choice, Yuko. It is that serious. You will have to see this. The Americans must not get this man. I can’t take the chance. I am ordering you to detonate the bomb, Yuko.”

Both men knew the bomb would destroy a four block area round the building. The building would be annihilated. In fact, the bomb was a small atomic device, designed for tactical deployment within an urban environment. This bomb was sitting inside a steamer trunk, and the steamer trunk was sitting in the basement of the building where the man was burning papers. The bomb would flatten a four block radius, and another four blocks round that would be severely abused. During the middle of the day, the human collateral damage would be 100% within the first four block radius, and about 90% in the next four block radius. Though when Dmitri thought about it, the area of complete destruction might be greater. Certainly, it was an extreme measure, but this was no time to let history count Dmitri Rasplivitch in the ranks of the faint of heart.

Because of their careful planning the blame would conveniently fall on an ill-favoured enemy of the Americans. Russia would not be blamed. The evidence would point at Iraq.

Yuko swore under his breath. Dmitri demanded,“Well? Why do you hesitate?”

He heard the hissing voice of Yuko.

“The command function is not recognizing the code, Comrade General. All I am getting is an illegal operation warning....”

Dmitri wanted to yell but he controlled his voice and said with surprising calm, “What? You know I don’t understand these computers.”

“The detonation program has been changed, and I think a new code has been installed. This is impossible. But it is what has happened. I have sent Tanya to try and manually detonate the bomb. She is very brave, I think, but we will see, Comrade General. It is not so easy. The Americans have many police and soldiers there.”

Dmitri could see an image of the big oaf American, Bertle McPhee. He knew that Bertle would be cautiously triumphant. Years of being a sell-out to the whore of power and corruption, this was Bertle McPhee to Dmitri: The American path of least resistance, right to the tip of the top of the pile of the American skulls and cross bones, a big pile of bones, all the many victims of America’s pursuit of Life, Liberty and Happiness.

If you would have mentioned Afghanistan or Chechnya or Poland or Joe Stalin, Dmitri would only grunt. For it was always going to be different. The Americans were two-faced tyrants who wanted to run the world. Russia was a one-faced tyrant that wanted to survive, if possible.

The Comrade General was raised in a state orphanage, far from the shores of America. His parents had died in the Great Patriotic War. He remembered Stalin. There was a weight of Russian history in this man’s very bones. As far as this man was concerned, American’s knew nothing about national disaster. No war had touched this smug country.

He did not consider their small, little Civil War to be a real war. Or their so-called Revolution of 1786. And don't even bother mentioning their little fight with Britain that started in 1812. He always gloated over the fact that in 1814, the Great Americans had their White House and Capitol buildings burnt to the ground by the British.

Dmitri considered that bitter winters of great death and mutual starvation had never visited America. They knew nothing of war in their own cities...bombs falling from planes...blowing up all those nice suburban homes.

This man was quite prepared to order the complete annihilation of the city, IF it would prevent the Americans or anyone else from getting the prize.

About the man burning the papers, Dmitri was convinced the truth WAS the truth. The thought of what this would mean for his country, for his people and for himself boggled his crafty mind. He had seen a demonstration. Irrefutable evidence of the impossible.

Not even Yuko knew the complete truth.

Not for the first time Dmitri said to himself, “Yes, but McPhee knows, and so must Sir Darcy. And that means that Bush and Blare know at least part....”

The President of Russia, Vladmir Putin, was only partially aware of the prize. A series of small demonstrations had been arranged; given by the master of the man who had only just finished burning the papers in the room in the building that was now surrounded by American security forces. This damn, little man!

The demonstrations were the exciting beginning of the great romance. Mr. Putin had been impressed. There was the shock value, of course. The impossible being possible took some adjustment. But Mr. Putin was a realist and not given to more than a brief shudder. Whatever it involved, this would make the nation that had it first...the new world power. Mr. Putin was not stupid. He could see that the man who controlled this new reality would control the world.

Dmitri knew that Putin knew only a part of the potential.

Yuko’s voice hissed in his earpiece.

“Comrade General, Tanya is activating the device.”

There was a pause.

“Yes?” asked Dmitri.

“She cannot activate the device. It is frozen. The fuse will not work.”

Dmitri kept quiet. He knew it was the magician, playing with reality.

Yuko said, “She will attempt to fix the problem.”

“No, don’t bother. She must leave, if she can, and escape. It is no use, Yuko. How can we fight a magician? No. He is doing all this. I think, right from the first. I have been a fool, Yuko. I hope you can get out of the city. The President has ordered a strike, IF we cannot guarantee success.”

Yuko swore and then said, rapidly, “He is insane! Over a magic carpet and a few tricks?”

Dmitri did not enlighten his subordinate. Instead, he said, tragically, “I am telling you, get out of town. You have a few minutes.”

“I am driving as fast as I can, but it is insane! He will start World War Three! Insane! The Americans will destroy us! How can you let this happen?”

Dmitri laughed and told Yuko pleasantly, “You think this is my plan? I tell you, I wouldn’t worry too much. I don’t think it will happen. The magician won’t let it.”

Yuko swore heartily and said, “He is completely insane! Bombing New York City! After what happened? Nine-Eleven?”

The sound of Yuko’s transmission was now beginning to break up and then come back clearly. It was annoying Dmitri.

***

Chapter 2

RULE BRITTANIA

History will be kind to me for I intend to write it.”

- - - Winston Churchill - - -

At about the same time, top UK spy, Sir Darcy Entwhistle felt sad and blue. Two of his best agents were in the hands of the Americans. Sir Darcy faced a true and epic failure. Britain had lost again. Those damn Americans were going to once again be the best on God’s Earth.

He actually felt like crying.

Tony Blair was in the next room. He was seriously trying to convince his military to bomb New York City. Sir Darcy could hear the words ‘nuclear war’. He could only imagine the faces’ of the men listening to Prime Minister Tony Blair demand the bombing of New York City, and by a full-out attack using hydrogen bombs.

Sir Darcy knew that Mr. Blair was going to be having a nice, long holiday by the seaside. He could make sand castles for awhile. Who would listen to a man ordering the bombing of New York City? It was all the doing of that horrible, beastly magician. Sir Darcy winced at his own stupidity. He had been oh so clever with the magician. Yes, he was going to steer the man and by crafty sucking up, snatch the prize.

Oh, those first few glorious weeks of having the upper hand! The illusion of triumph! Such power, and all for the good of his country, poor, sad Britain. Once so great. And the whisper in his mind about what could be done. Oh, he would take the modest role, and stay behind a figure head like Mr. Tony Blair. That was best. Only Sir Darcy ever need know the complete truth of how Britain would become ruler of the entire Earth. At last, a decent world. At last, a decent Britain.

The magician had first appeared in Sir Darcy’s orbit some two weeks after the tragedy of nine-eleven. Sir Darcy had been at his desk, reviewing a security file on Bin Laden. It had just gone nine o’clock. Big Ben was booming away. Yes, he’d looked away from the file, and out the window, yes, and then put down the file on the desk and was thinking about what he’d just read. Yes. Staring at the top of the desk, thinking.

That’s when it happened.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed some sort of visual distortion. He looked and saw little bits of something flowing in and out of thin air. This little cloud of stuff was centered over the top of the Bin Laden file.

Out of thin air, an envelope formed. It happened slowly. In the air over top of the Bin Laden file. An envelope of great quality. Embossed in gilt and black: “To Sir Darcy, From Mr. Prophet”, all in large, thick, copperplate. He reached out to touch the envelope. When his brain told him that it was solid, he quickly pulled his hand back.

He thought, “Perhaps I am going mad?”

He should have called for assistance. Require the envelope to be examined for all clues as to it’s origin. But then, this would involve other people, and Sir Darcy was rapidly deciding that he had actually seen the envelope appear out of thin air.

In the space of a moment, he'd decided that he could never explain where whatever it was had come from. He sat looking at the envelope. He buzzed his secretary. Immediately the voice of his senior assistant answered with a crisp and impersonal, “Yes Sir?”

“Look, see, I want you to just sit on all my calls. And I think I have a few things I'm supposed to do out of the office. Just make them all go away until another more convenient day. You know far better when that could possibly be. So have at it. Right. That's it. And thank you, once again, eh?”

“Yes Sir.”

And that was that.

***

Sir Darcy looked at the envelope for a long time before he touched it again. He was looking at the gold on the edges of the envelope. It looked like real gold to him.

He let a finger gently test the golden part of the flap of the envelope. His finger slowly touched the first bit of the golden edge of the flap. Then he knew it was surely made of gold. He'd have bet on it.

He picked up the envelope. Thick and heavy, very high quality paper, gilded in gold edges. Even so, he could tell there was a letter inside, or at least more paper.

He opened the envelope without hesitation.

A faint scent came to his nose. He sniffed. It was exquisite. He removed the paper from the envelope. The paper had writing on it. A strong thick black ink used in a bold continuation of copper plate.

The head of the British secret services read the following letter:

“Sir Darcy, great and steady greetings to you from the humble author of this modest advertisement. I know I have your undivided attention. Soon there will be further enticements to aid your interest. I have something funny to tell you. I am, your humble servant by virtue of being what you might call a magician. That is, I can perform REAL magic. However, I require a serious patron. This may seem quaint to you. It is none the less the fact of the matter. In order to maintain my full capabilities, I require the regular practice of my talents for an entire nation of peoples. If I am of any soil, it is what is now called Britain, and I have always been at the service of the people born of this soil. I am a rank nationalist. It cannot be any other way.

“To him that I favour comes great power. You will benefit from incontrovertible proof. A letter from thin air is not going to be enough, is it? So I will transport you to another part of the planet, very far from where you are now. Please consider this next bit quite seriously. You have a choice to make. When you read the last word of the next sentence you will be immediately trans-located to a very pleasant brothel near Cairo. You will still have this letter in your hand; however you will be naked, and there will be a prostitute in the room, and she will be in the process of performing a sexual act upon your person.”

The letter had continued. Sir Darcy did not get around to reading past, “...she will be in the process of performing a sexual act upon your person.”

Oh, he still had the letter in his hand.

But he was naked and in a strange room, and it was warm, and he could hear the sounds of another country, strange sounds, and the smell, immediate and real, and oh so different, suddenly, and more, there was a naked woman kneeling at his feet, and she was fellating Sir Darcy’s penis. He could certainly feel that.

The strength of the strain on his reason shocked Sir Darcy. It was a true blow. The woman had her arms around his legs, and she was intent on her task. He could not move away without a struggle, and his pleasure was intense and mounting. He thought he was dreaming or gone off into some bizarre mental storm that was without explanation. He’d wake up any moment, back in his bed, or slumped over his desk, glad it was only a strong, strong dream.

In this spirit, he gave into the carnal pleasure and the skill of the woman. It was turning out to be a very pleasant dream.

***

When Sir Darcy came to his natural conclusion, and the further residues of distraction had passed...he came to realize that he was not dreaming in the usual sense that he was used to. It was clear to him that this dream seemed to be real. This amused him and left him without doubt that he was either mad or still dreaming.

There were specific details to support this conclusion. He was not in his own body. This was some stranger’s body. A younger body. A larger and fitter body. And one with a much bigger penis than his own, average sized dick.

The woman had settled him down on a very nice bed. She went away and returned with a basin filled with warm water, washcloths and towels. She laid the towels beside Sir Darcy and made him get on top of the towels, settled him and made sure he was comfortable. Then she gently washed him. As she did this, she hummed a strange tune, at least to Sir Darcy’s ear.

He said, “I say, that’s from Gilbert and Sullivan.”

Sir Dary was taken by the soft and pure tone of the whore’s voice. Her eyes clicked onto the Head of the British Secret Services. Her smile was as gentle as her touch. She whispered, “I learned it at the convent. All we good girls learned to sing and dance and knit and sew and cook and clean. We even learned how to read and write. But I loved to sing and that was my downfall. As you well know.”

This last bit caught in Sir Darcy’s ears and stayed there.

A brief and nasty silence. She looked at him. It was a different sort of look.

She laughed at him and said, “You look as if you don’t even know who I am!”

Sir Darcy was thinking furiously. He had to read the rest of the letter.

He said, “You are definitely on the right track. You see, I don’t know who I am.”

She laughed, gently, and she was amused by him. She nodded, and her eyes flashed, and Sir Darcy was enchanted.

“Good,” she said, “We play a game.”
“Yes. But I am serious. For example, I don’t even know where I am. What street, what city, what country.”

He was noticing more and more details. The continuous noise coming from the open windows. The smell of absolute foreignness. And the shrill wailing from some nearby minaret.

The whore.

The room.

It was all preposterous and impossible.

The whore was observing him quite carefully. She pulled on a thin robe. She left it open. Sir Darcy thought her quite beautiful. There was nothing debauched about her. She struck him as being rather fun loving and innocent.

“This is Madame Vertzi Si Englisi house, and I am her protege. She never wanted me to be a singer. This is my room. My own private room. I have the only key. This is the key to my heart. My heart lives with me, where I go. When you leave here you will walk along the street outside. This street is called Wagon Road. It is near the river. This river is called the Nile.”

This made Sir Darcy shiver.

He asked, “Sorry to interrupt, but what is my name?”

Her eyes danced, or so it seemed.

“Your name? Robert Drake.”

This name had meaning. Sir Darcy was remembering his mother’s older brother. Lord Robert Drake. A ne'er do well who went good and helped his nation to almost not lose the Second World War. Besides all that, the family lore was he had a way to turn a profit each and every day, whether at war or in peace.

There was something about Uncle Robert and the stories of him being in and out of Cairo and all along the Med, doing spying work for the Empire. His pose as a rich and indolent good-for-nothing had gone over well with all the sleazy sorts.

Sir Darcy had overheard his parents talking about Robert Drake. With admiration. And shared anecdotes about his near fatal brushes with heroism. And his uncanny luck at games of chance. It was rumoured that Robert Drake had fought a duel and killed the man. There were other rumours, of a fight in a card room in a bar. Robert Drake caught a man red-handed, and nobody liked that very much.

There was gun play. The story ended with Robert Drake being the last man standing. Unscathed. He takes the money and goes.

When Sir Darcy was a boy he had thought it all rather disgustingly romantic.

And now he was being called by the name Robert Drake. And his body was not his own. Younger, stronger, bigger, and not fat and old. So this wasn't his body.

He said, “Do you have a mirror?”

She was smiling steadily at him. Quite friendly, really. She stroked his body and nodded. “Yes. But your name really is Robert Drake. I know you are supposed to be a great bad man, and I tease you about being a great English lord. For it is not often a lord is gentle as you are.”

She went and brought him a hand mirror.

Sir Darcy looked at himself. It wasn't himself.

He said, “Hello, Uncle Robert!”

Instead of his own, post-middle-age, jowly and pouchy-faced pragmatic features, here was a regular Don Juan of dark good looks, almost recklessly good looking, with clear, unlined, taut skin, and well kept, white teeth, and startling piercing clear blue eyes, and the jet black, thick hair of the Drakes. This was a face he’d never had.

The whore was staring at Sir Darcy with great interest. As if she was going to learn something important about the meaning of her own life. She asked him, “You truly know nothing?”

“I know more than I did. But I don’t know what day it is, or what month, or even what year.”

She nodded as if this all made perfect sense. He couldn’t help but to gaze at this impossible face being reflected back in the hand mirror. He touched his face with his fingers. But they weren’t his fingers.

He reached quickly for the letter.

The whore said, “It is Monday evening, in May, and it is the year of 1935.”

He heard the words, and his own reply, “Are you serious?”

He watched the whore nod her head, her eyes no longer smiling, but grave. She said, “I wonder if this is a game. If it is a game, you are winning.”

He could only grin like an idiot at the handsome face in the mirror. He wanted to laugh. He asked her, “I don’t suppose you have a newspaper?”

The whore stared at him and then went and got a newspaper. She handed it to him. She said quizzically, “This is your own - you brought it with you - to read me the stories you found...amusing.”

Her voice had a certain slur and lazy and liquid way about the English language. Sir Darcy quite liked the sound of the whore’s voice. He looked at her body. The whore’s body suggested a brazen thrusting, and so close to his fingers. If he wanted to, he could touch her breasts, and mould the flesh, and judge the insolent heft and jiggly firmness.

Sir Darcy caught the whore appraising him. Her face now wore a careful half-smile, and then her eyes, so deep, and from far behind, there she was, watching him; to see if perhaps this game was truly a fiction. She moved her eyes to indicate the newspaper was in his hands.

He pulled himself together with a deep breath, saying on the exhale, “Right, now then, so I read the newspaper to you?”

She was silent. He could feel her watching him. Then he didn’t notice anything about her. He had the paper open at the front page. It was a brand new paper. Not an old copy. Just the smell alone, let alone the feel of the paper. That really got his attention. And then his eyes could see, clearly, without glasses, crystal clear. The paper was new.

And then his brain began to register the words his eyes were seeing.

The London Times, dated Monday, May 13, 1935.

The whore told him, “You always bring the newspapers when you stay with me. You sit by the window, near the balcony, and you read me the paper.”

Sir Darcy looked up at the whore for a single moment. But he did not really see her. He looked back at the newspaper. He was reading words and seeing the headlines, and the old style of layout and type, and the photographs of dead people. But in their day, in the year of 1935, very much alive and kicking, and making the history that was yet to come.

It was then he decided to read the letter. He thought nothing of the whore seeing him read the letter. He wanted to read the letter.

The whore was staring at him and she knew something wasn’t quite right about this man. He wasn’t the same man who’d come to see her a few short hours ago. The whore searched her own conclusions and decided he had changed during the last impassioned exchange, perhaps at the end.

Sir Darcy picked up the letter and read:

“...both in body and in soul. Beware of the soft-horned demons. Their power of distraction is great and much fun! By now you have torn yourself away from the scenario. You admit I am inventive, even creative? Oh, there are a thousand questions, each spawns a thousand more questions, and that’s a mere hint; less than the cosmos itself questions the worm’s belly.

“Dear Sir Darcy, you can harness this boon, if you wish it. But first, how will you come to adapt to your new understanding of science? I seek a patron who is lucid and with free will, not under my spell. Of course, if I am any good, or rather very bad, you would never know if I was casting a spell on you. Certainly you are involved in a spell, as you can see for yourself. Do you still think this is a dream, or that you have gone mad? By the way, the young ladies name is Azura, and she is actually one of your (Uncle’s) sources for indiscreet pillow talk and compromising photographs. There is much a bright young woman can learn about sin, and much she can teach you.

“Perhaps it would be best if you tasted this reality for awhile longer. Your Uncle is (or was!) actually on a week long holiday, and I believe the plan is you are to take Azura on a little trip up the Nile, so you can reconnoiter some German archaeological dig. Do you remember that your Uncle spoke rather good German? Actually, he could do several convincing imitations of high and low German.

“Your Uncle never mentioned meeting me, did he? It was in Berlin, in 1932. I was hanging around Hitler. I was considering offering Adolf my services. Oh, don’t be shocked. Adolf had other arrangements, and I was merely whistling through his future graveyard. This was only three years ago, in the here you are now in. Berlin has changed. Three years ago, the man whose body you now inhabit, had made friends with Adolf. Believe me, Adolf is very much alive, right now, as you are. Do be a smart chap and keep the thousand questions popping up in your mind from absorbing your attention. I will tell all.

“I met your Uncle in the home of Colonel Fritz Van Kleig. I was staying as a guest of the Colonel. Adolf came along for a weekend stay. This was before his great ascension. I have talked with Hitler. There is (was) no hope of his changing sides. You know what (will) happen(ed). Mr. Churchill will (still) get to make his greatest speeches.

“All these different moving parts are impossible to follow. Your Uncle was quick to turn a profit. Using what he knew, he began to arrange safe passage for the richest of the Jews and other rich elites clearly in the sights of Herr Hitler.

“Your Uncle had contacts around the world. Oh, there is so much for you to learn about who you are. So the best way is to just give you all his, ah, data base. Okay. There. You should have it loading in right about now.

“Your patience is rewarded!

“Now here is your next ch;ice. You remember how I told you that you would be transported instantaneously to a brothel IF you read the next sentence (well, something like that)? Surely you are paying attention?

“Several sentences from now you will be able to make a ch;ice. IF you want to, you will be able to instantaneously resume your life as Sir Darcy, exactly as you were, or will be, or, perhaps, are. At any rate, you will be returned to the identity you think of as your own, and at the same instant that you left: you will be back in your own body, in the office, sitting at your desk.

“OR, you can stay put, and take your Uncle’s leave and Azura up the Nile. She is a sweet young woman, and I believe is quite fond of you (your Uncle!), in her own way; what harm can come of it? You can always leave if you want to. That is the simplest event to create, by ch;ice, IF you read the next sentence, all the way to the end, and the next two words of the next sentence after this next sentence. After you read the first two words of the next sentence, you will be back as yourself, in your own office, and it will be the same exact moment that you left your own body, and as that is the case, I advise you to make a firm ch;ice because you will not get a second chance at this possible delightful adventure of being alive in your Uncle’s body and still be yourself, and all in the glorious year of 1935, the same year the motion picture “The Wizard Of Oz” was released! You will...”

Sir Darcy hastily pulled his eyes away from the first two words of the next sentence but it was too late. With no ceremony at all the poor man was back in his own body, sitting at his office desk, alone, and immediately aware of the room and all it’s furniture, the view of London given by his windows, even the faint sounds of this solid reality of Home. With this awareness came the contrast between his own body and that of his Uncle’s body.

Sir Darcy was back in an old shoe.

Gone the strange smells. He was alone, and no beautiful Azura.

The letter was in his hand. There was nothing for it but to read on. Sir Darcy briefly considered the fact that he might be going insane. For a moment he began to stand up and go to the windows and look out through the high-explosive resistant windowpane. That was his intention. He stood at his desk and stared out the windows. An image intruded. He could see the whore looking at him, her eyes widening in curiosity. He could see her breasts pushing out at him. Two brave scimitars tipped with thrusting, aggressive, demanding....

Sir Darcy was struck at what an abject fool he was. The twinge of pain he felt in his lower back reminded him of the smooth and perfect fit of his Uncle’s young body. Sir Darcy remembered the large, progenitive organ and two big sacks and the heft of his Uncle’s manhood. Yes, he felt a complete fool.

He began to read.

***

Chapter 3

THE CH;ICES WE MAKE

Sometimes bad people make good decisions. It doesn't mean they're good. It means they're human.

The letter had continued: “...now be safely returned whence you came, and be feeling something of a fool for having given up a real adventure? Ah, yes, the wonders of the Nile, and the distraction of Miss Azura; and all of the pure safety and security of a real riddle, and that is pretending to be another man in another time and place, knowing that you will be safe and sound.

“That you did not choose the ch;ice to stay on as your Uncle does not necessarily mean you cannot make this ch;ice one more time. Permit me to explain. You see, I have set out to impress you with my power. To this end I grant you a boon; IF you decide to read the last three words of the next sentence, you will be, once again, back inside your Uncle’s body, while your Uncle will be inside your body, but once you are there, you will have to wait seven days and seven nights before you can return to the moment of your departure of what will be, now, one week ago, and so you do not have to choose now, you can wait, anytime until seven days from this moment, right NOW, so if you want to choose to use this ticket, now you know most of the important details, and so here is the next sentence. Once you...”

This time Sir Darcy managed to tear his eyes away from the last word. As a result, he still found himself in his office. He looked at the time and realized only a few minutes had passed since he first opened this most strange letter. Yet he was tired. By his own reckoning, the time he spent in Cairo must have been several hours. Even so, not enough to add up to the way he felt. Sir Darcy began to contemplate the unthinkable. He was going to chuck work for the remainder of the day.

It was the force of the letter’s attraction.

He began to conceive an idea. “I wonder,” he thought, “What would happen if I read the letter from the beginning?” No sooner had this thought come and then another thought came to take it’s place.

“I must be mad! None of this can be real, there is no such thing as magic!”

For a moment he was sorely tempted to destroy the letter or have it tested by the super boffins. He imagined the reception of his story of being shunted to Cairo and nineteen thirty bloody five. Even explaining how the letter came into his hands would be enough to make him out a crackpot. Sir Darcy was, if anything, a man who could make quick decisions.

(The Head of the British Secret Service revealed nothing behind the polite mask of nobility and breeding. Alone in his office, he betrayed none of the thoughts he was having, or even what he knew.)

There was a buzzing from his desk telephone.

He turned his head, conscious that he’d been staring out the window, without seeing anything. He pushed a button on his phone and said, “Yes?”

“Sir Darcy, Wimble Holmes is here to see you.”

Sir Darcy caught the “Damn!” before he said it. Yes, it was a scheduled appointment. He’d have to take it, and then he could leave. The plan came to him in an instant.

“Thank you, Miss Gristle, please ask Mr. Holmes to come right in.”

He pocketed the letter, and stood up.

Sir Darcy heard the first door to his office open, and then the door in front of him opened, and in stepped Wimble Holmes.

***

That was all a distant, bitter memory. The initial allure of unlimited power came in small, bite-sized pieces. Though you may think that Sir Darcy’s adventure with the letter was not so bite-sized, the truth is only in the scale of what the magician was setting out to prove. Sir Darcy was in a state of shock when Wimble Homes walked into his office those many months ago. Sir Darcy could see, that he, Sir Darcy, wasn’t mad, and if he was, he didn’t know that he was mad, which was worse.

Wimble Holmes was a trusted and inspired drudge who scrounged the world for what could serve the best interest of the new, lean, muscular, technolgically advanced economy of Great Britain. Whatever made Britain great, and whatever it took to get the upper-hand and make the right deals with the right people, here was the chap who could smooth the way over the squeaky bits.

Wimble was a forward thinker and a linker of trivia and divergent trends. Wimble was a forecaster and something of an amateur fiddler of the mind. He possessed a photographic memory and was something of a freak. He had big frontal lobes, and sometimes Sir Darcy could imagine them pulsating.

After settling in to the visitors chair, Holmes had shattered Sir Darcy’s composure by saying, “I know what you are up to, Chief, and it just won’t do, you know.”

Sir Darcy said nothing.

Holmes stared meaningfully.

“You’re not alone, Chief. You’re not the only one who, ah, received a letter.”

Meanwhile, inside Sir Darcy’s mind, a leaping roar of confusion and bland acceptance. He felt like a man inside a fun-house gone very wrong. He immediately tossed out an assumption of his own exclusivity. He wasn’t the only one who knew?

Wimble Holmes was still staring at him. He nodded at Sir Darcy. “Yes. I know about your trip to Cairo, and I know you have the letter.”

Sir Darcy took a look at Wimble’s eyes. How could he know? Sir Darcy’s brain rumbled through explanations while his face became smoother and smoother.

Sir Darcy answered, “I trust you know how indiscreet it is to talk about such things in my office. For I never know who could be listening.”

Wimble Holmes smiled in a whole new way at his Chief. Sir Darcy was quite struck at the freedom of this new sort of smile. It went right inside this normally colourless man. For Wimble Holmes was a man you pass on the street and never notice. The sort you might serve at your tea counter, and when asked to describe him be hard pressed to do more than say, “Middle, aged, balding, stocky, can’t remember the colour of his eyes, dark suit, had an umbrella, and not a big tipper but not too bad. Didn’t say a word other than what he wanted and thanks.”

Sir Darcy could see the smile was a symptom of something profound. A liberation was taking place and it was going on inside Wimble Holmes. Sir Darcy had seen other men being taken by a new belief and burned by the resulting flames. But Wimble noticed this and told his Chief, “My letter came yesterday.”

Sir Darcy closed his eyes for a moment. Wimble continued.

“I know your letter came today just after mine. I know. How I know is the important detail. To be honest with you, if I didn’t have to tell you, I don’t know if I would have ever told you. So right away, I want to point this out to you, to both of us, this is the danger. The fact I would even consider not telling you what I am going to tell you...this is the danger.”

Sir Darcy started to say, “I really think you should not...”

But Wimble quickly interjected, “I can read your mind, Sir.”

***

Yes, this was the moment when the next little, bite-sized piece had been offered up for Sir Darcy. And, yes, of course, he’d bitten. And it was oh-so-sweet and yummy.

At first.

In the reflection of his rear-view mirror of memory, Sir Darcy wished with a bitter regret for a magic wand to change the past; this wish was championed by the righteous indignation of a con-man handsomely fleeced of all his illusions.

When Wimble told him he could read his mind and then set about proving this fact, Sir Darcy crept out of his illusory role of sole-proprietorship over a magician and his letters. Sir Darcy’s first response to Wimble’s declaration of clairvoyance was to inquire if he could tell him what number he was thinking of.

“You’re not thinking of a number at all. You’re thinking of the name of the woman in the brothel you went to. Her name is Azura. Now do you believe me?”

Sir Darcy murmured, “You know the stages of the mind’s digestion of radical information. You’ve lectured me on it often enough in the past. I think you better start at the beginning, Holmes. But first, a question. Can you read everyone’s mind?”

“Yes, whoever I want to listen to, I can hear their thoughts.”

Sir Darcy didn’t like this. He felt naked.

Wimble’s smile was triumphant and not at all apologetic. But his voice sought to reassure. “Now, Sir, there are ethics, even with this, at least between us, Sir. Well, I’ve had my little thrill playing Houdini with you. You’ll have to find it in your heart to forgive me for that. You see, I am not exactly playing fair with you. I am not really Wimble Holmes.”

***

Spin forward a scant year. Those first few heady months. Oh, yes, Sir Darcy remembered all this. And while he did, he listened to the crescendo of Prime Minister Tony Blair’s yelling, “Stop looking at me like a bloody bunch of ____ing idiots! You must obey me! I am telling you! We MUST bomb New York City!”

Sir Darcy shook his head. He felt the weary amid the absolute debauchery of his profession. No moral standard was too high to be decapitated. And all the flowers in the garden would get picked and tossed aside and trampled on. There wasn’t any good left to preserve. All had been bottled or tinned or put in the frozen food aisles. They had them wrapped in plastic, on the shelves. You could buy it over the internet. But there wasn’t anymore new goodness being made.

Sir Darcy returned to remembering.

Tony Blair screams became fainter and then were no more. Sir Darcy was safely absorbed by his keen memory. He was back in his office on that day when the envelope first appeared. And across from him sat Wimble Holmes.

And Sir Darcy remembered.

Wimble Holmes was saying, “Yes, I am The Magician. Come for a little chat, a sort of piggy-back on the good Mister Holmes. Though I must say, IF it was the way you thought it was, it might not be a bad idea, actually. But, for now, here I am, and I can assure you,” and here Sir Darcy remembered, the man’s eyes had twinkled in a way Wimble Holme’s eyes had never twinkled, and in a voice of absolute certainty he said “...we will be assured of complete privacy. I realize I have played a little trick on you. These things are a mere trifle, the tiniest of hints, and the gentlest of reminders, too. If you think about all the world and the great secrets you possess, what I am is the greatest treasure. A loyal son I am loyal to the soil of my birth. If I were not, there is nothing you could do. So it is your great and good fortune to be on the winning side, and that I have chosen you as a bridge to your world. Ah, remember, I can read your mind. Do you know, I think we will adjourn this meeting. You’ve had quite enough magic for one day. Well, goodbye.”

Sir Darcy could see the sudden return of the real Wimble Holmes. He also remembered the suspicion he had had that Wimble wasn’t Wimble but the magician pretending to be Wimble. Normally Sir Darcy quite liked meeting Wimble. He was a very useful man, and often able to see past the ordinary squalour of motives to the greater pattern.

Once the magician had left, the supposedly real Wimble immediately started talking, as if he’d been in the middle of some important analysis of secret intelligence, as if he’d not been interrupted by a magician taking over his body. As this seemingly normal Wimble talked, Sir Darcy thought, “Where does Wimble go when the other fellow takes over? I don’t even know his name!”

Wimble stopped talking.

Sir Darcy stared at him. Oh no, there was that smile, and oh yes, the twinkle in the eyes!

“My name is Charramoose. Well, actually, just between you and me and the gatepost, I am the Great Merlin, Father of all wizards. I was born in the mountains and reared by the stones and the moss. I had a goat for a mother and a wolf for a father. I had no mother and no father. I was not born of man. I was born in the womb of an oak tree and bred with nettles and bird dung. I am not a man like you. But there was a time, and on this island, and not so long ago by the way of a mountain’s counting....”

The face of Wimble Holmes stretched to accommodate the new smile. He waved and mouthed the words, “Bye-bye” and then, once more, the genuine Wimble Homes was suddenly back, talking, as if he’d never been interrupted.

“...So the problem is trying to get them to take this seriously. If they could only be persuaded to pay attention to what Ben Laden is up to. I can’t tell you for certain what it is that’s coming, only that it is bad. I don’t know enough to be able to say when and where or what, only there will, and soon, within the next year, and whatever it is won’t be pretty, and it will give the Yanks a bloody nose, and very likely we’ll end up getting involved. I have to tell you, the Americans will take advantage of this; Bush is fabulously and colossally stupid. I have never met a more vacant human being. Forgive me, Sir, but he is the epitome of American arrogant ignorance, and what’s more, he is proud of it, Sir. He boasts about how stupid he is. I have heard the tapes and read the transcripts that I refer you to. This man knows nothing about Ben Laden's network. The Americans are choosing to ignore what is under their nose, and I am wondering why. And so should you, Sir.”

Though Sir Darcy wasn’t sure the magician wasn’t playing more games, he went on as if Wimble was Wimble, and not Charramoose. Sir Darcy was ready to ask his first question and pretend to be interested in the plots of religious and cultural fanatics.

“The Americans will want to know what the probability of any excursion might be, that is, how the blow is to be delivered. Or blows, plural.” For a moment, Sir Darcy was all business. He asked Wimble the smart, spy-master penetrating question, “So, Wimble, what are the many ways the Americans can be attacked?”

But Wimble wasn’t quite there, yet. He required a bit more of his Chief’s imagination. For Wimble was a worried man. Within the patterns of trivia and unrelated low-level gossip, Wimble Holmes had been startled to find an idea of revenge against The West, and most enormously, America. He was a recent convert to this idea. He had always known, intellectually, about the existence of terrorists. It was part of his job. He was a man who had managed to step inside the mind of the so-called enemy, but only as a practical intellectual exercise, and only to make predictions about what the enemy might do, and how. There was a distinct separation between his heart and his mind, and he never considered the morality of an issue.

This was all changed, and in few short moments.

Wimble Holmes had become, in the space of a few heart beats, a secret hater of the Americans. After years of being privy to most of the trash left by Americans, this quiet and reserved man had developed a sudden personal and private opinion.

It was not a sophisticated reasoning.

Inside his head, Wimble suddenly felt the beating of a new and primitive heart. His blood sang with it. Such was the effect of having a magician come and borrow your body and mind: A latent impression remained, and you might as well call it pixie dust as anything.

You can choose to assume the magician did this on purpose and that it wasn’t an accident or some messy, uncontrollable side effect. Perhaps this is accurate. Sir Darcy was met with a singular impression, and one formed on the spot. Wimble Holmes WAS somehow different for having unwittingly housed a magician. The lines of influence and the bigger picture streamed out in front of Sir Darcy’s imagination. He had to concentrate to listen to Wimble’s reply.

“The threat to the Americans is quite real. This will not be a bomb on foreign soil, blowing up an American embassy. I think the Americans are going to have everyday tools of commerce turned against them, and in their own country, on their own soil. That the attacks will come, and when and where and using what instruments, these are the details. That it will be attempted is certain. Bin Laden is preparing, and has been preparing, and he will continue to prepare; and he is not alone. But to the specifics, I can only suggest that it will be spectacular and unexpected and well planned. You see, Sir Darcy, I have a confession to make: I have turned to a prophet, and the prophet has told me to beware of silver birds falling from the sky.”

Wimble paused to see how Sir Darcy took this last remark. He was met with the smoothest of faces, and the impenetrable gaze of bland composure. Sir Darcy said nothing. He was thinking, “I have been returned to the wrong time. This is BEFORE the attack of nine-eleven.”

Wimble fell back on an expression of surprise and asked, “You are not surprised? That I consult a prophet does not signal my failure? The end of my usefulness?”

Sir Darcy fell back on a slight raising of the eyebrows and irony. He told Wimble, “The question really is this: 'is the prophet reliable?'”

Wimble snorted and said, “As reliable as the analysts are reliable? No, Sir, that isn’t fair, really, because I KNOW something about this, this, this POSSIBLE future. It is my job to make educated guesses. I don’t flatter myself beyond the NORMAL range of perceptions. I realize I am not coming to the point quite yet. I despise circumlocution and word castles floating in the air. But I am aiming correctly, right now, and I do have a point. Sir, we have reached a cross road, as a nation, as a people. I have met a man. A prophet.”

Wimble paused and waited for some response from Sir Darcy. Sir Darcy was carefully betraying no signs of personal interest, and he murmured, gently, so as not to disturb the air of the office, “Please tell me about this prophet.”

***

Chapter 4

THE PROPHET

Two clairvoyant psychics greet each other. The one says to the other: “You're fine. How am I?”

Wimble Holmes hesitated; he looked at his boss and then broke the little silence. He made a fussy movement and pulled at his suit coat. He said, “The details are, ah, strange. I have never met a man like this before. I am perfectly serious, but the facts are...sound odd. For example, his real given name is Mr. Prophet. His Christian name is Ben. A big man, Sir. Old, in his seventies; oh, yes he has a passport and birth certificate and all in order. I have undertaken an investigation of this man, as a possible source. It was time for you to know, anyway, what I was up to. Mr. Prophet has been put through the sieve. This is an old English family name. And he is really Mr. Ben Prophet, named so at his Christening. Sir, I have had several meetings with this man, and he is able to accurately predict future events. I have ten examples of his accuracy, ten predictions he made. And each one recorded by me, BEFORE any of the events predicted happened. I asked for exact predictions from one hour to one day, and to one week to one month, and finally one year, and each prediction concerning people, places and things and events far away from Britain, and with no possibility of influencing the outcome of the prediction. The man was right in each case. To the last detail.”

A momentary hesitation. Exquisite. Artfully done.

And then.

“Yes, I asked him to tell me specific exact facts about the stock market. 'Tell me what the exact number will be on the Dow Jones in exactly one hour's time...starting from now.' And he humoured me. Gave me the number without batting an eye. I wrote it down. I still have it. I carry it with me. Sir, the man was correct. It came down to either he was a very good guesser mixed with a lucky guess or...not.”

Another pause.

Another reconnoiter of how the Old Man is taking this. Wimble met Sir Darcy’s impermeable face, and his hooded eyes, staring back at Wimble, waiting for Wimble to continue. Wimble did not look away, and so the two stared steadily at each other. Wimble said, “Each of the predictions all as predicted. To the 't'. You understand, I did this as an experiment, and at first with complete and unambiguous skepticism. And I must tell you, Sir, from the first, Mr. Prophet insisted that he remain off the record, and not to be on the payroll. He said he only wanted to serve the nation occupying the soil of his birthplace. A peculiar way to put it, yes. But that is exactly the way he put it.”

Meanwhile, at this last remark, Sir Darcy was severely challenged not to flinch. The remarkable echo of similar words absorbed not so many minutes ago kept some of Wimble’s next words from reaching right into Sir Darcy’s consciousness. Even so, Wimble said, “...Of course, at first, it was a bit of a lark, really. I did agree to keep him anonymous and strictly off the record. I told him it was only fair to let me test him and see for myself.”

Wimble's words, 'bit of a lark, really' stood out in Sir Darcy's mind. It didn't sound like Wimble.

Sir Darcy heard himself ask a question.

“Wimble, when and how and so forth did you meet this man?”

Wimble’s face clenched in his Wimble-ish smile of having once solved an impossible riddle; really, it was like the fellow was a transparent window to a great secret. He actually nodded, and Sir Darcy noted the appearance of a new chin.

Wimble's smile grimaced. Obviously uncomfortable with what he had to say.

“I received a letter. The letter was from Mr. Prophet, with an invitation to have a cup of tea and discuss the political situation from a cosmic perspective. If you want I can recite the letter. No?”

Sir Darcy murmured, “Later. What happened next?”

Wimble frowned with exquisite concentration. The hesitation lingered on agony. He really didn’t want to say it. “Because of the nature of the way the letter was delivered to me, I ordered a check on the author. I could do this because my invitation came with address and name, date and time. I put a team on it. I paid for it myself, too. Used Colby’s old gang. Great bunch. Well, if I’m for the gang-plank, so be it. The money was well spent. I had to keep this secret. And it was because of the way the letter was delivered.”

Sir Darcy wanted a cigarette. He wanted to be back in Cairo. With that Azura. All he had to do was pull out the letter, and he’d be back in Cairo, for one week, and then back here, and no one would be the wiser. Not even Wimble would know. He would only see his boss reading a letter. Sir Darcy was quite impressed by all this.

He pulled his awareness back to Wimble and said, “So you’ve said. How was the letter delivered to you?”

Wimble visibly flinched. Here was some great, enormous hurdle. A tad hurriedly he said, “You see, I’ve never told anyone. You will be the first. I fear you simply will not believe me when I tell you.”

Sir Darcy sighed gently, “Oh, I have an open mind, Wimble.”

“I certainly hope so, Sir. This is beyond the credible. If someone told me a letter had literally materialized in front of their eyes, out of thin air, well, I think I would not believe it. Would you?”
Sir Darcy leaned back in his chair and stared at Wimble. Sir Darcy let his eyelids become narrow slits through which he could hide his ironic hilariousness. He answered Wimble with a gentle and soothing voice. It was sincere. Sir Darcy even tapped the end of his nose, with his fingers in a steeple. Inviting a confidence.

“Yes, if it was a man I knew to be reliable. A man such as yourself, for example.”

Wimble seemed genuinely grateful. Certainly his tone of voice gained in confidence. He told his boss, “One year and a fortnight ago, to the day, I was sitting in my office, and it was just going on nine o’clock. I remember distinctly counting the number of bells. On the last one, number nine, I was standing up, near my desk, looking out the window at the Coldstream Guards coming along to parade. At the end of the ninth bell, in the air, two feet in front of me, at eye level, out of thin air, an envelope began to take form. I must tell you that I thought I was going mad. It took over one minute for the envelope to, ah, materialize. Then the envelope remained suspended in the air.

“I was in a state of disbelief. I could not believe my own eyes. It is the most disturbing sensation I have encountered. It does not fill me with wonder so much as terror. I tried to think what to do. I examined the floating envelope. Testing the air all around it. Trying to see if there was some reason why it should be suspended in the air. I actually felt quite scared. The envelope was literally floating in the air. Actually, floating is not the right word because it wasn't moving, at all.”

Wimble paused to see what reaction was evident. But Sir Darcy was a study of inscrutability.

Wimble sighed slightly and said, “The envelope was not moving and it was addressed to me. I was able to examine the envelope quite closely while it stayed in the air.

“It was at this point that I decided to reach out to my colleagues. To call them in to my office to see the floating envelope. But as I turned away to do this, I heard the envelope fall and hit the carpet. I turned around and the envelope was lying on the carpet. I felt like the man in the cartoon who has a singing frog. Do you know the cartoon, Sir?”

Sir Darcy tapped his nose and asked, “Do you still have the letter?”

Wimble laughed briefly. “No, oh no. After I met Mr. Prophet, the letter literally vanished while I held it in my hands.” He flinched. Sir Darcy considered why Wimble was flinching. Well, this was all such out-and-out nuttiness, and by now Wimble would be on the top of the nutter’s list. So Sir Darcy was curious.

“Wimble, what ever possessed you to tell me? Surely you realize what this sounds like?”

Wimble nodded his head. “I was coming to that. Eventually.”

“I mean, really, this is all a bit like magic carpets....”

“Well, Chief, I am preparing you. Mr. Prophet insisted that you know how I came to be invited to tea. It was part of our agreement. If, after one year, my test proved him accurate, then I would have to bring you in on it. I was to enlist your support and insist that you come and have tea with him. And you’re not far off with the magic carpets.”

Sir Darcy said nothing.

Wimble did not quite know how to take this. He said slowly, “Look, if this man tells me something is going to happen, I believe him. Now that is not a normal intellectual relationship. I am biased and in awe of a power of perception housed in what appears to be the body of a normal man.”

Sir Darcy asked in a respectful voice, “Did you see any other, ah, events like the letter?”

Wimble was silent. He looked away. He said, “Sir Darcy, there was one other event,” and Wimble closed his eyes, “But now that it comes to the telling,” he started to shake his head, like he was saying ‘tut tut tut’ at himself; but out loud, he said, “...I am plucking up my nerve.”

Sir Darcy wanted to say something encouraging, like, “Surely it can’t be as bad as all that?” But he said nothing and put his mind to sending the neutral vibrations of a man seeking to be informed of the truth as one Wimble Homes would have it be.

Wimble’s smile was a grimace of preparations to climb up onto the gallows. Gallows he’d built with his mad story of a letter materializing and then dematerializing, and tea with a Mr. Ben Prophet.

Wimble told Sir Darcy, “I am quite concerned that you will think me mad, and so as a result loose the prize. It is a risk I must take, Sir Darcy, that you will think I am quite mad. I know it is one of the characteristics of a madman to insist he is not deluded and that his secret is extremely important to the future of the entire human species. I am not prone to supernatural visions. There’s nothing for it but to tell you.”

And now Wimble Homes let go of the last line and plunged in, and took Sir Darcy way past a materializing and dematerializing letter. Wimble leaned forward with his big hands tucked under his belly, and in a hushed voice told Sir Darcy, “During the time I was in possession of the envelope and the invitation, I examined them, and took samples and attempted an analysis. During the time that I had possession, I always kept the physical evidence safely locked up and hidden, and when I examined the evidence, at no time, not for one second did I leave the room. I was always alone. The day before I was to meet Mr. Prophet, I was examining the evidence in my workroom, and had both the envelope and the invitation on the table. When I came to examine the envelope, I found a letter inside. This was impossible. There was never any second piece of paper in the envelope, and certainly not like this paper! Of the same quality as the other evidence.”

Wimble leaned further forward, and lowered his voice. Sir Darcy almost wanted to giggle, he felt exactly like a spy in enemy territory. Wimble said, “I know you, Sir Darcy, and the question, ‘Where is the physical evidence?’ You can see I don’t have any photographs to show you, of the evidence. Oh, I took many. And they all turned out the same. Each one pure white, no detail, completely overexposed. Oh, I tried over a dozen cameras. And the film! I tried digital cameras, oh, I was frustrated, because NOTHING worked. If you want to see photographs of white light, I have a great many to show you. Such was my dilemma with all my tests.

“When I found the letter inside the envelope, I can tell you I almost fainted. You see, after a few days of having the envelope and the invitation in my possession, I had come to accept the miraculous as something to be taken apart and understood. I was scared! Really frightened. It took me a long time to get up the nerve to read the letter. Measuring and recording and analyzing was what I did to CONQUER my fear.” Wimble shook his head, and made a strange smile. He had Sir Darcy’s complete attention.

“I have the entire contents of the letter in my memory. Every word and dash and dot of it. But this was no ordinary letter. The contents? At the top, the date, and then underneath, ‘By The Unseen Hand To Mister Wimble Holmes. Dear Sir, IF you continue to read this letter you will come to a sentence where, IF you continue to read the three words of the sentence AFTER that first sentence, you will be instantaneously transferred into the body of a distant relative of yours. This sentence will give you as much time as you care to have, living in this relative’s body. Of course you will be living in another time and place. I guarantee your safety and your return WHENEVER you want to come back to the moment you first read those three words that are coming up soon. I know that you will really be satisfied with this little field trip. Consider it an opportunity to study real magic at work. The beauty of this method, you are never missed, and not by any outside observer. You appear to be reading a letter. In reality, you can be away for as long as you like, that is, up to one full cycle of seven days and seven nights, and then you will be returned to the first moment that you read the three words that are coming soon. Do you remember the sentence I told you about? The first sentence of warning? And then the first three words of the next sentence? Here is the first sentence of warning, you are now reading it, and if you read the first three words of the very next sentence, you will be instantaneously transported through what you think is time and space, into the life and body of your distant relation, and I know you will truly relish every moment and not want to come back, but of course you will come back and can choose to read those three words, yet again, and, I think it is time to unveil the next sentence and the first three words, but before I do, let me tell you, when you want to come back to this moment, begin to sing, or hum, or whistle, or mumble, Yankee Doodle Dandy, and I think it is now time for the first three words, so enjoy yourself. My dear man...'”

Wimble stopped reciting and leaned back, shifting his weight and bringing his hind quarters to the back of the chair. Sir Darcy wanted to offer the man a drink. Or a medal. Perhaps a firing squad, for Wimble and himself.

Who knew?

Sir Darcy thought this Mr. Ben Prophet might know.

Wimble started up again, this time with his great napkin of a handkerchief wiping at his face. “Sir, do you think there is anyway I could get a cup of tea?”

Sir Darcy pushed a button and said, “Wimble, you can have whatever you want. Would you prefer a whiskey?”

Wimble smiled gamely and performed his virtual tut-tut-tut, and said no, tea was the ticket. Sir Darcy beamed and nodded. The door opened and in came Miss Gristle.

Sir Darcy and Miss Gristle had the perfect master and slave relationship. It was the easy grace of mutual dignity and all that rot about loyalty between master and slave. So the ordering up of the tea was quite pleasant and brisk, for Miss Gristle was the all-knowing sort, and she was serene and unflappable. And inside all that, there she was, a very sharp cookie, and a very shrewd judge of people, places and things.

Wimble was aware of the range of Miss Gristle’s experience in the spy world, and how good a guesser she was. So Wimble was being perfectly normal, but not too normal, and hoping that he was not trying too hard to be normal. He sighed when she left the room. The door closed and once more, locked. He could hear the second door closing. The all-secure lights blinked on.

Sir Darcy said, “Wimble, what happened after you read the first three words?”

Wimble chuckled, and said quickly, “This sounds truly mad, but it is true, as soon as I read those three words, ‘my good man’, I was in a different body and in another time, and another place. I lived this other life and never wanted to return. But, at the end of the cycle of seven days and seven nights, back I found myself, at the beginning, and only wanting to return. It was my crack-cocaine, only I could see no negative side effects. I failed to recognize my dependence on this other life. Do you want the details?”

Sir Darcy didn’t care if his answer was suspicious.

“No. I think that is a private and personal matter, and no business of mine. I consider it to be a period of recreation that inconveniences no one. IF what you say is true. Otherwise you are a madman. No. I think what I’d prefer is some sort of proof.”

Wimble nodded and said sincerely, “I know it all sounds like the most tremendous ravings of a mad-man. Yes, well, the thing to do is meet Mr. Prophet. I know he wants to meet you. He has a proposition. He wants to use his, ah, abilities to serve what he always calls Great Britain. He isn’t asking for anything in return.”

Sir Darcy wanted to laugh out loud, but he asked softly, but with amusement, “What are his services?”

Wimble looked a bit worried. He said quickly, “To begin with he is only offering us prophecy, and we have to ask the questions. And I know you’re wondering what I mean by 'to begin with'. Well, there it is, the first part of the prize, and the entire prize? The most important secret to ever come our way. But Mr. Prophet only hints at what is to come after prophecy. He wants to see what we will do with this, ah, service, and how wise we are in disguising our source. It is obvious he wants to be able to trust us with such, such, well, power.”

There was a buzzing and a soft voice over the desk telephone, “Sir Darcy, the tea is ready.”

He pushed a button, and the doors opened, and in came Chivers, the floor waiter, rolling a big tea service into the room. Chivers was perfect because he never spoke first. He knew how the two men liked their tea. And he was done serving them in a jiffy.

Sir Darcy told him, “Good, now scoot, will you Chivers, and leave the trolley.”

Chivers nodded his head slightly at Sir Darcy and left the room without saying a word. The doors closed and locked. Sir Darcy sipped at his tea and said, “Superb. The man is a gem. Hardly says a word. Can’t think what someone like that would say about all this, though. Come to that, what anyone OUT THERE would say? Or think, or do. Wimble, if what you say is true. Well, I am going to act as if it is true. I hope you see this. I must investigate further. If you are a madman then I will quickly discover this. And if you are not a madman, then my precautions will be very wise.”

Wimble was looking more and more relieved. When Sir Darcy paused, Wimble asked, “Then you’ll meet Mr. Prophet?”

“Yes, I will.”

Wimble said seriously, “He said you would. That is the only reason I dared tell you any of this. To be honest, if I were in your position, I think I’d pretend to go along with me and then have me put on the sick list and a nice long stay at Willowdales Rest Home for the Mentally Infirm.”

Sir Darcy had merely smiled like the bride he was and said quietly, “I very much want to meet this Mr. Prophet, Wimble. And as far as you being insane, well, the proof is in the pudding, eh?”

***

Chapter 5

A REAL MAGICIAN

Everything happens for a reason. But sometimes the reason is that you are stupid and you make bad decisions. ---The Book of Instruction of Real Magic

Oh those were golden days of great discovery. And Sir Darcy envied those very first few days. For he did meet Mr. Ben Prophet, author of the mischievous letters and invitations. It was only at the end of the game that Sir Darcy realized the magician had been also playing the same game with the Russians and the Americans. Sir Darcy knew the game was up, and he realized the Russians and the Americans knew the game was up. He thought, “I suppose the fellow gave me enough hints.”

As he sat in the ante room to the cabinet office, listening to Mr. Blair loose what was left of his mind, Sir Darcy wondered if that was one part of the magician's plans. The facts of the magician’s betrayal had shattered the composure of the Prime Minister.

At the beginning of the golden days of great discovery, Mr. Blair had received a letter, too, it seemed, also by special delivery. Mr. Blair had wisely kept this a secret. But now he had snapped and gone mad. Because he had been denied access to the magic?

Sir Darcy had just found out that the Prime Minister had been meeting secretly with Mr. Prophet, and for a period of over one year. As he thought about what this meant, he shook his head. This meant that at least three top men in the British power structure, men at the highest level of influence, too, had all known, ahead of time, the targets of the September Eleventh air delivered karmic hate mail.

He shook his head with sincerity, dogged by the ghosts of millions, and what had been set in motion. What with this madman Bush, the human android, the trained chimpanzee, and his henchmen polishing the hardware of war, and with considerable uneducated assurance sharpening the new axes, and drawing lines on maps and listening to the dark overlords hidden behind the shrouds of secrecy, drawn together to protect the nests of the rich and powerful and their New World Order.

Sir Darcy remembered the magician telling him, “The beauty of this enchantment is that the enchanted do not even know they are enchanted. This is the genius of VT.”

Whenever Ben mentioned VT, Sir Darcy wanted to know what or who was this VT? But the magician shook his head and said, “You will find out, but not from me. When you hear VT from someone else’s lips, then you will know destiny has come to close the final chapter on your species.”

Sir Darcy had been chilled to hear this, but the magician nodded and smiled like this was perfectly ordinary, and nothing to be worried about, even if it did happen.

Now, at the end of it all, as Sir Darcy listened to the uproar in the next room, he remembered the little clues and hints. Most of it had been there, if he had wanted to see it.

He could hear the voice of the minister of the ministry that handled nuclear bombs yelling at Mr. Blair. Sir Darcy winced. This man had also been meeting secretly with Mr. Ben Prophet. Who knows what promises and tastes of magical powers they’d been given by the smooth tempter, Mr. Ben Prophet. He always seemed to have a little bit more, and on time, when you seemed to need it the most. Never late and always more than less.

Now it was too late, too little, and then this madness, what with the Prime Minister, yelling quite loudly, actually bellowing, “You MUST obey me! I command you in the name of Charramoose! You will order the strike! Do as I say! Why are you not obeying me?”

Sir Darcy had another realization while he listened to the Prime Minister Of Britain being physically subdued as he tried to strangle the Minister of Defense. As the realization dawned on him, he rose to his feet to witness a spectacle of history. Mr. Blair did not disappoint. He was raving and tearing at the men in the room, trying to get at the Minister of Defense. Mr. Blair was obviously quite insane, and had the power of psychotic rage broiling in his tissues.

There was great anxiety and much yelling, and what with the Minister of Defense trying to get out of the room, and the Master-at-Arms trying to get in, and the secret service men pushing in, it was a rare backdrop for Sir Darcy’s realization. His entire life had been played with and he no longer knew what was not the work of the magician. But his realization was a secret, and he would say no more about it, to anyone. If the magician left him the memories of hints and more hints, then Sir Darcy would use the magic of his own mind to think about these hints.

“Since I have no hope of ever seeing Azura,” thought Sir Darcy, “I have nothing to lose. Hints are all I have now. He has taken away all our new toys but he has left me hints.”

***

As Bertle McPhee made ready to storm the decrepit building where the man who had finished burning the papers was waiting in the smoke filled room on the ninth floor...he had one of those rare moments when he actually thought of something in the past and thought he might have made a really stupid mistake. Part of this rare moment was his memory of the first time he had met Mr. Joe Future.

--- Some Months Earlier ---

(Somewhere in the USA)

When Bertle McPhee met Joe Future he was not impressed. Mr. Future looked like a bum. And he smelled bad, too. Not only that, but the place Joe Future had chosen for their meeting was under a freeway, in an abandoned warehouse with no roof. It had started to rain and there was a steady wind blowing the rain down.

Mr. Future extended his hand, and said gently, “I am so glad to met you. I apologize for the rain, but as you’ll see, it is all necessary and must happen the way it happens. Yes, of course, I am Joe, Joe Future.”

Bertle did not offer to shake hands. He barked out, “So you’re the demon whore-shipper who has been playing with my mind.” He laughed, a hard brutal sound, and said with real feeling, “Jesus Christ! You’re just a piece of shit on a stick. Look at you. Well worship this.”

Bertle McPhee pulled out his gun, and from a distance of eight feet, from muzzle to target, he shot Joe Future. Bertle used a full metal jacket, and the bullets would fragment on impact, and he had twelve .357 caliber slugs in each clip, and he started with a full clip, and the mag on auto. It was a big gun, and Bertle held it in two hands. He was a good shot. Not expert, but good. Consistent, and he had real-life practical experience in shoot outs with bad guys. And he’d been in on some serious shit in Central America and The Far East.

So he shot Joe Future with all the steady purpose of a man saving himself from a fate worse than death. Possession was nine tenths of the law, and Bertle McPhee was not going to let some demon ____ing Satanist take over his mind.

Bertle hit Joe Prophet with each bullet, and the sacrifice was as grotesque as usual. The jerking, flailing body being hit by fragmenting bullets, and the inevitable gory mess, and of course, the body falling to the ground, but Bertle did not stop shooting. He reloaded and continued shooting steadily, hitting the body with each bullet. Again, he reloaded the gun, and calmly shot at the head of the body. When he reloaded, there was nothing left of the head. Once again, he shot steadily, now aiming for the chest of the body.

When he was done, Bertle stood over the body and reloaded his gun. In the shadowed darkness, he saw the slaughter was complete. This was a headless corpse. There was dead meat at his feet, nothing more. The world was free of one more truly dangerous devil worshiper. And Bertle laughed, out loud and bellowed into the rain, “Don’t EVER ____ with a servant of the Lord! Don’t EVER ____ with Jesus!”

***

The gun Bertle used would go into the system and end up tied to some scum bag who needed to be convinced that cooperation was better than being signed, sealed ,and delivered to the bum boys in Meadowview Correctional Facility. Bertle used everything to his maximum leverage. But he never compromised on the Lord. His motto was, “Don’t ____ with Jesus!”

Bertle was lucky because everything he did was sanctioned by his belief in the rightness of Jesus. For Bertle this meant everything to do with America and Democracy and the right to a lifestyle delivered by the fruits of free enterprise. To Bertle, the rest of the world was somewhere far away, and even when he was traveling outside of America, he could never see or be where he was because he carried America with him, and was contained by it. Here was a man who did not question the ethos of radical conservatism. It was enough to have words to use to describe the creed. Whether the words actually meant what they meant, when the they were in his mouth, who knows? No, they were only words in his mouth: “American foreign and national policy.”

What they meant was, “If I do it, it is good, but if you do the same thing, it is bad, unless I say it’s okay for you to do it, too, but I probably won’t unless you are my proxy, and my client state.”

Bertle had a few guns including some good old American guns, and a collection of off-shore beauties. This collection was registered and all legal. But he had a few personal guns, on the side. He called them his bitches, and how he was gonna go bitch somebody out, and put the bitch on ‘em, and let the bitches settle it for us.

Bertle taught Sunday school.

Yep, right out of the blue, there it is, for your consideration. Something of an image, that is, good old boy Bertle McPhee, prepping kiddies in the ways of folks frozen in the fundamentalist aspic of CREATIONISM: The Earth was not billions of years old, but only about six thousand years old.

When he wasn’t teaching Sunday school, this man was the head of Covert Operations Network, a secret government organization funded by the CIA and some private funding, ultra-secret and doing operations State-side and Off-shore...and when he was teaching Sunday school he was believing and teaching hard core literal Bible twaddle to tots, and all the way up to the teenagers.

It was from these elder youth that Bertle selected the few who might better serve the purpose of the Lord. The ones he would keep an eye on when they went off to college. He kept in touch with these few and smoothed the way. Of those few, another inner group of even fewer self-selected drew nearer to the slight hints of special service for their Great Nation.

Of course Bertle was not the only one doing this.

It was a thing. Organized. Deep Christian Nationalist stuff. But with BIG money. This wasn't some guys who worked at Arby's and managed the Home Depot and ran the local police department or was a town councilor or just some guy who worked doing something.

This weren't that.

BIG money. Ardent come to Jesus, with the fire of the Holy Spirit. Love to pray. Want something back that is gone for good and maybe never ever really was the way it ever really was.

What they wanted was the thing back about what it meant to be educated, in a position of power, and white. When such people ruled the USA. White Power. They would have been quite happy if there was more of the good old days, stuck somewhere in the 1930's.

The days of true racial equality.

You need to know about this secret ultra right wing fundamentalist network of intrigue, and at the highest level of industry and government. Bertle had been doing his funky thing with the cream of the crop for nigh on twenty years. He’d read all about Chiang Kai-shek’s Whampoa Military Academy. Now there was a man who used the system to instill life long loyalty in his subalterns! Bertle had many grateful young men and women, and a few pushing up there, near forty years old, some of them. The few had added up over twenty years.

Bertle McPhee was not a fool. He was sly. For example, the night he shot Mr. Joe Future, he’d had him followed for two weeks before making his move. It turns out the guy was a bum, nose barely above the water, living in a cheap crap hole, and behaving in a very strange and seriously weird way. For two weeks, it’d been the same routine. Mr. Joe Future would leave his crap hole room and come down to the street and stand on the sidewalk and look around for about half an hour. Didn’t matter whether it was raining or not. He wore the same clothes everyday. Track pants, and long sleeve sweat shirt, and running shoes, and no socks, stand there just looking around, staring at things, sort of in a daze.

Then off to the bakery, six blocks away, where he would buy some old bread, and then take that to the park and feed the birds and squirrels. This would take anywhere from one hour to two hours. Mr. Future had the birds and squirrels eating out of his hands, giving them bits of bread with his fingers. When Bertle saw the video tapes of this, and listened to the audio tracks, he was certain this man was in league with the devil.

After feeding the birds and the squirrels, Mr. Joe Future would leave the park and begin walking. He would walk for about four hours. He never went the same way and never went anywhere in particular. He just walked. And in an urban area like New York City, you can walk for hours and hours, if you want to.

Tailing Mr. Future, three agents, and doing the command, Bertle McPhee and his Number One, Ned Deans. Steady Neddy. You want someone to disappear as if he never existed, Steady Neddy can make it so.

You’re thinking assassination? A whack job? Wet work?

Steady Neddy did executions of people, but not the mortal death. He dealt in a different kind of death, the ruination of a person, or a company or a nation. He was Doctor Doom, and once he was assigned to trap you and smear you, count the weeks before the trap closes. Of course, it is not the trap that attracts you, it is the bait in the trap.

Two weeks of running three shifts of three agents, and feeding this bullshit to the interface vultures at the CIA headquarters, and dealing directly with the Director, which was a supreme pain in the ass as far as Bertle was concerned. The guy was a ____ing infidel. Nothing more than a frustrated academic bureaucrat, and cabinet room demi-star, holding a hand of cards dealt by other men, years ago, the same cards, and always the same game.

The Director was nothing compared to Mr. Joe Future.

And yes, Bertle had a letter come to him by special delivery.

***

The righteous American had taken a different point of view as to the origin of the letter. The invitation to meet with Mr. Joe Future had been given the most complete exorcism available, through his church. Bertle took the name and address of the author of the invitation, and he did a personal surveillance. Bertle was no fool. He knew the author of the letter, Mr. Joe Future, would be expecting to be scoped.

Bertle had not read the first three words of the next sentence. He threw the letter down. It was the work of the Beast!

Later, as he prayed about this, and sought guidance, The Voice of the Lord had calmly told him that this was witch-craft and wizardry and to be shunned and destroyed. The echoes of , “...and this IS your hour of greatness! Do not be deceived by the appearance of this wizard, for he will come wearing humble guise; his power is great and would mislead you and deceive you. Such is HIS way, that in the end, IF he has his way, you will forsake heaven, and the government of God, and worship the beast. We have sent you angels to protect you, and bring strength to your hand and purpose. They will protect and guide you, and by turn, save you from misfortune, in battle, or while you rest. Such is the will of your Savior!”

So Bertle had Mr. Joe Future put under surveillance. But not because he ordered it on his own steam. No. The Director of the CIA also received a letter by special delivery. An invitation to meet Mr. Joe Future had been enclosed. The materialization of the letter had taken place during a meeting with Ned Deans and The Director. The two men were sitting down in the Director’s very comfortable chairs, having a few drinks, the formal part of the meeting finished, and now for a relaxed bullshitting contest, and then off to a stuffy, formal dinner with a bunch of bores from the Department of Schizophrenia.

After reading the letter, Steady Neddy and The Director had no choice but to call Bertle.

So Bertle was called in and ordered to do an operation. He didn’t say anything about his own invitation, and all that. No. Not one word.

Bertle pretended to be what he would have been like if it hadn’t happened to him. At one point in listening to the presentation of how the envelope and the invitation had actually arrived, Bertle said, “You know, Bob, it’s a good thing Ned was here, and his story backs up yours. You sure you two by aren’t trying to make a complete fool out of me?”

***

Everyday that he was watched, Joe Future would finish walking about the time the sun set and by then he would have made his way back to his room at the Galaxy Guest Hotel. Then he would come out, after about thirty minutes, and then he would walk to the freeway, near the ramparts of underpasses and overpasses. The sound of the traffic was loud and continuous. But Mr. Future went on, looking straight ahead, never turning around. After two weeks of being watched, Bertle had noticed that Mr. Future never turned back to look behind him.

Whatever.

The fool then made it to the abandoned warehouse and proceeded to spend the rest of the night, standing, in the same spot, all night. Bertle had hours of video tape to prove it, and so did the Agency. Bertle had personally spied on Joe Future’s nocturnal imitation of a statue. He’d watched the devil worshiper through night time spy scopes. Bertle knew why Mr. Future stood there. But the Director and Ned did not know.

On the fourteenth day of the Agency’s sanctioned surveillance, Bertle was ordered by the Director to stop all operations and send everyone on the job on a seven-day leave, effective immediately. And, oh yes, the seven day leave was a bonus, in appreciation. Also, Bertle and Ned were both to take two weeks leave, effective immediately, as bonus, in appreciation, and at end of leave, report directly to The Director for a new assignment.

The Director had told Bertle, “There’s going to be a new section, and the President wants you to be in charge. This is a plum, Bertle. Oh, and one last item, you make it clear to everyone, Mr. Joe Future is strictly off limits. That goes for you and Ned, too, Bertle. You leave that guy as strictly off limits. Do you understand me?”

Bertle said, “Yes, Sir.” .

“See you in two weeks, Bertle, oh-nine hundred hours, my office.” And then the ‘click’ of the telephone termination.

Bertle was remembering, “...One other item, Mr. Future was strictly off limits.”

When Ned heard the order to cease and desist, he said, “Sounds like somebody got another letter in the air, but maybe this time, no one else was there.”

Bertle answered, “I just wish somebody WOULD put something in writing, like a written order, from the ____ing Director, signed and sealed, and witnessed....”

Ned laughed in Bertle’s face and waved the Cease Operations order like a flag of surrender and began humming ‘The Last Post’.

Bertle did as he was told and shut the operation down. By the end of the afternoon, the entire team of agents on the Joe Future job had been sent on leave.

That same evening, he met Mr. Joe Future.

The rest is history.

***

Chapter 6

MEET JOE FUTURE

Two muffins cooking in the oven. One said to the other, “Wow! It sure is hot in here!” The other one yelled out, “Wow! A talking muffin!”

During the fourteen days of surveillance, Bertle’s team had got into Joe’s room. While Joe was out walking the streets, a few times the agents had got inside and did their funky thing. They put in secret spy devices so they could watch and listen from a distance. In every instance that these highly trained agents did their funky thing, the use of technology was evident. Each agent was equipped with the secret high tech cellular telecommunications, and could listen and talk to Command, and if need be, other agents. The little gizmos that they used were powered by very small and very powerful batteries: These agents carried portable energy units.

In every respect, the presence of technology was an integral part of this world, and yet none of the participants (except a few) recognized the inherent principles of magic that had been used in creating this pseudo magic that this world had come to call science. In every respect, the traditional role of real magic is present in pseudo magic, or science. What is missing and makes science a pseudo magic, or what we call ‘crack pot magic’, is the key link between thought and matter. This is largely dormant in the wide mass of humans.

This is for want of a proper master, or perhaps a collective of masters. And that would be for each human. And why not for each molecule of the entire planet, atmosphere-and-all. Why not throw in the whole solar system? The countless godzillions of masters, from here to the Post-Eternal Fountain, each one busy with enlightening the molecules.

But Bertle McPhee would have nothing to do with such enlightenments. The Universe was God’s doing, and Bertle’s molecules served only the Lord. And the Lord was either Jesus or God, depending. Jesus was the son of the Lord. So he was the son of God. The Holy Ghost was something else all together. That was not Jesus or God but both of them or all of them put together or somehow of God but not exactly ALL of God, or it was bigger even but like a part, but somehow, somehow it was a force, that was it, a force, of The LORD!

Bertle bade Ned Deans goodbye over a couple of shots of very good single malt.

All the other agents had come and gone. In each case the stern warning from the Director being dutifully delivered by Bertle, with no sarcasm, and he’d put it into his mind to really make it clear that this was a career alert item: “Mr. Joe Future doesn’t exist and you’ve never heard of him, never seen him, never done nothing with any operation to do with him, you don’t know anything about him. From now on, we don’t know nothing about him, and none of you, none of US are to go near the guy. Stay clear of Mr. Joe Future. Is that clear? I mean this is straight from the top, and I was told to make it clear, and I hope I have. Take my advice, don’t even talk to ANYONE, not even each other, nothing, about this guy, whatever his name is. Gee I already forget. Okay. See? I don’t even know who I’m talking about. You all better get real good at what I’m sharing with you, I don’t even remember what I’m talking about, and have a nice vacation and good work everybody, and now the bar’s open and you can all clear off anytime you want to.”

None of the agents stayed very long, the whole case seemed entirely lame and stupid. Tailing a nutcase bum-bum, a certifiable weirdo. Why? A complete time-waster, and they couldn’t even gossip about it? Only a few agents stayed for a drink, and then it was Ned and Bertle by themselves with a bottle of single malt. But then Ned had left after only a few drinks.

Alone now, Bertle had a few more drinks and thought about Jesus.

Perhaps this big man was ripe for the plucking. Whatever. He was predisposed to being a host for a purpose greater than ourselves. There is much made of having a relationship with a power greater than ourselves, a ‘higher’ power.

Bertle thought to himself, “Power is a result of intention, or purpose. The subtle ingredient of intention and purpose: Will POWER!”

Bertle willingly offered his will to the will of Jesus and The Lord and The Holy Spirit. On numerous occasions, he had been visited by the gift of tongues and vision and even prophecy. And he had laid on hands and cast out demons and slain and been slain in and by the Holy Spirit. All part of the worship and service he gave wholeheartedly through his Church.

Bertle had a solid deal with God, and for that Bertle was glad. He did not chase loose women, gamble, use profanity (well, not that often), nor did he ever take the Lord’s name in vain. Any of the commandments he broke were in the service of The Lord, through the everlasting glory of his Truly Great Country, America. Bertle had no glorious illusions about the rest of the world. Oh, he had illusions, surely, and not even Jesus Himself could get through to Bertle about the rest of the world, or even about America.

For all the fundamentalists and so forths are filtering Jesus Consciousness through a complete and purposeful mind-____. A mind-____ so profound, that they cannot hear ALL of the complete gospel. The right kind of prayer is the prayer to have any inaccuracies of vision based on bull-shit REMOVED, in the name of The Lord, Jesus: “I ask for the REAL Jesus Consciousness! Even if it isn’t what I think it should be!”

And there is the end of all the Christian Church as we know it. You give the people real prayers and real two-way communication with God and His son and The Oh So Holy Ghost. Ask for all the filters to be removed, so you can have the pure scoop on what really is the will of Jesus. What does God have to say about what you’re thinking of doing next?

As Bertle finished off his last drink, the sun was setting.

Mr. Joe Future would be making his way to the abandoned, roofless, warehouse.

Bertle could see an image of Joe walking by the big spans of freeways crossing and rising up and down as other roads passed near or under or over. This was a territory where no people lived, except the worst of underpass and freeway underworld citizens. It was mostly too horrible, even for these homeless people, and not enough good places to build the underpass bridge nests that turned into weird shanty towns of cardboard and plastic and whatever.

Near the abandoned warehouse where Joe was now going, there was a high fence and then a wall, followed by a field of industrial left overs; there was a waste land off the side of the freeway, and another fence, broken and ruined in many places, and then a street with the back side of block after block of empty lots and old houses and five story walk-ups and grotty parking lots. The road to the abandoned warehouse was blocked off to vehicles, and the land around the warehouse was fenced in with warnings posted to stay out because of contaminated soil and so on.

Bertle knew what the soil was contaminated with. Last load in the now abandoned warehouse...some heavy duty toxic shit that had mysteriously caught fire along with many large drums of lethal shit had been bust open by the fire. This had all happened years ago. And that was a story! So Bertle knew what chemicals had been dumped on the future sight of a major freeway cram-jammer extension and link-up with three other freeways. As Bertle savoured the last of the single malt in his glass, he knew that some of that chemical goop had been radioactive. It was in this stream of consciousness jet-fueled by whiskey that Bertle McPhee attended to the counsel of his saviour, Lord Jesus. He had prayed for guidance and he was getting it.

The Lord told him to destroy Joe.

“You are my instrument, Bertle, my arm and my hand, and through your will to do service to The Lord, to do His will, you will kill the servant of the Beast. Do not cut once, but cut the Beast many times, and however you shall, sever the head from the body of the servant of the Beast.”

A few hours later Bertle shot Joe Prophet. Forty-eight bullets, each one a hit, each bullet blowing out large chunks of meat and bone. When Bertle stopped shooting, he looked through his night vision glasses at the corpse of Joe. Bertle had brought a large duffle bag, and he opened the bag up and removed a double-barreled shotgun. With this gun, he shot the corpse up into smaller chunks. He put twenty-four rounds of double-ought shot through this mess. When he was done, there was very little left of the corpse.

He surveyed the scene with mute satisfaction. The barrel of the shot gun was very hot and he waited for it to cool down before putting it away in his utility bag. He put the hand gun in his speed holster, with a fresh clip loaded, and five more fresh clips of ammo on his speed-feed clip belt. He picked up the bag and walked away.

The rain came down very hard, and the wind came up, with the sound of thunder or the freeway, he wasn’t sure. No mistaking the flashes of the electric storm running over the City. The Lord wanted a good, hard rain to come wash away the remains of a servant of Satan. Bertle was confident that no one would ever know the who behind what happened to Joe Future, servant of the Beast!

***

Two weeks to the day, Bertle was at the office of the Director, oh-nine-hundred hours, on the button, and Bertle was trim and spruced up, skin flushed with the vigour of the fresh out-of-doors; for he was a bit of a nature buff, and liked to rough it in the back country, when he could really get away. A placid oaf of a hunter, and deadly accurate with the tools and craft of such a trade. Lest you think him a slouch-pudding, you should know that old Bertle was something of a sailor, too. So he had the tan and the flushed good looks and relaxed confidence of a man returning from another part of the planet owned by America.

In the outer office seven big men stood on guard. Bertle knew some of them. Presidential security detail. He hadn’t noticed any of the detail downstairs. Bertle checked in with the secretary and was dazzled by her eruption of pleasant warmth.

He was announced and then shown right in. Bertle noted the glowing smile of the Director’s secretary directed at Bertle. Not the usual smile, polite and only that. But now the floodgates of jubilation had opened and he was some kind of hero. She looked like she was gonna kiss him on his cheek and say, “God bless you for what you did!” But she didn’t and he realized he was making too much of it...maybe.

Then she was gone and the doors closed and there was the Director and Ned Deans and The President, all looking at him, and smiling. They were too friendly. Bertle liked George Bush well enough, but thought him to be a very stupid man. As the meeting devolved, his opinion of the President reached new heights of astonished bafflement that someone so dense could have become King of the World.

Bush had also received a letter by special delivery and had gone to his wife and told her and she had told him to talk to his father and he told Bush to come see the CIA, and who else but that good old Christian, Bertle McPhee, to help care for this precious top secret. All the time Bertle listened to the President talk about Joe Future and what this power would mean in the wrong hands and all the usual grim realities America faced, blah, blah, blah.

What did it all came down to?

The President said, “Bertle, here’s the job. A special top secret section to look after Mr. Joe Future and utilize the potential, ah, the talents of this resource. We want to protect this asset as an American asset. This is going to be a secret weapon, a tool, we can use to protect America from our enemies. We’ve got some money for a few special considerations, so we can afford to do this, Bertle. And I want it done right, with good old American know-how to get who ever is the best at the job to do it right the first time. You take care of this for us, Bertle, we’re counting on you.”

The Director briefed Bertle and Ned on the details after The President left.

“This is a Presidential Appointment. Mind you, it is a secret one. You have become invisible. Until this new section is closed down, you don’t exist on our payroll. No government auditor is ever going to know of your section’s existence. Even with CON there was some auditing, even if it was in-house. You are being processed through a big, fat bureaucratic black hole thingy. Don’t ask, who cares? None of this money exists. It’s all chits and debits and bullshit. Ned is going to have to make everybody into new people or whatever it is you decide to do, Bertle. Just don’t drop the ball.”

Bertle was wondering how long a section would go on taking care of a dead man.

He was soon enlightened.

“Bertle, I couldn’t help but notice you don’t seem to share the President’s enthusiasm for the, ah, asset. Is it because a man who can make letters appear out of thin air is...might be...a sort of Trojan Horse?”

“Something like that. Sure. Who knows what little games this guy is gonna play, and not to put the President down, but, really, Sir. This is very tricky. You’re dealing with the forces of the unknown...unless this guy has invented machinery, something to explain how this can be done...it gives me the creeps. You might as well open a Department of Sorcery.”

The Director had smiled cheerfully at him and said with some gusto, “I’m glad you feel that way, because the reason The President ordered you to head the section? Well, guess who really is behind it? None other than Mr. Future himself.”

This was when Bertle was getting the cold zoodle-noodles and the simultaneous application of the tender blind-spot remover.

More words from the Director’s big ugly lips, “...the President met with Mr. Future, yesterday, and I know for certain that he has visited Mr. Future on two other occasions over the last ten days. I believe the invitation The President received was copied before it, ah, returned from whence it came. You might as well know this now as find about it later. When you read the mandate for this section, you’ll see, you can set up surveillance on anyone, even the President. Or even me. But you’re still under my thumb, Bertle, and don’t you forget that. We still keep the chain of command. If I want to know anything, I’ll ask. Otherwise, I don’t want to know. Understood?”

Ned asked a question and Bertle let his own mind go crazy. He waited for the two men to stop talking about personnel ratio shift rotation as opposed to level shifts. Then he said, “The President met with this...guy. Where? At the guy’s hotel? In the guy’s room, or down in the lobby? Or did he meet him in the park and feed the birdies?”

The Director interrupted with assurance. “Now you listen to me, this was Mr. Future’s personal request that you be in charge of protecting him. He came to the President for protection after being attacked a few weeks ago. Fortunately for us, he knew about the attack and escaped safely. He has convinced the President that he has come forward to serve America and help build a pure America. He talks like a preacher in some ways, you know, about how we can have a revival in America...he calls it the Permanent Revival. No drugs, no abortion, no taxes, no crime, and no sleaze, and no slow down in the economy.”

Ned was shaking his head at one of the briefing pages.

“What’s this about an Unlimited Energy Port?”

The Director started laughing and talking at the same time: “Ha ha ha, a little tempter, ha, ha, ha, a cube with plug holes ha ha ha for standard lamp plugs and toaster ha ha ha plugs and you know, a normal two prong plug? And also three prong plug holes. Just a cube, made out of wood. Nothing more. Told the President to take it back to the White House and use it to run anything, ha ha ha, so he did and the cube was X-rayed and scanned and weighed and photographed and everything and then they finally plugged a television into the block of wood, and turned the TV on and the TV worked. So they plugged in more stuff and turned it on, and it’s still going.”

The Director started laughing again.

“I’m sorry, Bertle, but your face! Please, I don’t mean to offend you, but I find all this so absurd, talking with you about cubes of wood that somehow generate enough electrical power to run twelve major appliances...at the same time.

“Bertle, you and Ned might as well know, the President is mighty impressed by that block of wood. This kind of thing can’t be kept secret for long. Maybe Mr. Future has a block of wood for fixing leaks. Why are you shaking your head, Bertle? “

Bertle yearned for a simple explanation. He said, “What we don’t know about what this guy is really up to means we’re gonna get played. Who knows what this guy can do? What ways he can listen to us? Maybe even hear what we’re thinking, read our minds...from a distance. I wonder if the President thought about that.”

“I see,” said the Director of the CIA.

Ned interrupted, reading from the briefing file, “Listen to this, ‘In addition, the testing of artifacts provided by the subject for the transfer of objects and living tissue from one location to a separate location has proven to be accurate and simple to use. Tests to date have a 100% success rate of transfer for human transport from Location A to Location B. To date, we do not know the maximum distance possible and have tested to distances of twelve thousand miles with complete success, using ten volunteers from Leavenworth. The testing was done with complete double-blind procedures. The ten subjects were transported over one hundred times over a period of eight hours. In addition, we have successfully transported large military vehicles, including heavily armored assault vehicles, including ammunition. In all our tests, the transport from Loc A to Loc B took place instantaneously. From our repeated observations and study, we can only say that, with the use of the artifacts in the proscribed arrangement, we have transported humans and objects of all sizes with no apparent change at all, over distances of twelve thousand miles, at a speed faster than we can measure, therefore, faster than the speed of light. We are continuing to study the phenomenon and can offer no logical, scientific explanation for this phenomenon.’”

Ned stopped reading.

The Director smoothly said, “You see why the President wants to make Mr. Joe Future our very good friend, and keep him that way.”

Bertle snorted and shook his head.

The Director looked shrewdly at Bertle and said, “You know, if it was up to me, with your attitude, I’d be asking you if maybe this job wasn’t for you. But you see, Bertle, life isn’t that simple, is it? I can’t be asking you that maybe shit. Because you’re a plain, straight talking guy, who knows? Like you said, who knows what kind of game this guy is playing or what powers he has? But he asked the President to have you be in charge of the security, and have over-ride on anything you don’t think is good medicine for the Nation. That’s power, Bertle, and you’re getting it.”

Ned piped in, “Yeah, right in here, under the Conditions For Use of Real Magic...'it is requested that one Bertle McPhee, trusted protector of The One True Faith, servant of the great People of this most favored Nation, our great Democracy, these United States, this America, be charged with the duty of Complete Security for....'”

The Director broke in, saying earnestly to Bertle, “Mr. Future wants to meet you. I should be kissing YOUR ass, Bertle. Well, let’s just say that this changes every rule book, except no one will ever know about this. It’s up to you to figure out how we can do that and keep it that way.”

Bertle shook his head and said like he meant it, “My rough guess is there must be close to a hundred people that we know about who know about parts of this briefing. How you going to keep this secret? How are you going to keep a scientist from talking about transporting an object faster than the speed of light? How many scientists can we kill or buy off?”

The Director shook his head, and said politely, “Perhaps we have new options?”

Bertle laughed harshly. He wanted to break something. He said quickly, “So now we have some new toys, and I don’t suppose I can ask Mr. Joe Future if he can’t make me something to help manage people’s memories...a nice portable mind-changer. Maybe while he’s whipping up some magic blocks of electrical wood, yeah, those ones. You can plug something into a block of wood. And it works. Block of wood with very precisely carved plug holes. The three prong holes. And it works.”

He looked around the office.

“I mean, come on. Are you serious? Take a look up close at what this actually means. Take it in. A very nice, little, carved piece of wood. I plug in my own multiple power cord, with ten outlets. And I plugged in ten different power cords, each one with ten outlets. And I did that a few more times until I had one huge set of power cords, all plugged in. And then I plugged appliances into all those power cord outlets. And then I turned them all on. And they all worked. Just fine. And they kept working. So really look at this, close up, and see this for what it is. It makes no sense. It is just flat out crazy.”

He laughed unhappily and said, “Maybe he could make us some new brains for our heads, maybe some nice new wooden brains, that he makes just for us, and we can all be nice, wooden brained servants of Mr. Joe Future and assist him in his service to our Great Nation...”

The Director stared at Bertle and said nothing.

The silence filled the office.

Bertle began to examine his fingernails.

Ned was reading the briefing file. His face was a study in baffled wonder.

The Director had stopped staring at Bertle and now was staring at the ceiling. He broke the silence. In the voice of educated authority he said, “This man has not asked for anything. He only wants to help. He is letting us test the goods. He wants to remain a secret, and he wants to help us do that, too. This guy is offering us stuff that could solve fundamental problems that we have, as a Nation. And you have been requested by this man to help him. This is probably the single greatest event in the history of this Nation. This man says he wants to help us, and NOT to help us become evil people with great power. Maybe he’s lying. You can see for yourself, because you are on the ____ing job, Bertle, and this is the new deal, and you’re not being requested by me to do this job. This is me giving you the order: I am ordering you, Bertle. You are going to do the best job, ever. Because if you screw up, well, let’s say you really annoy this fellow, who knows what he could do?”

Bertle said, with feeling, “This is like the Twilight Zone. We’ve got to be all nice to this freak so we don’t go offending him in case he turns us into toads? That the deal? That the new deal? We gonna become a nation of people worried about being turned into...cabbages...or sheep...’lest we offend the magician. Do you hear yourself, Sir? We aren’t running anything anymore, and that’s plain talking.”

The Director sighed, and waved a hand in surrender, and told Bertle, “Release the hounds, and gather the peasants and get the silver bullets, the pitch forks, the wooden stakes, the crucifixes, and the garlic and wolf-bane, we march on the castle of the evil wizard. But I have met him! He lives in a small room in a bad hotel. He doesn’t wear socks. I don’t know, he seems almost simple, you know, not retarded, but simple. Not slow, either, but not fast. Simple. I know, it’s like he isn’t in a hurry. He moves slowly and speaks slowly, and uses simple words, when he talks. But he writes differently than he talks. Oh, you’ll see for yourself because he wants to meet you today.”

***

Before Bertle went on vacation, and before he killed Joe the first time, when Joe Future was first checked out by the Agency, he came out as a legit citizen of the United States of America. Mr. Future had a real social security number, and he’d been an only child, born in Kansas to Mr. Lincoln Future and Mrs. Irma Future. The Agency had dug deep and come up with the original immigration papers for Joe’s great grandfather.

Bertle had the entire file the Agency had compiled on Mr. Joe Future. Induction into the US Marine Corpses, and all the bumf from his four years in the US military, with two tours of Vietnam, including a silver star and a purple heart. Joe had been in the Tet Offensive. Bertle knew from the bumf that Joe was probably a grade “A” hero. Honourable Discharge with regrets Joe had refused officer training and stayed on as an NCO and declined all enticements to stay on.

Then he had become Mr. Straight and Narrow and gone back to school and took a major in actuarial science. Then Mr. Joe Future went into the insurance business, got married, had two children and seemed to lead an exemplary life. Bertle read the private details of what seemed to be a man who had adjusted to a normal civilian life after leaving the military. Bertle began to read with interest about Joe’s legitimate involvement in his community church. He was a staunch member of the Assembly of God and his family was active in the faith.

Joe had been born again. Bertle recognized the truth in the military records, and he could see it in the report on Joe’s church life. He’d been active in his community all his married life, and was regarded as a really good guy. But all this was in memory, for Joe’s life all changed, suddenly, one dark and stormy night. Ten years ago, one Monday after work, Joe drove to the Church from his work. His wife and two children were going to come to the church with another family and use Joe’s other vehicle, a big mini-van. There was going to be a Church dinner, and then the kids were going to be putting on a show. Usually these things were a lot of fun and everybody had a good time, and the kids loved it. The kids got to fool around in the hall and really go crazy. So everyone looked forward to these little do’s. It was summer time, and so the food was going to be served outside, and tables needed to be set up, so Joe was helping do all this and wondering if June was tied up in traffic, and what a hassle that new turn at Lawrence and the Main was.

Joe was really worried when June and the Kids were one hour late. He had bought June and the kids and himself cell phones, so they could all stay in touch. For the last thirty minutes, Joe had repeatedly tried to call June. Bertle checked the transcript of Joe’s calls on that day he lost his family. It was all there. Including the last call. When the police had called him, using the cell phone they’d found in the purse of June Future.

Joe’s wife and two children were all killed when a drunk driver crossed the line and hit Joe’s minivan, head-on. The drunk’s car was doing about eighty mph, and Joe’s minivan was doing sixty. The crash sent the two cars into various types of oncoming traffic. A transport truck rammed the side of Joe’s minivan, and sent it flying into the oncoming traffic. Moments later, a large dump truck, unable to come to a stop, or avoid the minivan, hit the minivan and again the minivan was rammed. By then all the people in the minivan were dead.

***

So Bertle McPhee went to meet Joe.

Bertle was thinking, on the way to the meeting with Joe, “This guy can make wooden blocks that power TV’s, he can make letters appear and disappear. Who knows what this guy can make real? Like the man said, ‘It’s a whole new set of rules’, or whatever it is Mulligan muttered to Molly. This guy is a leprechaun. No. I’m outa my depth, Lord. I can’t do this alone! You told me to ace the servant of the Beast. I did. Now I’m having a meeting with the guy? I need some help. Help me, Lord.”

The calmness of turning it over to the Holy Spirit, ah, Bertle let it seep into to his body. His mind cleared and settled and became quiet. Bertle was now ready to listen. His mind was blank. Then, right on cue came the Voice of God, filling Bertle up with grace and splendor. It was a strong contact and without a smidgen of doubt.

Bertle listened.

The Lord said, “Bertle, my son, you required a miracle. It is time for you to ask yourself, what do you believe in more, the gun or The Word. You killed him. Yet he lives. What do you call this? A miracle? Yet he is the servant of the Beast. Now you have the proof you require. This man turned to the Beast, and the Beast has rewarded him and given him great powers to trap the World in the wonders of the power of the Beast. For the Beast will hide himself with the cloth of virtue and take shame and guilt and turn them into love and forgiveness but it is not the truth and the Beast will be worshiped by all the World. Once passed, then the end comes and the Beast will consume all the World, and man will be no more, and all these souls will be consumed by the Beast as fuel in his furnace.

“Come to him with sweet honey in your mouth, and little said that is not asked and little said to what is asked, and each word a comfort and a obvious humility to the servant of the Beast. You will pose as his willing servant. Be bold in your admission that you killed him. Do not apologize. This must be met with great resolve. After the pleasantries, ask this man, ‘I shot you and killed you, yet you live. How can this be? Please explain?’”

Bertle was glad of a definitive direction on the little detail of having aced Joe. Bertle had figured this was some smug display of power. Bertle didn’t think that Joe had told anyone about being killed by Bertle. Either that, or...this wasn’t the same man. It struck Bertle that he didn’t really know. Maybe he’d been a twin, or some guy hired to be someone else. But no. Somehow that didn’t fit.

Bertle had stopped listening to the Lord because the Lord had said all He’d needed to say. Bertle was primed. The car had arrived at the drop-off. Bertle would walk the rest of the way, about two blocks, to Joe’s cheap hotel. Joe’s neighborhood was a catchment for those on their way up and those on their way down, and those who were going to stay, as long as they could manage. Bertle spotted the drug dealers and the action, all mixed into everyday life of women with kids and babies and kids who should be in school out on the street, and men who should be working, laughing and passing a bottle, and the cars that went by, with the hungry eyes checking out Bertle. He was still dressed for his meeting with The Director of the CIA.

He went by some local goons, and one of them called out, “Hey Man, you got some spare change?” He heard the others going, “Check out the suit,” and “Rich pickings from that Cracker,” and, “Shit, he ain't friendly,” and more, and all of it laid out in the quasi-English language of the New York urban poor.

Bertle ignored them and strode on. But the goons were following, and taunting him. “Yo, yo, hey, man, you some sort of cop? You look like a cop to me. You think he looks like a cop? Hey, he dress rich enough for a cop. Yeah, he must be on vice, afford a suit like that, must be on the vice squad. Hey, you a new vice guy? We just want to know so we don’t pick on the wrong guy. Hey man, we’re talking to you.”

All this and Bertle now had about five goons keeping pace with him, and surrounding him, but still not touching him, but keeping close. He knew there were a few more goons following along. Other people were getting out of the way, and some moved aside and said nothing.

Bertle walked on, and the goons kept it up, but still not touching Bertle. Bertle was about half-a-block from the hotel where Joe had a room. That was when the goons made their move. There was an alley opening onto the sidewalk, and as he came alongside the alley, the goons suddenly and collectively grabbed hold of him to carry him into the alley. They were gonna take him down, in broad daylight, on a public street.

***

Bertle’s brain was working, and he knew the goons were gang-members, and he was gonna get severely ripped off. But in broad daylight? Yes.

In the shit holes of New York, this was often the norm. The modes-operendi of this attack struck Bertle as being out of proportion to a normal daytime mugging.

“Sure,” Bertle thought, “I’m being attacked, but this is all wrong....”

And it was.

All in, seven goons had grabbed onto Bertle, and he was hustled into the alley, fast, his feet off the ground, and seven pairs of hands locking on to his arms, legs, neck, lifting him up and carrying him quickly into the darkest part of the alley.

It was all wrong.

Bertle knew he should be struggling and doing his funky ninja of death. He thought about getting his gun out, but that was no use, it was too far away, wasn’t it? He smiled at the thought of trying to get the gun. How silly! What for? He was off on a jolly adventure, and the memory of what once was drifted far away, in another fanciful time, back in that other place, not here.

Bertle knew, for sure, that something weird was going on. He felt like his brain was made out of cotton candy.

The goons were trotting along, and carried Bertle like he was a big, soft, feather.

Gee, this sure was a long alley. Bertle considered this fact and let it stretch out, and he went, “Naw, why bother? It is too nice just to lie here and consider the fact that I am lying here, and what exactly was I thinking about? Oh, it doesn’t matter. Oh, the fellow, Joe whatever his name is. I must be on my way to see him.”

Then he was suddenly out of the happier state, and suddenly, right back into the old shoe, and he was freaking. The goons had thrown him down on to a pile of old mattresses. Bertle bounced heavily. He came up fighting. By instinct, he went for the toughest looking goon, the supreme toughest of the seven goons. Off the bounce of the mattress, all the la-la gone, Bertle was back, and foaming with cornered fury.

As Bertle attacked the toughest of the seven goons, this same man cried out, “Ah, you’re wasting yer breath wee laddie!” But it was too late, Bertle was fully launched, and his fists and feet on target. Bertle no longer was a placid oaf. He was aroused, and forgetting his gun, he was so furious, he wanted to taste blood and feel bones snapping, and vertebrae cracking and popping.

So his fists and feet would have surely killed the toughest goon. Bertle’s fists and feet were filled with the power of fear and outrage and survival. He should have killed the smug goon.

Yes.

We’re all agreed on this point.

But he did not kill the smug goon.

What happened? His fists and feet and then his entire body entered into a goo, a warmish sort of goo, liquidy and dense and sort of givey, too, like it was all warm and pushy and pressed in, but comfortably, and it felt good to just relax, and the goo seemed to somehow support and let you lie back and float, on your back, and really it was most pleasant.

“What was it I was doing? Running? Some sort of fight? Ridiculous! Hmmm, I was doing something but I don’t really remember, so it mustn’t have been very interesting. Hmmmm, this is so nice.”

Then, suddenly, once more, he was back in the old shoe. Bertle had floated back over the old mattresses, and the toughest of the seven goons had clapped his hands, once, and the goo let Bertle go. He bounced heavily, and then settled and this time stayed on his back for a moment and then slowly got off the mattresses. The seven goons faced him, in various postures of complete disdain and mockery. Surely they had not been this big?

Bertle pulled out his big handgun. How had that stayed in it’s holster?

The biggest goon was mimicking his movements, and the other goons were laughing, and speaking in some strange language. Bertle held onto his gun and stared at the seven goons. The biggest one matched him, like a mirror, and the others broke up laughing and then also tried to imitate each other imitating Bertle. A few moments of this brought Bertle’s cry of, “For God’s sake, who are you? What do you want?”

The toughest of the seven goons cried back, “Why waste your breath? Begin shooting me, and let’s get that part over. Then we can talk to you.”

Bertle was in the moment. He looked around and noticed...things...like this wasn’t a normal alley. The goons faced the street behind Bertle, and the windowless outside walls of old five storey walk ups crowded the sky, only there wasn’t any sky. Bertle raised his gun and aimed at the toughest goon. All the goons stopped fooling around. Silently, they all drew guns and pointed them at each other. All except the toughest goon. He stood without a gun, his hands on his hips, a slight smile on his hatchet face. He said softly, taunting, “Make my day, punk.”

Bertle heard himself say, “This is a load of lies. All of it. None of this is real.”

The toughest goon replied quietly, “Then shoot me, come on, we’re wasting time. Do I have to start begging you to do it?”

Bertle frowned, sighting the goon’s chest, the gun steady in his two hands. He said, “No. This won’t prove anything. This isn’t real. I know it isn’t real. If I shoot you, it will prove nothing.”

The goon said quickly, “Consider it target practice, but please, do be a good fellow and shoot me, now.”

Bertle felt a strength of stubbornness rise up, and the silly dumbness of it all smacked him in the face. Being somebody else’s fool wasn’t Bertle’s scene. He said, simply, “No.”

The toughest of the seven goons looked to his comrades. They lowered their guns and sat down. The toughest of the seven goons remained standing. He said in a matter of fact tone, “Well, we can afford to wait for you to shoot me. Certainly we can wait for that. So if you want to shoot me, you let me know. Just start shooting me. Since you won’t do that now, well, we can only let you stay where you are. You have some mattresses, so you’ll be comfortable. We can wait. Mind you, we have no mattresses to sit on, only this cold and dirty pavement, but don’t you think about our comfort for a single moment, we will wait, and in the meantime, we will provide you with musical interludes which we will not share in so that we do not deprive you of your personal listening pleasure. If it gets too loud, you just start shooting me and then it will stop. Thank you and goodbye.”

With that, the toughest of the seven goons winked at Bertle and gave him a little bow. The music started, in quadraphonic sound, quite loud; Johnny Cash doing ‘Ring of Fire’, but just as Johnny began in on the chorus, the song started skipping, right in the middle of the refrain, ‘the ring of fire’. The song kept skipping, and the sound was loud, grating. The now very stubborn Bertle sat down on the mattresses.

He watched the seven goons laughing and joking, and then one of them said something and they all looked at Bertle. The sound of the skipping stopped, and a sudden sound of a long, horrible scratching of a record, very loud, and then the crash of different music and voices, “...War, what are we fighting for? Absolutely nothing!” and the famous song was played a few more bars and then another hideous scratching sound. Bertle winced in physical pain, instinctively covering his ears, and then another song, very loud: Jimi Hendrix in full flight, wailing and singing, “I’m a Voodoo child, I’m a Voodoo child!”

The screaming guitar wailed and thrashed, and this was too much for Bertle. Listening to the profferings of this negro Satanist, an open practitioner of the dark arts, and all Jimi represented to Bertle of the debauched, deliberate welcoming in of the Beast? Bertle knew that Jimi Hendrix had sold his soul to the Beast. Bertle had always thought that Jimi was directly responsible for leading a generation into the music of the Beast.

Voodoo Child.

Bertle couldn’t stand this song. He hated it with every bit of his moral fiber. It represented the degradation of a style of music that he actually quite liked, Gospel Blues, and the soaring galaxy of song raised in praise of the Lord. Not this abomination of music being tortured to serve the grunts and groans of the corrupted; and seducing the innocent, who then are the corrupted. As far as Bertle was concerned, the rise of Jimi Hendrix was the passage of moral decency. In 2002, you only had to look at the sexploitation on MTV and the allusions to drugs and sexual perversion, and there was Jimi Hendrix, smiling alongside Satan, looking on at the rising tide of corruption. One thing led to another, and he knew this to be true in the case of Jimi Hendrix.

The song was so loud that Bertle couldn’t see clearly. That’s how loud the sound was. He felt his ears going deaf. The pain was too much, even if it wasn’t real, he’d had enough. He aimed his gun and shot. The music stopped. The silence was loud. Bertle’s ears rang. He shot the gun some more, trying to see where the toughest goon had got to.

Ah, there he was.

Bertle aimed carefully and, ringing ears or not, he shot the toughest goon...only the bullets stopped suddenly, in the middle of the air, suspended, inches from the toughest goon’s chest and face.

Bertle thought, “Why am I not surprised?”

The toughest goon was inspecting the bullets. He called out, “A very good question. Yes, why are you not surprised?” The other six goons remained seated. Two of these goons had produced some food, which they were handing out to the others. One of the goons handed the toughest of the seven goons some food. He started to eat and remained standing, facing Bertle.

“Are you hungry? This is quite good.”

Bertle snorted. He felt irritated and impatient. His tone of voice sizzled with annoyance. “Now what? Do I have to eat with you? I mean, tell me? What do you want?”

The toughest goon accepted some more food, and then with a smile, sat down on the pavement and made a little pile of his food on his lap. He ate slowly, and in between bites said, “A mere politeness on my part. Naturally, if we have food, we will offer you some. Surely, what you do with an offer is your affair.”

Bertle said coldly, “What do you want?”

The toughest goon grinned, “That you have some food...”

“Is this like the shooting thing?” asked Bertle. “If I don’t eat, what happens?”

The toughest goon shrugged and said, “Eventually you will get hungry.”

Bertle had to admit to himself that this was probably true.

Bertle said, “I am an important man. My absence will be noticed. There will be a search. You will be caught. You will be arrested.”

The other goons broke out laughing when they heard this. The toughest goon only shook his head and ate another mouthful. Between bites he said, “Oh, I don’t think anyone will miss you.”

Bertle said, “Besides, I am on my way to meet someone of great importance. He will be expecting me.”

The other goons fell over onto the pavement, laughing hysterically. The toughest goon ignored them and continued eating, but he was trying hard not to grin. He said in a voice held serious by great effort, “Do you think HE would actually help the man who murdered him?”

A pause while Bertle’s heart skipped a beat.

The big goon was now back to mimicking Bertle. He stopped chewing, and swallowed, and said dryly, “Oh, you were watched, don’t worry.”

The goon examined Bertle’s face to see the reaction. The toughest goon of seven goons told Bertle, “Well, now ask yourself, why didn’t we stop you? Because we couldn’t? Or because we didn’t want to stop you. And if so, why? Puzzle me a puzzle and I’ll riddle you a riddle.”

Bertle said in a very small voice, “Who are you? And what do you want?”

The goon laughed, tilting his head back and throwing his chest into it. He cried, “There it is? Who are you? What do you want? I ask YOU the same questions. But you will only tell me your name, and that you want me to answer YOUR questions, and to let you go AND perhaps have me put in one of your secret military detention centers? After I am drained of all my secrets? The desert is a big graveyard, isn't it, Mr. Secret Agent. Oh don’t deny me your true feelings, I know them all.”

The other goons started to pass around rather large bottles, and each took a drink from all the bottles, passing them from one to the other. The toughest goon was given his own bottle, and he drank long, emptying half the bottle, and when he stopped he gave a satisfied, “Ahhhh!” and put the bottle on the pavement. He looked at Bertle and asked, “Do you want some of this? It is very good and very strong.”

As Bertle said, “No,” the toughest goon shook his head and said, “Tissk tissk tissk, ‘NO’ again. Suit yourself. But it is very good. I can personally guarantee you, this stuff can’t hurt YOU. Perfectly safe, I guarantee you. Drink as much as you like, and it is very strong and never makes you sick. Is a health tonic. I wouldn’t lie to you, I swear.”

Bertle hissed, “You are the father of lies, the Prince Of Lies!”

The toughest goon shock his head sadly, mocking Bertle’s genuine outrage.

“You think I am the devil? Satan Majestica? Me?”

Bertle stared back, grim and tight with his seething righteousness. The Lord seemed to be absent, but Bertle had the ultimate faith and knew The Lord worked in mysterious ways. Bullets sometimes killed the wrong people, like innocent children, and where was The Lord? Where is The Lord?

Again Bertle hissed, “Then you are it’s servant.”

The toughest of the seven goons carefully studied Bertle. He said, “Maybe I don’t like you too much. You remind me of a man who thinks he knows a great truth. You say I lie? I think the truth is you have lied to yourself. Believe what you want to believe, that is your choice.” The toughest goon picked up his bottle and took a long, slow drink.

Another voice spoke. A new voice, and a female voice, rich and deep and vibrant, hitting all the colors in the feel-good rainbow. The Voice said, “What’s taking so long?”

The toughest goon finished his drink and put the bottle down and sighed, “Ahhh, this one is too uptight about Satan. Every shadow is The Beast. He is obsessed. He is useless to us, I think.”

The Voice said, “What do the other men say?”

The six other goons all began talking at once. Not English, no, a strange language, all beat and rhythm, going off into sounds Bertle had never heard. The Voice said, “That much?” and in a firmer tone, “Enough! Right, you there, the human. Yes you. The one who calls himself Bertle. Pay attention to me. Right. Now, before there was the God who spawned your blessed Jesus, what was going on? And after this God who gave birth to Jesus is dead, where do you think you’ve been, Bertle? Floating in aspic? What quaint notions of the truth. You think Joe is the Servant of the Beast, and these men, they are too, right? And whatever I am, behind this voice, also, servant of the Beast. Right?”

There was a pause of waiting for an answer.

Bertle grunted.

Another pause.

He thought the source of the voice was somewhere above him. He said, “This is not the work of The Lord. This is not real.”

The Voice sighed in rich, all knowing confidence, like someone getting ready to defecate in a private and pleasing place. “Bertle, I don’t want your soul. I don’t want anyone’s soul. Think of me as a business interest who wants to impress you with our reach. I know you didn’t take the little trip offered to you inside the letter you received from Joe. That is unusual.

“Consider me a sort of analyst for a major business interest with branches here on your planet. Okay. You also shot Joe, many times; though this is not as unusual as turning your nose up at the letter, it is still...violent.

“Think of me as vice-president in charge of security. Personally, I believe that good public relations goes a long way to making security a piece of cake. Get to the people who need further clarification about an issue, and assist in their being thoroughly clarified. What do you think?”

Bertle scowled and said clearly and bravely, “I think you suck. This whole routine sucks. Whatever you want to do, get it over with.”

The Voice laughed, pleased, like a clown had just done a silly bit of slapstick that really was funny. Then, “Please, go. If you are so thick and dead to curiosity, I will leave you with your delusion. I take your leave with parting words, oh great Thick-oh. Joe Future is NOT the servant of The Beast. He is a silly creature and most annoying, however he can do what he wants, and you certainly cannot stop him. If you think God can stop him, dream on. Joe is not your main worry. I think you may have some influence on Joe. He respects you for refusing his bribe, and for shooting him. He was impressed by your passion. He thinks he can cure you of your affliction regarding Jesus. Ha! He will be a truly great magician if he can do that!”

The goons were all laughing.

Bertle said, “Go on and laugh...we’ll see.”

The Voice made a hushing sound. The goons stopped laughing and got up, taking their bottles, and drinking the last of the liquid. The goons turned and walked away from Bertle. The toughest of the seven goons raised his left palm and smiled coldly. He said distinctly, “You are a very vain man and very stupid. You will bring much suffering to your world with this Jesus you worship. Perhaps this is a good thing? Maybe your world needs more suffering. Do you think your world wants more suffering? Or is it a case of your world not wanting more suffering but you know what your world needs, what’s good for your world, and you think you know what is good for your world, whether the world would want it or no, or not even need it. The Jesus who speaks to you in your head is your own Jesus that you have created. This is how powerful you are. But you do not know it, do you? That is why you are stupid. Do you realize She would have taught you many great things? But you are so stupid and vain and petty, so sure, eh? Satan? The Beast? They live in your heart and in the anus you call your brain, where you carry all the things you fear. You make them real. They are not my creatures. Do you even presume to know who any of my comrades are, or even who I am? Such as you? It is pity that brings me to inform you. In my case, ah, well, you won’t believe me, will you? Oh well. Look at me. How can you resist? Well you cannot. Remember well what you have fought against. Your very own kingdom. The kingdom within you.”

The toughest goon turned and walked away from Bertle. Bertle tried to watch him but the light from the street end of the alley was too bright and it hurt his eyes. He looked away.

The Voice said, “You can go if you want to.”

Bertle grunted but didn’t move. He said, “Why did you do all this? What’s it all in aid of?”

A deep and meaningful sigh, and then, “Oh, Bertle, Bertle, Bertle, what is to become of you? Perhaps you are a kind of hero, Bertle. Can you think about something more than God? Something bigger? The Gods of God, if you see what I mean. There are some fairly large imaginations imagining, Bertle. Perhaps you could stretch yours a little, please. So, please, listen to this: Joe is just one of many, and perhaps Joe is a little annoying sometimes. Think of me as a business interest avoiding the suffering yet to come.”

Bertle got up from the mattresses and straightened out his suit. He said, “Word games, and mind games, that’s all I’m getting from what you say. I believe in plain talking. You can put me down all you want for being ignorant. All I want to do is go back to my normal life.”

The Voice answered, chiding and a bit formal, “You are free to go, you know.”

“But not back to my normal life,” said Bertle with feeling.

“Ah, well, normal? there I think you bray at the moon.”

***

Bertle looked up at the skyless blankness, and the five story walk-ups were way higher than five stories. He took a few steps, still staring up, looking for The Voice. Bertle was a placid oaf, once again. His filter was back in operation. He called out, “You are right about me being obsessed.”

He took a few more steps to the light at the street end of the alley. He wanted to know if The Voice had a name.

So the Voice answered, “With your mind’s ears, hear my thoughts and not my voice, and you shall know my name.”

Bertle stood still and considered this offer and put it through his simple filter. He then shrugged his shoulders and went, “Naw, forget it. You’re the Queen of Liars. Once I open my mind to you, I’m done.”

The Voice laughed, and it wasn’t a pleasant sort of jolly jokey laugh. This was the bleeding edge of maniacal madness, direct from the pit of endless damnation and, all in all, terrifying. Bertle couldn’t move his feet he was so scared.

“Ha! Scared you, didn’t I? Now you will truly think I am, oh, Bertle, and as Goondahji said, 'you are stupid.' I can make or break a dozen-godzillion Satans or Devils. The versions you have created and are creating, they are in your mind. I can easily contend with the conflicted imaginings of your species, and their like. And what is bigger than Big is a relative of mine.”

The Voice giggled.

Bertle hadn't quite recovered from being scared out of his mind.

He walked quickly, heading for the street entrance, and thinking, “You can’t shoot ‘em, and you can’t have privacy in your head, and there is no way I can arrest her, even if she is a her.”

He called out, “I got too much going on for another mystery. You ever want to do some plain talking, well, you got my number. I’ve got wooden blocks that generate electricity, and a President who thinks this is a great thing, and that’s just one of the appetizers.”

The Voice said, “That isn’t like you to actually disclose anything.”

Bertle gave a short and harsh laugh, and then said, “You read my mind anyway. Doesn’t matter really. I say what I want to say.” He laughed, and said, like it was an aside, “Though how can I even know that? You can probably make me think whatever you want, make me say whatever you want. You can tell me different, that you wouldn’t do that even if you could.”

The Voice answered gently, “Such is your doubt. I leave you with your puzzle; you can sweat over it.”

Bertle said, “I notice that I don’t seem to be getting any closer to the street.”

“Yes, you’re correct. One last bit, Bertle. Do see if you can curb some of Joe’s wilder schemes. You will have only your stupid wits and persuasive stubbornness to aid you BECAUSE you certainly won’t take my help, will you? You see, If you can keep Joe occupied with your moral dilemma, it will let me move along some really much nastier sorts who have started to show up.”

“So you want me to help you?” He laughed.

The Voice answered respectfully, “Bertle, you’ll come to see who is wearing the white hats. Until then, you just go on being you, and that will do just have to do, won’t it?”

Bertle felt like a fast-one had been pulled on him. So he shrugged and said, “Yep, it’ll have to do.”

His was walking, and now for real, and The Voice laughed, and said, “Bertle, Bertle, Bertle,” fading away, and then very faint, “Oh, Bertle, what am I going to do with you?”

***

The Voice was gone. Bertle could feel its goneness. The alley was back to normal. He was alone. The alley smelled bad. He could see the street and hear the City. It made him smile. This was real. He could feel the difference.

Bertle left the alley and turned towards Joe’s hotel. There was no sign of the goons. He checked his wrist watch. He was back on schedule. He said to himself, “So where did the time not go?”

Forty steps later he was at the street entrance to Joe’s Hotel, only the sign over the street entrance seemed to have been changed. It now read, “The Galaxy Guest Hotel”.

Bertle opened one of the two, formerly glass doors. Both doors had pieces of plywood where once had been a pain of glass, and over that, sturdy wire mesh firmly attached to the frame of the door.

He entered a small vestibule and then climbed the set of stairs that led to the narrow and small lobby on the second floor. There was a desk clerk sitting watching television. His name was Bernie. He and Bertle knew each other from the times Bertle had come by and tossed Joe Future's sordid room.

Bernie glanced at Bertle and said, “Yeah, you know where it is? Third floor, room 333: Ask for Maureen.” The guy grinned. “She’ll ____ your brains out, copper, and that’s a fact.”

Bertle answered in a very friendly voice, “Not while I am on duty, Bernie. You know that.”

The guy waved his hands in disgust. He went back to the television with a parting shot, “Well go have your weirdo sex with that weirdo deviant. He ever find out you been in his room when he wasn't here?”

Now that was out of character. Bertle had to stop and deal with this. This was a guy who was a bug, and he might require squashing. The guy could feel Bertle staring at him. Bertle let it ride and let the guy sweat. Bertle thought, “You let one of these bugs think he’s got something on you...” He didn’t complete the thought. His conclusion was found in action.

Bertle was a big man. He didn’t look particularly kind-hearted. Bertle narrowed his eyes and said, “Hey Bernie, how many times you been in his room? Do you think he knows about that?”

This should have sunk the guy but he only nodded his head and stared at the television, paying more attention to Judge Judy than to Bertle. This was too much! Bertle felt the sudden arrival of his very bad temper. He stared at the desk clerk. He wanted to bust his face open, maybe take the television and crush the guy’s bug face.

The desk clerk’s profile sneered at the television screen. Bertle paused and made a small triumph over his very bad temper. The thought went through his head, “If I am this upset, then I feel strongly about something. What is it? What’s going on?”

The answer came as he studied the guy’s ugly sneer. In profile, he looked even more like a bug. All he was missing was the antenna. Sure, the guy was ugly. But he wasn’t behaving normally. To Bertle this was now a keen and hard slap. Suspicion flared up, and now Bertle thought the guy was probably an impostor. He thought, “I am getting paranoid or finally starting to pay attention. Maybe these things have been around before this, playing their little games.”

The guy turned away from the television screen and stared at Bertle. Big, bruised circles round the guy’s little eyes, and a tired, sallow face, with thin lips and a little nose, set in a big horse jaw, and on top, thin hair, died a shiny black, with little treasure troves of dandruff highlighted by the glow from the television screen. He said, “You say something?”

Bertle shook his head and smiled like he meant it and said, “No.”

The guy said, “Oh, I thought you just did.” He turned away from Bertle and stared at the television.

***

Bertle walked away, shaking his head, going, “Geez, this is the perpetual twilight zone; Maybe that was and maybe that wasn’t. You know, I’ve only got so much attention span for this weirdo infiltration.” He was talking to himself, and walking to Joe’s room, and not really as stupid as you might think.

The Voice had told him there were others, worse than Joe. So maybe some of these others would be showing up, and maybe they already had shown up. That’s what Bertle was thinking, too.

The door to Joe’s room was now in front of him.

Bertle knocked on the door.

He heard a faint sound from the other side of the door. Then the flush of a toilet. From a room down the hall came the sounds of two people arguing in Spanish. A woman was shrieking that she wasn’t going to put up with it anymore. A man yelled back, imploring the woman to see reason and not be such a shrew. Bertle listened with absent interest. A brief memory of his ex-wife came to him. It was enough.

He knocked on the door a second time.

This time the door swung open.

***

Chapter 7

TO THE RUSSIANS WITH SOMETHING AKIN TO LOVE

(Humankind will not be free until the last Kremlin commissar is strangled with the entrails of the last Pentagon chief of staff )

Dmitri was tired the morning his first letter arrived by special delivery. He was exhausted, actually. All from last night: Too much vodka, too many cigarettes, and the food he’d eaten! The groan came from every aching part of his body. He lifted his weary eyes to the text of the report he was reading. From Chechen spies. But Dmitri wasn’t interested in the politics or the military advantage. He was looking for drugs money and, of course, the drugs.

He was an opportunist of the new Not Soviet Union.

(NOTE: What does Soviet literally mean?

Soviets (singular: soviet; Russian сове́т, tr. sovét, Russian pronunciation: [sɐˈvʲet], literally “council” in English) were political organizations and governmental bodies of the former Russian Empire, primarily associated with the Russian Revolution, which gave the name to the latter state of the Soviet Union.)

Dmitri was a man embroiled in a thousand plots to stay wealthy and powerful. There were intricacies to staying alive in the New Russia. Dmitri was a master manipulator of these intricacies...so far. He'd even invented a few new ones. But he was feeling rather sick of it all. And in his heart of hearts, at this weakest moment, Dmitri wanted out. Retirement, and somewhere out of Russia.

The West.

As he tried to read the report, he realized that he was too old and fed up.

Ah, somewhere warm, and with no Russians. But could he do it? And if so, when?

Of course a man like Dmitri had a plan for getting out of Dodge in a hurry. But the exact amount he thought he needed for his retirement, did he have it all? Not quite. On this particular morning, he was seriously ignoring the report and thinking maybe it was time, anyway, and to get out now.

As his eyes ignored the Cyrillic writing, he realized that he could make do with what he had, and he didn’t care. “I have enough. I can disappear.” As this idea grew, he felt a little better, not so tired. He looked at the report and made a quick decision. He got up from his desk and crossed his office and opened the big door into his assistant’s office. Dmitri stood in the doorway and a man looked up from a desk and grinned cynically.

“Yes Sir?”

“When are the phones being fixed?”

“Ah, the phones. Comrade Vivichek has ordered a new system. We are being upgraded. I just received a memo dated two weeks ago. The efficiency of our new staffing measures has valiantly relieved me of all my last three days files and naturally they are so efficient they cannot find this work and I will have to do it again.”

Dmitri sighed and said, “Stop.”

“But Sir, there is so much more praise that I have to offer for our new revitalized management system.”

“Vasil, I want you to get a message to Elita. I’ll have it ready in ten minutes. Oh, and I want you to deliver this yourself. And as far as all this work the new liaison has lost, you tell me, was any of it important stuff?”

Vasil looked stunned by this question, almost insulted. “Sir, I am not a fool! Of course not. I followed your instructions to the letter.”

Dmitri nodded and was satisfied. He said smoothly, “Then I want you to tell them to come to me when they come and ask you where the section report is. I will deal with this. Forget doing a new copy for them. And Vasil, come straight back here after you’ve seen Elita. I will have something interesting to tell you by then.”

Vasil didn’t ask any questions. The way his boss looked at him contrasted with the easy tone of his voice. The two men knew there was a high probability verging on absolute certainty that their offices were bugged. So Vasil simply said, “Yes Sir,” and went back to his work.

Dmitri closed the door and went to his desk and sat down. He began to prepare a message in code. What he wrote was, 'I will be late for dinner. I want to make love to you at the usual time and place.' This actually meant, 'It is time to leave!' It was while he wrote his message that he received a letter by very special delivery.

***

The code Dmitri used was a precaution and a habit. This message to Elita would sever his life in Russia and bring it to a full stop. He would simply disappear.

Goodbye Moscow.

Dmitri was feeling better and better. He doubled checked the coded message, just to make sure. Good. Now to get Vasil on his way to Elita. He picked up the message from the desk top and folded it carefully, opened a drawer and took out a plain envelope and put the message inside. The message read: “I will be late for dinner. I want to make love to you at the usual time and place.”

He paused for a moment, envelope in hand, and then he smiled at the idea of leaving, once and for all. He started to stand up. On his way to get Vasil on the job, and certainly not expecting what happened in the air over his desk.

At first, there was a little bit of something in the air over his desk. A certain twinkling of something, bits of stuff, appearing in the air over his desk. More and more of it appearing from nowhere, over his desk. He measured the distance at half-a-meter above the centre of his desk.

“Perhaps it is the alcohol poisoning?” he said to himself.

The white stuff wasn’t twinkling anymore. All the little bits started clinging to each other, and from this a definite, solid shape slowly took form in front of his astonished eyes. And there it was, an envelope, by very special delivery, floating in the air over his desk. He felt his jaw hanging open. His name was written on the envelope, in a strong and bold Russian, and the envelope was FLOATING in the air.

He stared at the floating envelope and decided he was hallucinating. He muttered to himself, “I will have to stop drinking so much.”

He stood up and walked around his desk, hands trailing on the edges of his desk, while he stared at the envelope. He reached out to touch his hallucination but couldn’t quite bring himself to touch it. Dmitri knew much about real alcohol poisoning, and the horrible visions of typically insects and little people and snakes and birds and what have you. But he’d never heard of floating envelopes. This was definitely a first.

He closed his eyes as he touched the floating envelope. It was real. He could feel thick paper, solid mass. But at his touch, the envelope fell to the top of the desk, and hit with a satisfying thud of reality. Dmitri struggled with this new texture of his hallucination. For the first time he thought of getting Vasil.

The telephone on his desk buzzed. Dmitri picked it up and heard Vasil at the other end, and in the next office, “Good news, Sir. The new management have decided to reinstate the old telephone system, temporarily, until the new contractor returns from his trip to Amsterdam.” Vasil’s voice was amusingly dry and restrained, like a newscaster from Stalin’s day.

Dmitri made a decision.

“I want you to come in here.”

“Yes Sir.”

***

Vasil entered a few moments later, after locking his own office door. He came in smiling. He was a rather pleasant looking, middle-aged man, with that look of mild expectation, all the while a very busy brain that missed little, and usually figured out in the end any of the little bits he did miss. Dmitri knew Vasil was an excellent detective. None better.

“Come here and look at this and tell me what you see on my desk.”

Vasil’s smile grew and he came over to the desk and looked.

“I see three pens, a ruler, a file, a blotter, three pencils, an eraser, a telephone, a mug, a picture of Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev , an ashtray with cigarette butts, and a desk lamp, and in the middle, on top, that unstamped envelope. I would say that is very expensive paper, Sir. Quite impressive. I think someone wants to make a statement when they send unstamped mail in an envelope of such quality.”

Dmitri nodded as if something else was more important. He tapped his left ear. Vasil understood. This meant the office was definitely bugged. Demitri told him, “Yes, that is from a time share deal in Mexico. But forget that. Answer this: And how much of these office supplies I have to purchase myself?”

Vasil grinned. Ah, this was the game! Good.

“Ah, Sir, you know how it is, you even buy supplies for me to use, which shows your generosity, though, if I can speak frankly?”

“Yes, yes.”
“Sir, we all know the way your budget has been cut. I know you spend your own money to get things done. Well, it is not like the old days, Sir, is it?”

Dmitri was a bit puzzled by this fact. He answered, “No, and gone forever. A distant memory. Imagine what this place will be like in fifty years? Ha! Well, enough. I’m not quite ready for you yet, Vasil, so, back to your own desk.”

“Right.” Vasil started to go, and when he got to the door, Dmitri said, “And Vasil, hold all my calls.”

“Right, Sir.”

***

Vasil was gone, the door was closed and locked. Dmitri sat down at his desk. So the envelope WAS real, at least could be seen by another person. Ponder that one, thought Dmitri. Not a hallucination. Hmmmmmm.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose up as he picked up the envelope in his left hand. It was thick and heavy. The material felt smooth and coarse, a mixture of different weaves, and obviously very expensive. If you knew anything about paper, you’d know this envelope would have cost a lot of money, IF you could manage to copy how it was made.

He held the envelope in one hand and then the other, just checking out a basic impossibility. A casual event, surely. He thought the universe must have developed a sense of humour. He really didn’t know what to think, he realized.

The envelope was not sealed.

Obviously there was something inside the envelope. He could feel it.

Come on! You are a hero of the Revolution! Are you scared of a piece of paper?

Yes, as it turns out, he was.

He opened the envelope and removed a large piece of thick paper, trimmed in gold, and folded, and there was that same bold style of writing, every letter clear and marching across the page, waiting to begin marching into Dmitri’s brain.

Now he was actually excited as he opened up the letter and examined it, and then, he couldn’t help himself, he began to read the letter, and he soon quite forgot the rest of the world, and any plans he had for leaving his position in Russia.

***

The letter was dated for that day, and then began, “Esteemed Comrade! The revolution IS not dead! Permit me to introduce a subtle invitation: What you truly want is at your fingertips and within reach through anyone of your own two eyes. This legitimate desire to be free of the toil and hardship of your current life can be yours to realize fully AND YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE TO LEAVE YOUR OWN OFFICE. I seek to impress you, Sir; and to this end, if you read the next sentence after this, and then read the very next sentence, and then the first four words of the sentence after that, you will be instantaneously transported into another, more pleasing body, and into circumstances and settings you will find most satisfactory. And all this with complete discretion. You will be able to return to this exact moment, anytime you want to. And you will be quite safe....”

But Dmitri wasn’t reading the letter because everything around him had suddenly changed. No big deal, no flash or bang or dizzy shifting or melting or anything.

He was also in a different body.

This new body was holding the letter in one of its hands.

He was standing on a terrace overlooking the ocean. A garden encompassed the terrace. And bordering the garden, a forest of jungle, falling away to the ocean. The sun was either at mid-morning or later in the afternoon. The sky was a different colour than that of Moscow’s polluted sky, and Dmitri could see for miles and miles, right out to where the sky met the ocean. He could smell the water, and the brine of the beach. He could hear the surf, and the cry of birds, and the wind.

Letter still in hand, he turned around and faced what was a long, three-sectioned bungalow with a very deep roof, and windows cut from ceiling to floor. Ignoring the vista behind him, he looked at the house. It was bedded round by big palm trees. And a bunch of other trees he didn't know the name of. The roof came out a good twelve feet past the outside walls of the house. There was a good shaded area under the overhang. He walked towards the house. The house was made of stone, and well made, just look at those fixtures!

He went to one of the set of windows, and noticed the thickness of the walls, at least one meter. Built to last. The window was open, and he could see inside. A large, high ceilinged room, dark and comfortable. He could make out two oriental carpets and arm chairs and a table, and what looked like book cases, and books, so many books! Then he noticed a bar, fully stocked, and that was too much.

He called out, “Hello! Hello! Hello?”

A woman’s voice coming from his rear answered “What ARE you doing?”

He jumped, on the spot, and then turned quickly to find out who had spoken. A woman stood looking at him, with one hand on her hip, and a bored expression on her face, as if she was waiting for something better to do. Dmitri held his breath.

She was insolent of expression, and staring at him with bored, hostile eyes, and her tone of voice exactly like the greatest love of his life!

He gaped at the insolent aggression of her body, and the cold beauty in her face, past exotic, to the extreme of beauty. He had never seen tits before, he realized. Or the velvet pit, fur lined and lippy. It was the first time man had ever seen Eve before, and she was no dumb blonde waiting for an apple. She said with exasperation, “Have you lost your tongue?”

He stared at her.

She stuck out her tongue at him. Then she said, “As you can see, I have not. Veepo, you promised we would go to the beach and have a picnic and that we would leave together, and you said we would go over an hour ago, and here you are doing something stupid. Why can’t you keep your word?”

He noticed that she was carrying a large purse. He said, “Do you have a mirror in your bag?”

She raised her eyebrows. “What?”

He asked, in a reasonable tone of voice, “Do I own this house?”

She looked at him suspiciously. “What are you getting at?”

He shook his head and said, “Never mind. My Darling, I don’t know where the time went, but you know how I am! So, let’s go to the beach.”

She looked at him with suspicion. “You NEVER call me darling.”

He smiled. He couldn’t help but notice that his arms were bigger, and this body he was in, it felt free of fatigue and stress. He liked the clothing he had on. Loose and cool and clean and fresh and white. Of all the men who read their special delivery letter, Dmitri was the only one who upon first being transported did not question that what was happening was real. He did not think that he had gone mad.

He stared shrewdly at the woman and said, “Do you love me?”

She shook her head, frowning, and looked away.

He repeated, “Do you love me?”

She looked at him. “Yes you swine, I love you.”

He grinned at her and said, “Well then? What more could I want?”

“How about loving me? How about that for a change?”

Dmitri understood this perfectly. He opened his arms to her, gesturing with his hands for her to come. He said gently, “Whatever I have done to hurt or disappoint you I am truly sorry. Give me another chance to prove MY love for you. Have you never heard of a miracle? Come here, and give me another chance to love you. Please, Darling!”

She looked at him as if he was joking, but only for a bit. She asked, “You are serious? You talk this way? Now?”

“I can see bitterness, and yet there is still love. If I was a stranger, and living with you, my faults would be unknown to you. Give me that chance with you, now. Let me be a stranger to you, and learn how to love you, all over again.”

She narrowed her eyes, hands on her hips, and with a go to hell expression on her gorgeous face she said, “You ARE serious.”

He sensed victory. “Yes, I am serious. But also so happy, too, my Darling. I can say to you, in all seriousness, that this is the start of a new life for me.”

***

It was quite some time before Dmitri got around to reading the rest of the letter he’d received by special deliver. He refolded the letter and put it in a pocket and buttoned the pocket up so that the letter wouldn’t go anywhere. All that could wait until later. Much later.

Over the next thirty days he discovered much of who he was and the standard of living that accompanied his new status. And from the newspapers that were delivered he learned of the times. Once he figured out the dates were real, he was enormously relieved.

He lived on a very famous island in the Caribbean. He had his own yacht. Moored at the marina. There was a charter air service that he had a part interest in, branches in Miami and several islands. He had money invested in the stock market. And then there was all the land he owned in Cuba. And the bits of sections of Miami Beach. The year was 1955. Dmitri was now transformed into a man in his thirties, rich and permanently retired to pursue his hobbies of making even more money. His name was Veepo Mosst and he lived with his girl friend, Romana.

There were servants and cars and the casinos and the night life in the hotels and clubs along the money-sucking streets. And why not? It was Cuba. Veepo Mosst spent one very happy month going to places he remembered from his visits to the Cuba yet to come. The Cuba of Fidel Castro.

Veepo was an American citizen, born and bred, and now living the good life in style. There was nothing money couldn’t buy in Havana. But that was miles away from the bungalow and the beach that he now owned.

Once he discovered that he was in Cuba, Veepo became allergic to opening the letter and reading anything that would permit him to go back to Moscow and the grim year of 2002.

Between the bungalow and Havana lay miles of roads that went through poverty stricken villages and the rotten peasant world of Batista’s Cuba. And every so often, a splendid villa, and the well-to-do, up behind the carefully constructed stone walls.

Veepo eventually discovered his girl friend’s name.

Romana.

He rarely thought about Moscow. But he did think about the letter. He kept the letter with him, all the time. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to lose the letter. No. He didn’t want that to happen! He had successfully recalled several important events that were to happen in this year of 1955. And as he ordered more magazines and became familiar with the current events of the year to date, he began to remember even more about what was to come.

As the thirty days went by, he immersed himself in a new life, and so far removed from the privations he had faced in this same year, 1955, when he had lived through it as a Russian. As Dmitri, oh, it had been horrible that year in Russia. 1955 sucked. He remembered the crappy quality of so many things. But in Cuba, this Veepo didn’t stint. For a rich American, he lived fairly simply, but with great elegance and style, and everything he owned was the very best and top quality, and made to last. And everything he owned was in tip-top condition.

Veepo spent many happy hours in the big room he’d first looked into and called out, “Hello! Hello! Hello?”

The bungalow had three wings set at right angles to each other. The master section housed his bedroom, two guest bedrooms, and three full, very large bathrooms, a large dining room, a separate lounge, then his library and office, a games room with a pool table and table tennis, and one powder room with toilet. The servants section was more modest but quite decent and very clean. Each had their own room, and two washrooms, and a backyard screened and fenced off. The servants included a cook, a maid, a gardener, a driver, and a night watchman. The third section housed the kitchen, the laundry, a workshop, and the spacious, three car garage. Off to the side of the garage was a small out-building housing a diesel fueled electric generator. This entire compound was set behind a very high stone wall, with sharpened shafts of metal barbs set in place on top of the wall. There were gates set in the wall. The gates opened and closed automatically and opened out onto the road.

The bungalow was set on a rise above this road, and was an impressive sight from the garden.

Veepo Mosst was a man who took great care in his possessions. Dmitri was proud to carry on in his place. Under this new management, Veepo began to become the sort of lover that his girl friend had been dreaming of.

At first she was suspicious. But Veepo kept it up and towards the twentieth day of his new ownership, Dmitri knew she was starting to respond in a positive way. The narrowing eyes were now powered by a renewed hunger for this man’s body. She began to look at him as if he wasn't’ Veepo anymore, but some new and strange and marvelous man.

On the twenty-first day of his life as Veepo, she came to him in the night and asked him to make love to her. He was in the library, reading voraciously, and making notes, and smiling, smiling. He smiled most of the time these days. He was so damn happy he thought he was going to burst. He wanted to tell everyone the good news. There wouldn’t be a nuclear war in this decade, or the next! All that fear, wasted.

There he was, eight short years away from the standoff between Russia and America: The Cuban Missile Crisis. Ha! Kennedy wasn’t even President! 1955! Ha! He took another drink and grinned. He lit another cigarette. Ah...excellent tobacco.

Then his girl friend came into the library, wearing a thin robe, and her eyes were soft and glowing and a bit afraid. “Veepo, come to bed and make love to me...”

He was immersed in his recollections of 1955, and 1956, 1957, what was to come,

He met her eyes.

He put out the cigarette, stood up and came to her without hesitation.

Later, as they lay in each other’s arms, she told him, “Damn you, I am in love with you, and I thought I was free of that, once and for all. But it is slender, Veepo. Slender but real. It needs feeding.”

Veepo answered, “So we will give it food.”

He made love to her, and a thousand life times of unrequited love was returned to her.

On the thirtieth day, she was eating out of his hand. By now, he had proposed to her that they get married. She told him, “But you know I cannot. My husband will never give me a divorce.”

Veepo insisted that there should be some formal and legal relationship between them, and if not an exact marriage, then something better. A business contract! He also suggested that methods existed to persuade certain estranged husbands that divorce was an excellent idea.

Veepo had a whole circle of social acquaintances called ‘friends and buddies’ who came and went as whim and work ebbed and flowed. Some were the trendy, trashy, post-war rich, and some the trendy, trashy pre-war rich. That’s how this world seemed to work. Then there were the ones trying to get rich or richer. And since all the rich seemed to be always trying to get richer, it was all about the money to most of this crowd. Veepo was fascinated by the setting for all this, Cuba, and the urban scene of Havana, and in contrast to the Havana he’d known in the Cuba of Fidel Castro.

He was treated like a big shot where ever he went. There was respect in the men’s eyes. And the women looked at him with open, cool appraisal. Dmitri was beginning to forget he was Dmitri. And his love affair with Romana, and his proposal of marriage, and all the special attentions to pleasing her, ah, what an intoxicant to see love in her beautiful eyes.

You see, the minute he’d laid eyes on her, he’d fallen in love.

He knew why the letter had sent him here, to be with this woman. He, Dmitri, could love her properly, and he’d be a good caretaker of this man’s money, too. And all his property. Come to that, he was going to make some money on the real estate boom, and then sell out. He knew that Havana was going bust. Come the revolution.

Miami Beach was a hot place to put money, but he knew it was going to die a slow death in the Early Sixties. He was considering all the places he could make some serious cash but quick, and then all the sure things he could invest in, like Xerox and IBM. He could even go to Hollywood and invest in movies. He could remember the really big hits, and put his money in those productions. He’d have to be careful, but still, if he was careful, it might be fun.

***

On the evening of his thirtieth day as Veepo, Dmitri was getting ready to go out to the Tropicana casino and do a little gambling. He and his girl friend were staying in Havana at the Hotel Nacional. Veepo was considering buying the place, but first he was going to check out the entire operation. Romana was only aware that he was here to do some gambling and socializing. He had talked vaguely to her about staying for a few days, spending some money and having a few laughs.

Prior to Dmitri becoming Veepo, she’d thought that Veepo was getting ready to dump her. Thirty days ago, she was sure he was gonna get rid of her. Pay her off and see you later, baby.

Romana knew she was a woman in a man’s world, and it was her looks and her go ____ yourself attitude wrapped in feminine mystique that had got her married. But not married to Veepo. Her husband had turned out to be a vast waste of time, and she left him and purposely set herself up as a whore, and then Veepo had come along.

When Veepo came along, she was buying herself a nice, quiet dinner at a favourite restaurant. She was two years into the game, and she was doing okay for herself. A nice, steady income. She’d always turned heads, ever since she was a little girl, men had looked at her like they wanted to...you know. So she ate in a nice restaurant, and was treated with respect. She didn’t dress like a whore. And as to how she behaved, no one would know she was a whore.

No one except Veepo Mosst.

He was at the bar, watching her. He knew what she was, though he’d never met her before, or seen her. He grinned, and ordered another drink. The discrete buzz of conversation balanced nicely with the well-fed appearance of the patrons of the restaurant. Only six years ago, America had won the Second World War, and now it was fighting another war, this one in Korea.

Veepo had spotted Romana. In his case, it was lust at first sight.

The rest was the usual little flirtation, and the expected results.

For her part, Romana was impressed with his appetite for carnal pleasure.

For him, she became an obsession.

The idea that other men could buy her was too much. After only a few weeks of seduction, he entered into serious negotiations to buy her for a four year contract. After Romana figured out that Veepo was actually serious, she offered herself up for a very large sum of money. What impressed her the most was how he accepted without trying to dicker and then gave her a gift.

Her first diamond necklace.

The next day, he gave her a certified cheque for slightly more than she’d bargained for. When she mentioned this and thanked him, he laughed and his eyes gleamed. “It is really nothing. I made a little more than I expected, so I decided to add it on, why not? Besides, this shows you how much I love you, doesn’t it?”

She was glad of the money but she didn’t believe him. Not about the love. But if it made him happy to pretend, well, so?

For the next four years, he would give her gifts and tell her that was how he proved he loved her. “You see? I do think of you.”

There were other women, and sometimes, other men. She was expected to attend certain parties and watch while he had sex with other people. But only to watch. Romana was only for Veepo to touch. He would do it to her while other people watched. And there was the whirl of travel and always Veepo had so much money to spend, and spend it he did.

Sometimes, Romana caught herself thinking about having children. Oh no, this was not wise. No. Yet, it could happen. That she would think about having a kid.

Veepo told her that he could not breed due to an injury suffered in some battle. She had seen the scars on his testicles.

But men were all liars, so she didn’t know.

And Veepo seemed to know so many people everywhere they went. He seemed to have part interests in businesses all over America, and in the Caribbean, Central America and a few other places, too. One time, she’d overheard him talking to another man about a copper mine in someplace called Vietnam. The man had offered Veepo some fantastic sum of money for his shares, and she’d heard Veepo answer, “Well, that is a respectable figure, Monsieur, and thank you for it, too. But, I am offered more by Monsieur Gastilles, and he is coming here in one hour with the money.”

“How much more!”

“Ah, another thirty-three percent more than you are willing to spend.”

“And if I match it?”

“Ah, then you must bid, because I can only sell to the highest bidder.”

“I must have those shares. I can make it thirty-four percent more than I originally offered.”

“Ah, But, you see, the fact is...”

“You haven’t signed any papers yet, not with Gastilles!”

“No, not yet.”

“Thank God!”

“Yes. But, you see, I have come to a price with him, and to back out now, well, it will be worthless to gain his displeasure unless the extra profit I make MAKES it worth my while to sell you these shares.”

“What price then?”

“A full fifty percent above your original offer.”

“Are you mad?’

“Whatever I am, I am serious. And you can take it or leave it.”

“I think I will call Gastilles and see if I can come to some other arrangement.”

“Yes. Call him. I know for a fact that he is prepared to pay more. You both are. And the reason is simple: Money! Yes? Why? A mountain of copper, that’s why, and my connections, and here you are, a license to print money for the next ten years. Proven reserves of the richest ore bed ever yet mined. And a government rolling over and begging to be bought. This is a dream, and I’ve got the shares you want. Do you know how much money you’ll make? There’s got to be over a billion dollars worth of copper ore in that mountain. Do you know how much money a mining company is going to make out of this?

“One hundred weight of copper is worth a lot of money. Did you know the world is running out of copper? This mine will make someone very, very rich. I’m selling out early, get my quick money, and on to the next deal. I don’t want to be a miner, and I don’t want to deal with the running of some mining company. Forget it. I want the quick cash, and I want it now. But I won’t be played like some dummy.

“So you can pay and get it now, or you can watch Gastilles buy all my shares, and you can watch him walk away with a license to print money. And all because you were cheap. Yeah, cheap. Sure, I know, you want a bargain, you don’t see it as being cheap, well, too bad.”

The man said, “I think I’ll wait and see if Gastilles is actually coming.”

Veepo countered with, “Oh? Why don’t you come with me, and I”ll phone him and you can ask him yourself?”

At this point, Romana realized the two men had got up and gone to the telephone.

The next day Veepo and Romana flew to Miami, Florida. On the way, Veepo told her, “I made a lot of money yesterday. Guess how much?”

So she teased him, but actually she was quite curious to know how much he’d made.

“One hundred dollars?”

He laughed.

“One thousand dollars?”

“Continue....”

“Ten thousand dollars?”

“No. More.”

She was tired of tens, so she said, “Ninety-nine thousand dollars?”

“More ambitious but not Herculean enough.”

“Then, was it five hundred and fifty one thousand dollars?”

“No. Keep going up.”

Eventually she reached a little over six million dollars, and he said, “Well, that’s close enough, but actually I made a little bit more than that, but still, that’s close enough. Let’s just say I made six million dollars yesterday.”

***

Before Dmitri took over Veepo, after four years of being Veepo's bought and paid for girl friend, she could see the signs that he wasn’t going to be renewing the contract. She’d banked the money he paid her four years ago. Most of the gifts he’d given her were diamonds and golds in bracelets and necklaces and rings and broaches and earrings. She never paid for her food or travel, and he was very generous with the clothing allowance.

“I want you to look beautiful. Look, here, see how much I love you? Take this money and go find yourself some more beautiful clothes.”

This is what he would tell her. But it wasn’t love, and she could tell that her time was coming. Goodbye, and the final parting gift, and the proof that he really did love her. Then he would never see her again. So much for love. She didn’t think that was anything like love. Not to her.

She had thought,”Hey! I won’t miss Veepo at all. I don’t even love the guy.”

***

Now, damn him, Veepo had made her fall in love with him. His entire attitude to life had changed, and she remembered the day, too. When she had crept up on him, when he had that damn letter in his hand, the one he was so careful to keep with him at all times. Oh, she knew about the folded piece of paper. Yes. There he had stood, with that piece of paper in his hand, calling out into his own house, “Hello? Hello? Hello?” Not at all in his usual tone.

She had counted the days since this had happened. Thirty days.

She had known him four years, and he’d never acted this way, ever. He was like a different man. And somehow, she knew it was because of what was written on that piece of paper that he always carried in his pocket. Ah, she was curious!

She liked the hotel they were staying in --- though these days she preferred being alone with Veepo at the bungalow. Ah, what a man he was turning out to be. Still, she would believe it when he made good on his offer to marry her. She did believe that if Veepo wanted to he could persuade her estranged husband that a divorce was in his best interests.

Veepo came bustling into her dressing room and rubbing his hands told her, “I’ve lined up a real sucker who wants to play craps with me. He’s going to come and play craps, up here, just the three of us.”

He caught a look he’d noticed before. Over the last thirty days, this new Veepo had figured out that the old Veepo had liked group action. Well, that was all changed. The new Veepo wasn’t going to be having it off with men. And so far, no other woman came close to Romana. Besides, he was in love. She was going to be his wife.

Since he’d noticed her look, she noticed that he’d noticed her look. So then she knew that he knew all that was behind that look. He told her, “Whatever I did before is finished. That sort of thing will never happen again. I am going to marry you. If you’ll still be my wife.”

They ended up making love, much to his delight.

***

Dmitri resurfaced as Dmitri.

He became himself.

No more Veepo.

Except for a twist.

When he was back in Moscow, he knew it was inevitable. The promise at the end of every working day kept him going; the promise kept at night, when he could return to Romana, and be with her and the baby.

Oh, yeah. A baby.

Well, that is news, isn't it?

That’s what kept an old man alive, not just a vacant hulk pretending to be alive, pretending to be The Comrade General.

His life in Moscow was a superficial lie.

More about how he managed all this coming and going, later. For now, it is enough that you know he was living a true, double life.

***

The politics of magic were completely uncharted. Dmitri had to invent plausible excuses for the unexplainable. Witnesses to scientific experiments had to be persuaded that silence was better than death. And within his own, newly formed directorate, enormous efforts were being made to discover what the great secret was.

How did it all work?

After all this came to pass, Dmitri would note how strange it was that the Americans or the British never knew that the Russians had a magician BECAUSE of the leaks within the section in Moscow. These leaks all came from The President’s office. But somehow the secret stayed with the Russian spies spying on each other. No one else could get close enough.

It was the same in the other nations who now had run their course with a magician. But none of them knew about each other having a real magician.

When the man in the room burned his papers, the honey moon with the magician was over. The long and difficult job of managing magic, and bringing it to the Nation, and the entire world without great misunderstanding, this required striking exactly the right note with the Russian people. Once he had the Russian people convinced, then magic could settle the politicians hash, once and for all.

During the early stages of his honeymoon with the magician, Dmitri had been pleased to be given the gift of a Truth Gun. It was actually a little gun carved out of wood.

The magician told him with a sly smile, “All you have to do is point it at the person you want to shoot and say --- bang! --- every time you want the person to tell the truth. They will be compelled to tell you the truth about anything you ask. If you want a lot of detail, and quickly, shoot them a few times, quickly.” The magician said slowly, “The gun will work on all humans, but it won’t work on me.”

Dmitri experimented with the gun.

He took it to his office and shot Vasil and asked him questions about being a spy for Putin, and a list of other names, including other countries like America or Britain or France. Dmitri asked a direct question, “Are you informing or spying on me to anyone, and if so, who? Bang! Bang! Bang!”

“Sir, I’ve only told Irena about seeing a man levitate.”

Dmitri was only mildly disappointed in Vasil. He asked, “Can she be trusted to keep her mouth shut? Bang! Bang! Bang!”

“Oh yes, Sir, she is the soul of discretion. She has seen a great many secrets and I have tried on many occasions to squeeze some little hint from her, but she is mute when it comes to anything like that; to that I can swear. If she makes a promise, she will keep it, and she promised me she would tell no one.”

“Is it possible she is your lover so that she can spy on you? Bang!”

“Sir, what can she learn that I do not tell her? This one story, Sir. I swear to you, nothing more.”

“It is too late. She will be curious to know more, and she will know there is more once she starts asking questions. Bang!”

“No, she won’t. Sir, I don’t believe she would do that.”

“Well, you will have to bring her to me, and I will see for myself.”

“Sir?”

“Go get her, Vasil. If you want to see her again, go and bring her to me.”

***

Oh, those marvelous days, with clever magical toys, and with each one, a special set of delicate considerations. All the laws of science seemed to be getting thoroughly broken into pieces. What would happen to all those universities and text books? There were so many stunning scales of magnitude exposed by each magical toy the magician gave to Dmitri or to President Putin.

Only the magician didn’t always tell Dmitri he’d given Putin some little toy. Maybe Demitri found out on his own, or the magician would give a big hint, or Putin would let it slip. At the end, Dmitri realized that Putin had quite a few magical toys and kept some of them secret. Only Putin and the magician had known about these private toys. Ah, well, now they were only wooden artifacts. Putin would be furious. Ah well, Dmitri had his own collection of useless wooden toys.

At the end, when he was ordering the detonation of the nuclear bomb in hopes of blowing up the servant of the magician, all he could think about was how he would never see Romana, ever. The magician would make sure of that. This hurt, and gave him the small comfort that in a way he was still there with her; somewhere in the time stream, he knew that he was with Romana, making love on the beach while the moon came up over the ocean.

Ah, that was a nice way to make being in New York City in 2002 such a treat. He felt old and betrayed by the untrustworthy. He detested the idea of going back to Russia. The magician could go and rot. Dmitri had had enough. He realized his heart was broken. Let the magician and all like him go and turn each other into porridge.

***

On the thirtieth evening of Veepo’s new management by Dmitri, Romana was sitting in the bar, alone, wating for Veepo. He was coming with the man he’d just played craps with. The two men were having a drink and discussing some possible business deal. The man was some kind of Hollywood producer, and Romana sensed that Veepo was definitely interested in this big film business. She had not liked the way the man had checked out her tits, like he was weighing their market value.

Veepo played the man. At first Veepo and man traded wins, then Veepo started to cream him, keeping the dice for seven rolls, and the man had sunk a thick wad of hundreds, doubling up. Then Veepo went bust, and the man was smiling grimly, and he let it ride and Veepo said sure, and the guy rolled a four and then a five and then a seven. The man had doubled up, and he was sweating. Romana didn’t trust him. She thought he might have a fixed set of dice in some cute pocket, ready to swap and drop.

The man was into Veepo for thousands.

Veepo rolled three the hard way, then he rolled a seven, and then asked the man if he was gonna stop with the doubling up. The man said, “Are you prepared to let me write a cheque?”

Yeah, sure, Veepo was happy to take the man’s cheque.

Veepo rolled a nine. So it was nine the hard way.

When Veepo did it, after six rolls, and the nine came up, the man groaned.

“Right, that’s one hundred and sixty thousand dollars. Don’t you want to stop?”

“No. The odds will always work in favour of my system, and I’ve got the cash in the bank to prove I am right.”

“What if the odds swing my way long enough to bust you?”

“That does not prove this system is wrong.”

“Ah, there you have me because, for me, gambling is all about feelings and has nothing to do with doubling up.”

“I have feelings! You are right, in proving my system, you could bust my bank account. But every dime in this account has been earned by my system. There is the proof! See! Over one million dollars! All of it winnings from craps.”

“Most impressive.”

“Thank you, yes, I agree, it is, isn’t it.”

“Yes.”

“So you see, I have feelings. I wonder how you are feeling, when you see how far I am willing to go. Are you feeling nervous? Yes, the odds can go your way, and I could go bust. But what if I win? How will you feel?”

“Like a man who wants to play on and get my money back because I know the odds will turn, and the wins will come rolling off of my hot little fingers.”

Romana had enough of the two men and made her excuses, and Veepo smiled at her, questioning her with his eyes, did she want him to break up the game and brush this guy off?

No, I’ll leave you to it.

She told him this just with her eyes.

They did all that with their eyes, and it made Romana feel like at last she was a real woman, finally, with a mate who was worthy of the title.

She went down to the lobby and used the house phone to call back to the room Veepo and man were in. Veepo answered the phone, and she told him, “When you’re done with Mr. Horny Toad, I’ll be in the bar, the one with the piano.”

***

Chapter 8

NOT YOUR USUAL PICK UP LINE

(Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?)

While she had a few drinks and listened to the music, most of the men had checked her out and come back for seconds and thirds.

The year was 1955, and soon it would be the new year. In Detroit, Michigan, you could buy a nice house for $10,000. A pound of butter in New York city cost seventy-one cents.

Romana was a status symbol with big, insolent, thrusting tits, and a face that made you want to rape boy scouts or knot holes in pine trees. Her face made you want to ____ her. The perfect mixture of innocence and depravity, right to the ends of her pouty lips, just begging to be used for their natural purpose: xxxxxxx xxxx!

More than one man who checked her out had an imagination. This one image hit all of them: “Her tits swinging free, and moaning and groaning while she sucked my big....” Those kind of images, and the general, well-rounded atmosphere of sexuality formed a dense cloud of desire all around her.

The women in the bar were all dressed to be on display. Lotsa cleavage. Some were legitimate women, but most were not. Off-shore girl friends, mistresses on holiday with their lover, or with their patron; there were also whores and entertainers, and then the few legitimate women, the odd wife, here for the thrill of the night life. The bar was packed, and mostly with Caucasian colonialists. Americans, Brits, Germans, Dutch, Swiss, Canadians, Italians, Spaniards, French, and they all seemed to be millionaires in perpetual motion from one flesh pot to the next.

The piano was being played by a smiling negro. She could barely hear what he was playing. The laughing and talking crowded out the Negro's subtle nuances, and then he began to sing, “Yankee Doodle Dandy”. There was a little burst of applause at a table of drunken Americans.

Romana smiled at the overfed, smug conquerors of the world. They were visitors come to taste a bit of sin, and then scuttle back to Seattle or Duluthe or Boston, hoping they haven’t caught some vile venereal disease. They’d be grateful to crawl back to their churches and drive their big cars and eat their ice-cream while they got even fatter until finally they all died, exploding with fat blowing up and splattering the walls and ceilings and floors of all their kitchens, at the same time, and each one blowing up in front of an open fridge, with a big glob of chilled food in their mouths, chewing and swallowing, exploding even as they chewed their last big, fat, mouthful.

Romana did not notice the man come sliding into the seat next to her until he was sitting there, grinning, and waving the bartender over.

“Yes Sir?”

“Whatever this lady is having looks good to me.”

“Very good, Sir.”

Romana glanced at the man, and then turned to face him. He was worth looking at. With his big, go to hell expression, but amusing, and somehow charming. He didn’t look like a man who was unsure of anything. She felt her own lips twitch into a smile. He was shameless. He frankly examined her with his eyes and said, “Well, well, well, fancy meeting the most beautiful woman in the entire world. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

“Thanks. Do you know you’ve ordered the ultimate woman’s cocktail?”

He let his eyes widen.

She went on, tilting her head and letting her eyes linger, “The ultimate girly drink, I think. A vodka gimlet. Ernesto makes a really good vodka gimlet.”

He nodded, “The classic example of alcoholic fruit punch.”

She shook her head decisively, “No. It is a cocktail, served all frothy, after being strained through ice cubes, and then frothed up in a chilled mixer, and then poured into a big cocktail glass, with a maraschino cherry and a little parasol stuck in the cherry. That is a vodka gimlet.”

He asked seriously, “What’s it got to do with being a gimlet? I mean I see the vodka part, but what’s the gimlet all about?

She gave him one nod and said, “There you are, see for yourself. Bottoms up.”

The man’s vodka gimlet was served.

He drank.

She told him, “See, a gimlet, you can’t really see through a gimlet, it blurs everything so you can’t see properly, if you try and look through one, see? Ha! After a few of those vodka gimlets, you’ll be trying to see through them, all the gimlets you’ve drinken. I mean drunken, no, I mean drunk, drank, drunked?”

He had finished the drink, smacked his lips and called out for another round. He said, “Keep them coming.” He pullled out a few, crisp hundred dollar bills and put them on the bar. “Come get this money, Brother Love!”

The bartender grinned and came over and took the money and beat it back to making more vodka gimlets.

Romana pulled at the man’s sleeve and asked him, “So what is your name?”

My God he was good looking. She blushed as he looked at her. His eyes were so damn beautiful. She wanted to glance away, but he just kept on grinning, and telling her his name.

“My name is Chang.”

She heard herself say, “Just Chang?”

“Yeah, Well, no. My first name is Chang, my middle name is Chang, and so is my Christian name: Chang. My parents had a strange sense of humour. They were a bit eccentric. So I just go by Chang. But hey, you can call me what my friends call me: Chang.”

“Ha, ha, ha.”

“What’s your name?”

“Romana.”

He looked away for a moment. The bartender served another set of vodak gimlets.

“Are you here on business?”

He laughed and shook his head. “No. Business bores me. I am here on a spiritual quest.”

This struck Romana as being hilarious. Here in Havana? In the piano bar of the Casino? She laughed in his face. But he only nodded and said confidently, “Yes, that’s why I am here. You could consider me something of a medium.”

She stopped laughing. He was serious.

“So you just happened to sit next to me?”

He grinned. “Don’t run away. I won’t bite. What I said before, you are the most beautiful human I’ve ever seen.”

She reacted by repeating, “Human?”

Unperturbed he answered, “Yes, human. There are other beautiful creatures besides humans. For example, beautiful horses, or beautiful dogs...you are human, aren’t you?”

She said archly, “Not always.”

***

Of course, she was joking.

The bar was whirling with it. Witty repartee, and much of it alluding to sex and sexuality. For her part, Romana was enjoying her flirtation with this Mr. Chang Chang Chang.

He asked, “And you? Business or pleasure?”

She looked at him frankly and replied lazily, “Oh, me, I’m here with my fiancee...strictly pleasure, in my case. Business bores me, too. I like the money, though.”

He seemed to be smiling forever. What a handsome man! Whenever he leaned closer, she could smell his scent. The ocean came to her mind, and the word clean came to her mind. Chang pulled out a gold cigarette case and offered her a smoke, took one for himself. She picked out a cigarette, touching the case. She was pretty sure it was solid gold.

He told her, “I get these from a fellow who makes them for me. Rather good, actually. Just like these damn gimlets!” He laughed at himself. She could tell he was making fun of having a man make cigarettes for him. “Ah, the life of the idle rich.” He gestured at the people in the bar. “Do you think it matters that I get cigarettes made for me while children go hungry?”

She dragged on the smoke and then exhaled and said, “If you mean, am I a communist, no, I am not.”

“Who said anything about communism?”

“You did. Whenever someone mentions the hungry child I go, ‘Oh oh! Here comes the communism!’ If you want to feed the hungry child, go feed the hungry child. There, the end of communism.”

“You are serious? This is a political theory?”

“No theories. May all the clumps of words rot!”

“Ah, you are right. More words count less. Yet, you would turn away from a starving child?”

She frowned, deep in alcoholic thought. “No. I would not turn away. I would look at the child and say, ‘Good luck, hungry child.’ And then I would ignore it.”

He said with sincerity, “You are not bothered by your feelings?”

“Chang Chang Chang, there is money, and then there are words. All the words. Communism, capitalism, Geez, I don’t know. Words. And then there is money. Every time I hear someone talking about the hungry child, I know someone is going to come and ask me to pay for their guilty feelings.”

Chang considered her, and answered her seriously.

“Some would call you heartless.”

She said quickly, “I don’t see it that way. I cannot accept the responsibility. If I feed the hungry child once, and then what? Leave it? Feed it once? Or take it to a place where it will be fed properly? But what if there isn’t such a place, or there is such a place, but it isn’t suitable for pigs, let alone a hungry child? What then? I leave the child? After raising it’s hopes? Or I am stuck with the hungry child, for the rest of it’s life? And what if I come across another hungry child? What then? So I am not heartless. My action is not heartless. It is the opposite. It is the kindest thing I can do.”

She looked at Chang. There was a Significant Pause.

Finally he said, “Personally speaking, all I want to know is if you really do want to know what’s written on that piece of paper that your fiancee has buttoned up in his pocket.”

What?

She realized that she was quite half-drunk, and wondered absently where Veepo was, and then back to Chang. His eyes were waiting. God, he was good looking, like a handsome pirate.

“What did you say?”

He grinned at her, revealing perfect teeth. “The piece of paper, the one Veepo carries around with him. Do you still want to know what it says?”

She said nothing.

He waited, looking at her, grinning, enjoying her obvious consternation. He could see her brain grinding away. The smoke seemed to be exiting from little cracks forming along her skull. Chang wanted to laugh, but he thought it might be a bit much.

At last, she said, “How do you know about that?”

Chang leaned in close and whispered so only she could hear him, “I can read your mind.”

***

Chang whispered, “You think about it; it is the only reasonable explanation.” He leaned back, and sipped his drink and lit another cigarette, and grinned at her. Romana went back to grinding her brain. She looked at him sideways while he sipped on his drink and smoked and grinned at her.

He winked at her. “I tell you, I really can.”

She tossed her head and looked away, and then back at him and then away.

“Prove it,” she said.

He took out a small box and put it in front of her. “Take this. When you want to read the piece of paper, use the glasses in the box. You’ll have to put them on if you want to read what’s on the piece of paper.”

“Why?”

“Can you read Russian?”

“No, I can barely read English.”

“Well, then you need to wear the glasses to read what’s on the piece of paper.”

“Alright, you can read minds, maybe, and you have magical glasses, great. But how am I going to get the piece of paper without my fiancee finding out?”

Chang asked in a reasonable tone of voice, “Is it so important that he doesn’t know?”

Romana gave him 'the don’t be stupid' look. He grinned at her, obviously enjoying himself thoroughly. From a distance they looked like two people sharing an agreeable conversation. A dozen different pairs of eyes at a time checked them out. He was just so damn handsome and sure of himself, and she was so insolently sexy, and dressed to display the jiggles and the giggles So, of course other men and women looked at them.

Chang pulled out a large coin and put it in front of her.

“When he goes to sleep, put this coin near him. He will stay asleep until you move the coin away. You can do anything you want to him while the coin is near him. He will never know you have removed the piece of paper.”

He paused and inspected her face for reaction. She waited a bit and let her brain grind.

He told her, gently, leaning closer, “The coin will only work on your, ah, fiancee. He will suffer no ill effects. Only a deeper sleep.”

She was in over her head. She had decided he was serious. It was too much. He leaned back, moving away from her. He said, “You can easily test the glasses. Right now.”

She had to ask.

“How?”

“Can you read Spanish?”

“Not very well, no.”

He clapped his hands together and said, “Excellent. Bartender!”

The bartender came quickly. Chang had another hundred dollar bill on the bar.

“Do you have a Spanish newspaper?”

“Right away, Sir.”

Chang turned to Romana and said like a conspirator, “Go on, take out the glasses, put them on, and read the Spanish newspaper. Just don’t scream or give it away, okay? Act like everything is okay, normal, you’re just looking at a story I wanted you to see. It’s gonna be weird when you see the way this works.”

The bartender put a Spanish newspaper on the bar. Chang pushed the hundred dollar bill at him. The bartender took the money, and then emptied the ashtrays, and then seeing he wasn’t wanted, went away. Romana took out the glasses, and put them on, taking care not to muss up her simple hairdo.

“You know, I can’t really read Spanish at all...”

She stopped talking.

She could read the paper.

Her thoughts went something like this: “No. Take off the glasses. Can’t read it, all the words are in Spanish. Put the glasses back on, now I can read it.”

She was about to do it again when Chang said, “Act natural, will you. This is not the time to be getting all weird.”
Romana shrugged and more discretely experimented with the glasses. She could see the Spanish text over and around the lenses of the glasses, and then through the lenses, she could read it and understand every word, no problem. She said, “I must be absolutely tanked. Where did you get these? Shouldn’t I be fainting or something?”

.Chang stood up from the bar and she realized what a big man he was. God he was rugged looking. Beautiful hands, too. He put them on either side of her bar chair, and she could smell him. Her head was swimming with it. He laughed and moved back a step, put his beautiful hands in his pockets and smiled and said, “The glasses are only for you. Won’t do what they do for you for anybody else. Just so you don’t go embarrassing yourself, Romana.”

She didn’t want him to go. She was just going to tell him but he beat her to it.

“No, I can’t stay. Your fiancee is coming. So I can’t answer all your questions. I can only give you more questions.”

She frowned, and never had she looked more beautiful. He lingered to watch her grinding brain. She asked, “Can you really read my mind?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well then?”

“Ah, but it is not so simple is it? Layers and layers to read. And your mind is deep, and has many layers. “

“So can you or can’t you tell me what I’m thinking right now?”

“I can tell you.”

“So tell me!”

“Alright, if you insist.”

Chang came close to her and whispered in her ear. After about a minute, he took a step back and smiled at her. She was looking astonished. Chang made a bow, and took her hand and kissed it. He said, “I am enchanted, and wish you all the happiness you deserve. Your fiancee is a lucky man.”

Romana heard herself say, “But you can’t go! Please stay!”

Chang shook his head and grinned at her. “Oh, I must go. Your Veepo is coming, and I am going to go and break the bank at the Casino. Chemin de Fer. Come by in about two hours, you’ll see a pretty sight. The manager will be sweating gold coins. Ha! Now, not a word about any of this. I am only a charming stranger who bought you some drinks and tried to pick you up.”

She just looked at him.

He hesitated, then, “Keep in mind, I am watching over you. You are in good hands.”

With that he made his way out of the bar, and then he was gone.

***

Chapter 9

LOVE IS A TEMPORARY INSANITY

CURABLE BY MARRIAGE

Romana had time to touch the coin, and then put the glasses back on and read the newspaper. Yes, it really was true, at least about the glasses. And what Chang had whispered in her ear. That was shocking, and in a way, strangely exciting. She had felt naked. More naked than without her clothes. Somehow, the stripping away of pretense with a man like Chang made sense to Romana. No place to hide, and no place to run to. A naked mind, exposed to his casual glance. How did he go about reading her mind? Did he have a coin for that, or a pair of glasses? But he had not worn spectacles.

She lit a cigarette and read the newspaper the way she read any ordinary newspaper, that is, not really paying that much attention. Her brain was grinding more important facts than the fascist propaganda of Batista’s favourite newspaper.

Veepo and the man from Hollywood came up to her.

Naturally, Veepo was happy. He’d lost just enough to make the Hollywood producer start to like him. At one point, Veepo had been up almost half-a-million dollars. So now she could see the two men had come to some sort of an understanding.

Veepo nuzzled her and pulled the newspaper closer to look at it. “What are you doing? Reading a newspaper? When did you start reading Spanish newspapers, especially this fiction? And since when did you start wearing glasses?”

She laughed and pushed him away, saying, “Too many questions!”

The man from Hollywood had taken a section of the paper and was busy scanning the text, a little smug smile curling up the corners of his ugly mouth. He caught her looking at him, and his dark little eyes stared back at her. He licked his lips and she looked away, trying hard not to betray her disgust.

The man said, “This is such a corrupt government. I heard today that none other than Lucky Lucianno and the mob are making millions out of Havana.”

Veepo made a gesture of what can one do about such things. “This will not always be like this,” he said.

The man from Hollywood laughed and made a face. The bartender came up to them and they ordered drinks. Not that they needed more alcohol. The man moaned, “I can’t imagine how the ordinary peasant lives.”

Veepo frowned and said, “For most, on this island, it is a hard life. There are not many opportunities to come dancing at the Casino.”

The man tilted back his head and laughed. Romana thought, “He sounds like a donkey, and looks like a pig.” Veepo squeezed her arm. So he knew what she felt about this man.

The man finished his laugh. The drinks had arrived. He drank. They all did. The man said, “Surely there are democratic alternatives?”

Veepo seemed almost irritated by this question, or rather statement. “The economy is run by the United Fruit Company and the gangsters. You can cut cane and pick bananas, or you can be a criminal.”

The man from Hollywood seemed to twist himself up, and explore Veepo’s face to see if he was actually serious. He told Veepo, “Surely there are other ways to make a living?” Again the question in a statement.

Veepo brushed this aside, saying, “There are plenty of prostitutes in Havana. They call them jineteras. And the male prostitute is called un jinetero, sometimes un pinguero. Yeah, so that’s another way to make money.”

Romana said, “Yes, plenty of whores, and plenty of their children, too.”

The man stared at her with his little dark eyes. Ugh! She smiled politely, hoping Veepo had arranged for some prostitute to come and pick up this odious man. Normally, Romana could endure most of Veepo’s endless acquaintances who would inevitably come over and have a drink, or invite them out to dinner or to a show and dancing or to some party or some trip somewhere. But this man from Hollywood gave her the creeps.

As she thought about this, the man had picked up from her last statement, and leaned back against the bar, and said loud enough for a dozen people to hear, “This woman has just said something...amazing! Veepo! Don’t you see? The story?”

“What? Anthony, what story? The prostitutes?”

The man seemed stunned. He put his hand to his face and then rubbed his eyes. “Not exactly,” he said, “The story is the children of prostitutes. That’s the sizzle, Veepo. Don’t you get it?”

Veepo was genuinely intrigued. The man asked, “How many of these children of prostitutes end up becoming prostitutes?”

Veepo said thoughtfully, “I guess at least fifty percent.”

Romana said, “For those that live long enough, maybe it is higher.”

“You see, violence, sex, suspense, a chance to root for someone’s redemption! The evil pimp, a weak mother, a beautiful daughter, young, innocent, raised in a convent, protected from the terrible secret of her mother’s profession...”

Romana interrupted this dribble.

“Do you think that this is how life is? Have you ever met the children of prostitutes? No? If you are going to tell a story, about the children of prostitutes, I think you should tell the story of the children of the men who come to the prostitutes, the children of the same men who are the fathers of the children of the prostitutes. Tell the story of the two different worlds.”

The man from Hollywood was not offended by her tone of voice. His dark little eyes blinked. He went for the gold, and chased the knowledge. He was inspired, and it was evident in his tone of voice as he answered, “That is brilliant. You should be a screenwriter. I’m not kidding. Geez. Listen, here it is, the two different worlds in contrast, and you bring them together. The kid of the prostitute falls in love with the kid of his own father!”

Veepo smiled warily. “Do you think you could make a film like that, in Hollywood?”

The man slapped Veepo on the back and exclaimed, “You just watch me. I can sell this idea. Listen, I know movies. It is my life. As simple as that. I don’t know how to do anything else and there isn’t anything else I really like to do, except maybe gamble, and I do that only as a kind of hobby so I don’t go crazy thinking about making movies all the time. Like now.”

He paused.

The roar of the bar had reached it’s most magnificent height. He had to speak loudly to be heard, even when he leaned in. “I know you think I won’t remember this in the morning, but I tell you, I am going to my room and I am going to get writing. I’ll have the whole thing done by morning. Then I’ll come get you, for breakfast, and we’ll go over my ideas.”

He got up from his bar chair and patted Veepo on the shoulder, giving it a warm squeeze. “Welcome to show business. You’re first production and I’m smelling Oscars already. Alright. Sorry to just up and go like this, but, hey, if you’re gonna be in this crazy business, you’re gonna come to understand, when the muse strikes, you better stand and deliver or she won’t bother coming round the next time. Well, goodnight, Veepo. Romana, it was nice to meet you.”

They said goodnight and Veepo offered to go with Anthony and help come up with ideas, but the man said no and then a few more goodnights, and then the man left the bar and was gone.

***

Veepo pulled Romana close to him and gave her a kiss. He came away with lipstick on his lips. She made a tiny frown and took a cocktail napkin and dabbed at his lips. He mumbled, “Thanks, Darling.”

“Don’t move your lips! I’m almost done...”

“I think I’m a little drunk...” Veepo said slowly.

Romana finished removing most of the lipstick. She laid the cocktail napkin on the bar. Veepo stayed close, so he could be heard over the din of the bar. Without accusation, he asked, “You don’t like Anthony, do you?”

She had taken out her compact and was inspecting her lips. She said, “You know, I think I’m too drunk to try and put anymore lipstick on...I think the only thing I can do is take the lipstick off!” She picked up another cocktail napkin and kissed it. With a deft twist of her hand and accompanying pursing of her lips, --- viola! --- a slightly smeared print of her lips, on the napkin. She put it down beside the first one, on the bar.

He asked her, “Romana, this guy, he is connected. That’s all. Strictly business. I’m gonna get to know a few people through this guy. That’s all. When he starts talking about how I’m doing my first picture with him, well, maybe I am, and then again, maybe I’m not.”

Romana was getting a picture here. Veepo WAS planning on getting into the movie business. She cleaned her lips with another cocktail napkin. Veepo went on, “The point is, if you can’t stand the guy, well, I don’t think you should have to hang around and suffer. So next time, you go and do something else.”

Romana tossed her head to hide her reaction. “I must be drunk!” she thought accurately. Even so, there it was. She was deeply moved, again, by this strange, new Veepo. Normally he would have gently chastised her for not being a better sport with the likes of Anthony. He would have continued until she was forced to accept the fact that Veepo was only asking her to be nice to a creep. And always: “Because it’s just business, Baby.”

Thinking about all this, she realized that Veepo had not called her ‘Baby’ since the day she snuck up on him. When was that? Thirty days ago. Really? She felt her brain grinding. Veepo went on talking, “...besides, I can’t have my wife being unhappy about anything. You aren’t gonna have the least excuse not to be deliriously happy, all the time. I shall insist upon it!”

She rested her face in her two palms, and rested all that on her elbows, and stared at Veepo’s face. Sure, he was still a handsome man. In that respect, she had been lucky. Veepo was not fat and balding and old. He had a clean and noble body, but she had found it to be a cold body, and a skin that did not draw her deeply. She could achieve the distraction necessary to become absorbed in the act of making love, but to her core, no, never. Though, if she was honest with herself, in the last few weeks, she had been coming closer and closer to that final abandonment. She blushed as she thought of Veepo taking her and having this happen.

Romana looked at him and put her hand on his thigh. He laid his hand on her hand, gently, and they had a conversation of the fingers, thumbs and hands. A dialogue of flesh. Romana and Veepo stared deeply into each other’s eyes, and the thought whistled through her brain, “Oh my God! Don’t tell me I am falling in love with Veepo Mosst!”

***

The two went off to go dancing in the big ballroom of the Casino Deluxe. Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington were showcasing, and Veepo had a table reserved and roped off. Romana did not put any more lipstick on her lips.

That whole evening, in her little cocktail purse, the little case, and the big coin waited for her; and even though she WAS having a marvelous time, and dancing with Veepo, and oh-yes, marvelous, and the drinks and the inevitable food, and then another cigarette, oh, but no more alcohol, she’d had enough! Back to dancing. There was a refuge, in his strong arms, and his flashing smile, sure, why not be in love with this Veepo?

But that was a terrible responsibility. To love someone. She was attracted to this idea and repulsed, all at the same time, and knew it, and why. So she ignored the collision of her heart and her head, and kissed Veepo in THAT way, and let her flesh do the explaining to him: “Here is my little conflict, you help me sort it out.”

So the evening went along until the exhausted couple found oblivion in each others arms. They went to sleep drugged and satiated. Romana had come closer than ever to the final explosion. Veepo sensed this, and oh-so patient, for the soul of Dmitri lived on, and he was a connoisseur of physical love, and a deeply sensitive man, freed from the rigours of maintaining a mask of indifference. As Veepo, Dmitri could finally be what his soul demanded: A great lover of one woman.

He went to sleep in her arms. Could heaven have smiled more kindly on this man?

***

The next afternoon, Romana told Veepo about the eyeglasses and the coin and Mr. Chang Chang Chang. He was stunned, and she noticed his expression of shock, and concentration, too. Veepo would have been angry but tight with it, and been coldly polite, and over something like this, he might have thrown her out. That’s if he’d have believed such a cockamamie story.

Dmitri had been resurrected, and Veepo was under threat, this whole life jeopardized. That’s what Dmitri was thinking. As he listened to Romana give him more details, an idea was forming in his brain. She showed him the case and the eyeglasses, and the big coin. He examined each, and liked the coin, very much. A fine and noble profile, and characters he had never seen before, and on the other side, a fine impression of a bird in flight, carrying an olive branch in it’s beak, and round the edge of the coin, the strange characters.

Veepo told her, “This coin is solid gold. I’ve never seen it’s equal. Have you?”

She shook her head.

***

The hours went by, and Anthony from Hollywood tried to come and see Veepo, but Veepo put him off until later. In fact, the sun was setting by the time Veepo had finished talking with Romana. The essence of their conversation included the fact that each had confided in the other. For example, Romana could have remained silent about Mr. Chang Chang Chang.

After absorbing the facts of her story, Dmitri was back, and he knew he would have to do something to ensure that he could be left untroubled in this new life. “But I am no magician,” he thought. “And I wonder if I am being played. Perhaps someone or something wants me to go back to Moscow? Or perhaps to ensure that I stay here, and never go back to Moscow? But why?”

Dmitri felt overwhelmed, and for reassurance, touched the pocket where the piece of paper rested, all safe and secure. Romana’s steady gaze brought his attention back to her. Dmitri had no more hesitation to tell her everything. For once in his life he would abandon himself in another human being, and take his chances.

He asked Romana, “Do you think I have changed in the last few weeks?”.

.She nodded emphatically. She wore no make up, and was naked, for it was a hot day, and they had turned the air conditioning off, and opened up the windows and the balcony doors, catching the sea breeze, setting the long curtains to blowing in and out of windows and doors, then settle slowly, only to be sucked out or blown back inside, and set like a streamer, as the sea breeze breathed in and out of the room.

It was one of those high scudding days, and lively, even though hot. A tempset might be brewing but this wasn’t a quiet before the storm. No. The weather was perfect for what Veepo and Romana were doing.

Havana sat like a rotting womb under the perfect windy day. The heat baked her. She waited for a miracle. In her corruption she waited to be reborn, just like you do.

Romana stopped nodding her head and said, “Yes. You are...different.”

Dmitri told Romana the whole story.

At one point she said, “But this means you are also alive, right now! In Russia! You exist. My God! You could arrange to go and meet yourself. Veepo, you could have a talk with yourself. Oh my God! This is crazy!”

When it came to reading the letter, Romana said no way, why read it, what was the point? Now that he’d told her, she didn’t need to read the letter. She told him, “We must keep this a secret. And I will help you to improve your memory. We have methods of dealing with you, Comrade. My God! You were a card carrying Communist! Wouldn’t Joe McCarthy want to get his hands on you. You could become the perfect spy, you know. My God! What you know! Tell me...oh, no don’t. This is too much, really, I feel a bit faint, do you know that?”

Veepo answered sincerely, “Me too.”

***

So what did bring Veepo to go back to Moscow?

Because he did go back.

Ten years later, he did go back.

This was after Dmitri as Veepo moved with Romana from Cuba to the USA. The move was timed for April 1958. Veepo wanted them both out of Cuba before Fidel and Che and that Camilo Cienfuegos got anywhere close to Havana.

Plus Veepo knew the government was going to start killing more people. Basically, suspects beware, your fate is unpleasant. And Veepo knew this in his bones. He was, after all, a survivor of the USSR. As Dmitri, he had lived his childhood all the way into his forties as a citizen of the USSR.

And he had risen in the ranks of the secret police within that old Soviet system. He carefully squeezed every ounce of opportunity from any dull task thrown at him. And he immediately made deals to make deals. He had a knack for dealing in the black market. And so, his entry into the subtle world of Russian crime.

What better way to seed the garden of his career, and to water it, and care for it? To give such illicit but much appreciated western goods, especially the luxury culinary items, to say nothing of the western booze, and the good wines. Oh my.

The odd special order could be arranged.

Maybe you might have a 'friend' who could get a shipment to be passed through? Like a truck? From a third party country, like, ah, Finland. Could be a nice truck, Russian truck, with Russian license plates. All nice and correct. Just need the truck to pass through. Wave it on through. So much good stuff packed in that truck. All boxed up and nailed shut tight. Marked with diplomatic immunity seals. The whole hog. Very official. Except it is all a fiction. It is a smuggling operation. For the elite. Only the elite. Like, ah, the chairman of the party.

Dmitri lived inside the body of Veepo. But he was endowed with his memories from when he was Dmitri. As crystal clear as ever. Those years of buying his way to the top, the acquisition of petty secrets concerning the intimate affairs of, well, anyone. But particularly those in power or close to those in power. But the best were the secrets he could use to squeeze. And some of the top men did have sick little secrets.

All on his own he created his own department within the KGB. Its sole function was to spy on anyone in the KGB, the Politburo, the military, and so on. He kicked and clawed to get his department given extra special powers of investigation.

And more resources. Including more agents. Agents he hand-picked. And he turned everyone of them into various types of criminals. The money was just too good. Being in power meant a lot of influence could be brought to bare, as needed, to get certain things to happen...or not to happen.

This all fed itself, growing more powerful.

He was without mercy when it came to the execution of his official duties. Beating a man to make a point, and to send a message, was a skill he excelled at. In fact, he was that man who could have you sit down with him, and begin asking you some questions. You would start to feel increasingly stressed-out. As if everything you said was somehow wrong, and not in a good way.

He had the eyes of a pitiless sadist. Like he was playing with a little baby. And you were the baby. That's the kind of agent he'd been. And it worked. He was the man who got asked by the state to do a lot of dark and horrible things to many different people, and in many places, too. Including some off-record excursions outside the Warsaw Pact countries.

For some of the non-aligned countries that Russia was sucking up to. He did some good evil. And then there were a few little private side trips into the West. And then the formal postings to a slew of western nations. Usually as a communications officer, attached to the embassy.

So all of this to say that he was a man with a past, and he remembered it all, even while installed inside Veepo Mosst.

And so Veepo knew what was coming.

Just the right time to make a jump, and start making some movies. Veepo sold his Cuban holdings. All of it. Next stop was the USA.

***

They had a ridiculously ostentatious home near Santa Barbara, California, USA, and he had the perfect life. He had his own special weather --- it was always sunny inside Veepo. Love made the world go round, and Veepo had it all, and in spades, with Romana at his side. She just kept looking sexier and happier as the years rolled by. Time had come to a lazy agreement with Romana Mosst...and Veepo, too.

They were married, and lived in a dreamworld.

Knowing what is going to happen next brings no boredom, but a great wellspring of security and safety. They had no stress about earthquakes or nuclear attack or race riots or any of that stuff. When it came to politics, Mr. And Mrs. Mosst seemed to always back the winners. Show business was the same thing. Veepo had a talent for discovering new talent and backing sleeper hits AND the films that won Oscars.

This couple brushed off all the riff-raft from their various pasts, and the infamous letter now rested in a fireproof safe, accompanied by the case, eyeglasses, and the big coin. On each anniversary of the day they had told each other the truth, this lucky couple had a special celebration, knowing they shared a great secret, and an abandonment of one to the other.

On the day that they had told each other the truth, after talking and talking and thinking and eventually starting to get ready to dress and eat dinner, maybe, well, they ended up making love. And this was the moment when Romana burst open. This was the final abandonment, and as she gushed, helplessly gushing, past reason, of course, and all that and more, the leaving her body and the blackening of her vision, and the screen of light with impressions coming, some vivid, some not, and the throwing ark clutching no more at the boundaries of gravity or space and time. She no longer knew who she was or if she had a body anymore.

As she came back into herself, and realized how far she’d gone, the unassailable truth greeted her --- fondly? --- No. Again, it was too much, and she began to weep and sob uncontrollably, shaking in his arms, while he too tried to cope with the incalculable reality. He had been exploded, he was sure. Both of them. Exploded. And all their blown up flesh was mixed together.

It took Veepo one year to get Romana’s divorce. One week later, they were married.

***

Ten years is a good chunk to have IF it is a happy ten years. Oh, they were so happy!

Even so, he went back to Moscow.

In 1965, on her way to meet Veepo for lunch, Romana was tragically killed in a freak accident. She was walking on the sidewalk, carrying some shopping bags, and happy. Came to an intersection, green light, she began to cross....

Witnesses told the police that a large car had run the lights while turning and hit and run over Romana, and then kept on going.

Five minutes later, Veepo was walking on the other side of the street, hurrying to get to the restaurant, a little late and looking forward to seeing the sexiest woman alive: His wife!

Veepo was attracted by the commotion of sirens and the crowd rubbernecking. Some kind of accident, for sure, and he was looking as he walked by on the other side of the street from where a body lay in the street. A cop had just covered the body with a blanket. Close by, in the gutter lay several expensive shopping bags, and some of the parcels in the bags had been bust open. Veepo registered all the details, preserving them for a possible use in a film. He was struck by the accident. Obviously a fatal one. Veepo thought it likely the victim was a woman who had been shopping, and while crossing the intersection, had been hit by a car.

He crossed the street to get to the restaurant and had to deal with the crowd of people still gathering to take their look. Traffic had slowed down to a crawl, so cars and trucks now jammed the street. Veepo made his way to the restaurant.

The quiet calm luxury of this famous restaurant greeted Veepo, and he expected to find his wife waiting for him at the bar, shopping bags safely at her side. The sight of the covered body and the pathetic shopping bags required the exorcism of his wife’s kiss. He was on his way to the bar, and of course had to pass by the Maitre’d’s station.

When the Maitre’d saw Veepo, his face went pale. Within a few moments, Veepo knew that something was wrong. The Maitre’d struggled to explain that a waiter had seen Mrs. Mosst crossing the street, and of course he recognized her as she was coming right towards the waiter. She even waved at him and called out to him. He watched her get hit and run over.

The waiter knew that Mr. and Mrs. Mosst had reservations for lunch. So he knew Mr. Mosst would be coming any minute. The waiter went back to the restaurant and told the Maitre’d what had happened. The Maitre’d had told Veepo, “I am so sorry Mr. Mosst....”

***

“I am so sorry.”

Veepo heard that a lot over the next few weeks. Losing the best woman in the whole world is harsh. But hearing about how sorry everybody was drove Veepo crazy. He was alone and cut off from all life. The numbing shock crept into every bit of Veepo. At a certain point in this process, he thought the inner dying was complete, but no, the desolation had lotsa room now, and once started, kept on growing. He welcomed the sorrow and worshiped the grief, and cried foul and begged fate to send him back his Romana.

In a world where he knew magic to be real, he began to consider the possibility that he could rescue his life, and get Romana back, alive, somehow. But how?

The funeral came and went.

One week later, Dmitri read the rest of the letter.

***

Chapter 10

THERE IS NEVER A DEMOCRACY

THAT DIDN'T COMMIT SUICIDE

When Sir Darcy finally met Mr. Ben Prophet face-to-face, and in the flesh, the idea that this ordinary looking man was responsible for letters appearing and disappearing, why, you just had to hear him speak, this man was not an aristocrat, not to the manner born. Sir Darcy was pained to discover he’d expected something altogether different. Not this older duffer in a gray cardigan.

Sir Darcy had arrived at the appointed time and stood at the front door of a rather common house in the worst part of Outer London. The street was deserted and looked like a set for a film about the end of the world. Then he saw a cat sitting and staring at him. A car came down the street and honked it’s horn. Sir Darcy turned his head to look. The car drove by and came to a stop ten houses down the street. Two women came out of a house and got in the car, and the car drove away. A man stood at the open door and looked at the car driving away, then turned and slowly looked up and down the street. He paused when he saw Sir Darcy.

Sir Darcy had rung the bell of the rather common house and was waiting at the door.

No, it wasn’t really the end of the world.

Obviously.

He felt quite nervous.

***

The door opened and there was a man looking at him with an expectant tilt of the head, managing to look down his nose at Sir Darcy even though he was a much shorter man.

“Yes?” he inquired. He put the same spirit of disdain into this one word of interrogation, looking Sir Darcy up and down as if he could only prove to be a disappointment. Sir Darcy was already nervous, and it seemed to him that this Piranha sensed his nervousness.

All this in a flash, of course.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Prophet.” He paused for an instant, which was a mistake. The Piranha stood in the doorway. Not moving. Not letting Sir Darcy say, “...and my name is...”

“Yes? Who are you? What is your name?” demanded the Piranha. His tone was astonishingly obnoxious. Sir Darcy wasn’t nervous anymore. He was offended by this man’s tone. He wanted to slap him across his nasty little fish face.

“I am Sir Darcy. Mr. Prophet IS expecting me.”

The man stared coldly at the Head of the Secret Service. “Do you have identification?”

Sir Darcy tried to control his temper. He showed his warrant card. The man took it from him and began to examine it. Sir Darcy said, “Do be sensible and let me in. I don’t want to attract any attention.”

The man replied in a mocking tone, “Yes, the cat will report to your enemies all that it has seen. And Fred Tomkins over the road, he’s gonna call the police and tell them a copper is at the door of the Old Weirdo who lives across the street. Yes, Fred is going to call the police. No, he’s going to call the newspapers, yes, that’s it....”

Sir Darcy took back the warrant card, saying firmly, “If you’re quite finished, I want to see Mr. Prophet.”

***

The Piranha stood back and bowed, gesturing for him to enter. Once inside the Piranha closed the door behind him, and locked it. They were inside a surprisingly large vestibule. The Piranha led the way into a rather large room that was empty except for two chairs set close together.

“Sit down, or stand, or lie down on the floor, or even better, run at the wall head first, fast as you can, and don’t stop. Do what you want. You will wait here. Do not try and leave. Do not...”

Sir Darcy raised an aristocratic eyebrow and interrupted the Piranha.

“Are you Mr. Prophet?”

The man rolled his eyes and moaned, “Are you always this stupid?”

Sir Darcy had a hunch. He was being played. It was the bloody Magus all over. He let himself colour and said, “I’m afraid you’ve got me at the top of my form.”

“Well,” said the Piranha coldly, “You should know better than to try and worm anything out of me! If there is any worming it won’t be out of...”

He stopped suddenly. As if he’d heard a noise. Suddenly he was backing off and bowing and saying in an entirely new tone of voice, “My Master will be with you shortly, permit me to announce your arrival.”

The door opened and in came the old duffer. “My my my, here you are. I thought you’d arrived, and here you are! Twizzle here see to you? Hasn’t been up to any naughtiness? Bit of a tease is our Twizzle, have to warn you. Sir Darcy isn’t it? Well, I’m Ben, Ben Prophet that is. Not to be mistaken for anything else, though I do do a sideline in real magic. But come and sit down and we’ll have a real old fashioned chin wag. I haven’t had much of a chance to bend someone’s ear, and Twizzle gets bored when I go on at him.”

Sir Darcy hadn’t said a word.

He found himself sitting, listening to a steady stream of dialogue, and having tea served by a now obsequious Piranha named Twizzle.

Twizzle came and went and was seen and not heard.

“Yes, I’m on the old age pension now, and what the Blair government is doing is a crime! Imagine, rolling back the pension, I never! It is a national scandal. Well, just between you and me and the gatepost, it is time for a change. And seeing as I am a master of time and space, it is high bloody time SOMEBODY did a little tinkering. And I mean a little. Can’t do too much. Attracts the wrong sort. But a lot can be done that is a little. You can help change your world. A little bit here and there. Have to be careful. Too much of a good thing can ruin everything you’re setting out to achieve.”

Sir Darcy wanted specifics, of course.

The old duffer looked him over shrewdly, while he was going on about too much of a good thing, and he changed the tone of his voice and quietly said, “I can make magical objects that you can use to do all sorts of different things. I can make you a bracelet that will protect you from standard perils, like nuclear bomb blasts or a meteorite falling on top of you. If you wear such a bracelet, you can be pushed out of the Space Shuttle while it’s in orbit around the Earth, and you can be sure, without a space suit, naked, or just wearing your boxer shorts, you’ll be alive. As for a bullet or a knife or poison? Wear this bracelet and you will be invincible.”

Ben had a wooden bracelet in his hands. Sir Darcy could see it clearly.

“Here, take it. My second gift of wonder to you. The Bracelet of Invincibility, custom designed for you, Sir Darcy, by yours truly, a humble servant to this Great Nation. By now you know that I am humbly born of simple people. But you! You have the resources of a great government agency, and also the word of one man you trust: Wimble. I hope you have forgiven me for my little trick with Wimble. I had my reasons at the time, and I have my reasons right now. Wimble has shown you the results of our little experiment with prophecy so you know I am not a fraud in that department. It is easy to know the future when you go there and see for yourself AND come back. Not much to it, really. I think you’ll be a bit disappointed by how simple it all is.”

Sir Darcy took the wooden bracelet from Ben. It seemed to be a simple, yet somehow elegant bracelet, made of wood. He didn’t know what kind of wood. It was a bit heavy for wood. He noticed strange characters written on the inside of the bracelet. All in all, it seemed to be a wooden bracelet. There were no vibrations emanating from it, at least that he could detect.

Ben looked delighted at Sir Darcy’s inspection of the bracelet. Ben told Sir Darcy, “See, who would ever think of such a thing? You can do anything once you’ve slipped that bracelet on your left wrist. Go jump off a building. Oh, you’ll fall alright, and hit whatever is below you, and at full speed, mind, and if you hit the top of a car, you’d put a regular dent in it, sure. But you’d get up, feeling fine. I tell you Sir Darcy, you could put that bracelet on and walk out of this house and go find a busy street and wait for a bus or a big lorry to come by, and then jump in front of it, as it comes full speed, ten tons of mass, maybe more! Oh, you’ll be hit, alright, and leave a dent, and sent flying, and hit by anything else, oh, you’ll be hit, and when you come to your last bounce, up you’ll get, right as rain and not a hair out of place. More tea?”

The old duffer looked like he was back from the Legion, an old vet from the Second World War, sure, he looked old enough, seventy easily. His birth certificate was dated 1918. Ben wasn’t posing as the eternal fountain of youth, or some Dorian Grey look alike contestant. To top all this off, Sir Darcy knew this old man could read his mind. The Wimble experience set a certain tone to the meeting with Ben. Unless Sir Darcy was insane. He had to take that into account.

He could feel his mind bending.

Bracelet of Invincibility?

Preposterous!

Ben’s smile was a mellow rose of contentment and austerity set in the bare room, a room devoid of any prettiness or attempt to improve beyond clean, spotless, painted in white, and the two big windows were boxed in and closed by white, wooden shutters. The room was lit by one table lamp set on a table by the two chairs. There was no cord running from the lamp. At either end of the room, two doors, all closed. And along the lintels, more of the strange characters carved and set in white wood. The floor was bare, white wood, buffed and gleaming. It was a blessing that the one source of light was gentle, and in fact, the rest of the room was dim. He could make it out, but, if the light went out, the room would be in darkness.

Sir Darcy was putting all these details through his secret service agent filter. And just to make sure, he was recording the conversation with micro-technology. And here he was, holding a Bracelet of Invincibility, wondering how he could try it out.

Ben sipped some tea and made a happy, contented sound. “How good life is at the end, a sweeter bloom has none other. I’ve been retired a good many years now, and I can say that I don’t miss the Hurley b-b-burly. So I don’t want any inconvenience, no troubles with the constabulary, shoo away any who should be shooed, and above all, keep me out of it completely. I am to be yours exclusively. Apart from the Prime Minister. Only the top men need know anything about the smallest details. I trust you will come up with the, ah, cover story.”

Ben had filled Sir Darcy’s cup a few times, and his own cup at least three times, and the cups were big, and the tea pot was too, but, still. Sir Darcy noticed things like this. So did Ben. “Yes, I like that tea pot, it is one of a kind, I dare say. Speaking of which, did you enjoy your week in Egypt?”

***

Ah!

Sir Darcy’s week in Egypt was the sacrament of his existence. He returned to being Sir Darcy with reluctance and envy, and the bitter withdrawal of a junkie who has been given the ultimate fix and only wants more. Such was the scheme and power of the magician. Perhaps Sir Darcy knew this by the time he had been back a week, and the letter was gone, and he had no way back, and only himself to blame.

Ben now faced a man who desperately wanted to get back to Cairo and see Azura again. Yet this man was the Head of the Secret Service, and he knew he was being played.

Ben gave him a new letter. Told him, “A treat for you. You need a treat from time to time. Consider it a management training course, attendance mandatory, no excuses, part of the deal, if you see what I mean, without meaning to sound too bold, but bold enough, if you take my meaning. Anyway, there it is, in your hand, and you use it, mind. She’s waiting for you. I don’t think you’re Uncle loved her. But you do, and she knows it. Go to her, Sir Darcy, use as directed, and the directions are enclosed in that there letter in your hands. Open it now, Sir Darcy, and read. No use protesting, Sir Darcy; she is waiting, and as you know full well, it makes no difference to our time here and now: If you go back, when you return here, it will be as if you never left, but you will remember everything, as you well know.”

Here Ben leaned a little forward and fixed Sir Darcy with a long and steady pinning of the eyes. Mr. Prophet was in earnest, and wanted Sir Darcy to mark the distinction, and what passed between them, in that moment, was not lost on Sir Darcy. Which was this, unspoken, but clearly understood by Sir Darcy: 'Yes, sure, I’m an old man and a pretty silly looking old duffer...but.'

But.

It was in the tone of Ben’s voice, too.

“The time you spend in Egypt is real. You are safe while you are there, and your time in this right now, what you call the year 2002, well, in this here and now, when you go back to Cairo, it really is the year 1935. I don’t like stinting or stinginess in my work. You get the full package, with all the bells and whistles. I think you’ll quickly come to see that having your cake and eating it too is a perfect universe. You will be the only member of this particular Ways and Means committee, and of THAT particular methodology, well, is strictly for your eyes only.”

Ben settled back into his chair and sighed as if the worst of bureaucratic rules was passed into law. He was contented, and went on, raising his eyebrows while smiling. This distortion was peculiar and seemed unwarranted. Yet came his words, like sledge hammers, beating at Sir Darcy’s brain, though Ben spoke softly and smoothly, even soothingly.

“In my endeavors to bring balance to the universe, I have run into ah, certain parties of the first and second parts, including the unmentionables and certain others who I cannot name to you because if I make the sound of their names even I cannot say what will happen next, and I assure you, we all might end up as eggplants breeding giraffes who eat the moon. Stranger things and all that, Sir Darcy.”

And now Ben Prophet paused and stroked his face with his long and old fingers. Sir Darcy noticed a ring he hadn’t noticed before. A ring that was shiny and dark green. Ben said, “I see I have made an impression. Well, you have to take this in little bites, Sir Darcy, or you’ll go bonkers, take my word for it.”

Here Sir Darcy pushed in with a question that had come to him, and Ben could read his mind all he wanted, Sir Darcy was going to ask a question, if that wasn’t too impertinent, please!

“Mr. Prophet...Ben, how did you come to be able to do what you can do?”

Ben made the famous steeple of his two hands and touched his lips with the tips of his combined fingers and stared over the top of all this, right at Sir Darcy, pinning him to the back of the chair. Ben spoke as Mr. Prophet:

“Power is the key to everything in your world. Fear and anger and tension feed the money machine you have created. Some of us call it an entity unto itself. A friend of mine by way of being a kindred spirit, she says there is actually a thing that has been created by the consciousness of you humans. As a result of your technology and separation from real magic. Her essential argument is highly persuasive. She calls it The Cube. I think it is an arbitrary name, she could easily call this thing the blob or the werewolf or the devil or the Borg or Zero Plug.”

Sir Darcy hadn’t expected this answer. Ben was smiling his saintly smile of contentment. The steeple had been lowered. His old leathery hands rested on his lap. He had stopped speaking and seemed to be waiting. Sir Darcy faced some kind of test? He deduced a shift in tone?

Ben waited politely.

After about a minute of this Sir Darcy felt increasingly like he should prompt Ben, yet everything he thought of seemed silly in light of things like The Cube and the bracelet of invincibility...and Azura. The new letter! Ben had just given it to him. Told him to read it. And instead he had asked that question! He saw Ben’s face twitch in amusement and approval and an expression of ‘about bloody time you figured it out’.

Sir Darcy opened the letter and began to read.

***

CAIRO, 1935

So much for Sir Darcy.

He was falling in love.

Azura. Yes.

With her he could be EVERYTHING he always wanted to be with a beautiful and mysterious woman. The time was perfect for high drama and suspense.

Cairo was both wonderful and awful. The white man learned to look away and ignore. There were other distractions than the poverty and brutality. He loved the countryside. Up the Nile, or out into the Med.

Sir Darcy began to have another life.

He lived his Uncle’s life.

Father’s brother, the one who never married. The ne'er do well who made good out of the bad. Even Winston had consulted with his Uncle. During the war. And after, England was betrayed and ruined by the war, and in tatters. The post-war economy lurched along, and the politics hesitated to be great and retrenched into old stupidities brought on by the egos rubbing shoulders and usual sell-outs and watery legislation, and the drift of a people licking it’s wounds under the stiff upper lips, a race of madness had been created from this same race fighting in two stupid world wars.

After the Second World War, Uncle had gone abroad and flourished, sending back money to the manor and propping up the family name. He regularly returned to England. He was considered something of a great man by many of the gentry. Always good for a touch of generosity and strictly a gentleman about such things as personal debts.

How he made his money was something he explained in a few words, “Set up a little import and export business a few years back and had a few ships come in. Set me up for life! Pure luck, and that’s the truth. Secret is to keep rolling it all over. The gamblers call it doubling up. Take one and double it, now you have two. Double two and what do you get? Four, and so on, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four! Seven times doubling up one gets you from one to sixty-four. The secret to my business? Having margins wide enough to drive a rather large freighter through!”

That his Uncle was in trade did not tip the noses of his fellow aristocrats. Quite a few of them had to indulge in the sordid world of commerce. So much for his Uncle. Can you surmise the rest? Within Sir Darcy’s family circle, it was known that Uncle had a woman somewhere, and this woman was NOT a white woman. The details remained a mystery. Uncle did not reveal much about his personal life. When asked about such things, Uncle answered in a sentence or two, giving a synopsis. When pressed for more details, well, he might answer any old way that suited him. Try as you might, he’d slip about and gently steer you away to stories from his past or something else altogether.

Sir Darcy quite enjoyed living inside his Uncle.

The natural question: Where was his Uncle while Sir Darcy was inhabiting Robert Drake?

***

Cairo, 1935. The Old Cataract Hotel. Master Suite. Sir Darcy was back as Robert Drake. He was having a fitting for a new suit. Something really light weight, and loose, but not baggy. Had to breath. Summer was coming, and Cairo could roast in the summer. Sir Darcy was humming a hit tune while the three tailors took his measurements. He realized he was humming a hit tune from his own youth...definitely not one from 1935 or earlier. He was off by a good twenty years.

But the Egyptian tailors carried on. The little team of three men worked quickly. One of the tailors busied himself by showing ties, shirts, shoes, socks, garters, suspenders, undergarments, and hats. It was quite the enterprise.

The man smiled at Sir Darcy with each offering. The man was wearing a fez. All the tailors were wearing a fez. Sir Darcy found it to be a very odd Egyptian custom.

Egypt was a land of enterprise. Commerce. Trade. Coin. And in 1935, cotton was number one.

Egypt was a land of contrasts.

At once as modern as an airliner.

And as ancient as the very stones of the pyramids.

Cairo was no different.

It was a made up city. The year was 973 A.D. Some Caliph gave it the name that became Cairo.

The Arab Caliphate of the time said, “Make it so.”

Although Egypt in 1935 was a shining example of 20^th century progress, many of it's customs went back to biblical times. Sir Darcy lived this often bizarre contrast. The most everyday of events, taken for granted. Like seeing a sleek aerodynamic tourist bus whizzing along the road, passing by a clump of camels and camel drivers off on the side of the road.

After the first few days of being back in Azura's arms, back in Cairo, back in 1935, well...truth was he began to fuzz out Sir Darcy Entwhistle. And a few more days after that, Robert Drake and Sir Darcy had become mostly merged together.

He'd become Darcy-Drake.

And Darcy-Drake had been contacted by somebody.

He was sitting at his breakfast table, and Azura had just handed him the newspaper. The table was quite cosy, what with the coffee pot and cups, a few plates with figs and dates, an ashtray. The morning light dappled and played hide and seek across the table top.

As Darcy-Drake took to his newspaper, and Azura sat ready to listen to him read select titbits. She truly enjoyed his choice comments. And his cheery, wry acceptance of the absurd insanities proclaimed by headlines.

So it was with some great surprise that she began to notice something happening in the air over the table. At first she was only trying to figure out what was going on. And then she felt uneasy.

What she was seeing was not in the least bit normal.

Whatever it was that was happening was only getting weirder. She could plainly see with her own eyes that something was starting to form in the air over the table.

By now, Darcy-Drake had glanced over at Azura, noticed she was transfixed and astonished. So he let his eyes slowly --- oh-so slowly --- begin to look at what she was looking at. By the time his eyes had got there, he'd already guessed what he was going to be seeing. More or less.

Yes.

There it was. In the air. Another envelope forming. He said, “Well, as I told you. Out of thin air. That's what I told you, isn't it? Well, it isn't me doing this. And I don't think it is you. So that leaves top of the list, the fellow who sent me here. Ben Prophet. The Magician.”

By now the envelope was fully formed.

It was black with gold trim. The gold was attached to the thick paper material of the envelope. The black seemed to glow somehow. Azura carefully whispered, “Look. Your name is on the envelope. It is addressed to you. Thank God.”

She tried to laugh, but it was no use. She sat with her hands in her lap. Looking at the envelope. A little furrow of stubborn fearlessness touched her brow. Suddenly, in one smooth movement, she rose from her chair and snatched the envelope from the air.

With a provocative flourish, the envelope was placed on Darcy-Drake's empty plate. Then she sat back. And looked at him with an air that stirred his innards. Her eyes told him a thousand stories, weaving from one ancient time to the next. To now. With him. And she was just so ____ing beautiful.

For just one moment, they both forgot about the magical envelope. And little smiles began to form. Yes, those little smiles. The ones that forewarn of imminent passion eruptions.

And just a moment before it was too late to stop them from really forgetting the envelope, a strange and attention getting gimmick was deployed. The envelope began to play a song.

It was loud enough to get their attention.

“There'll be time enough for ____ing once the reading is done. You got to know when to read 'em, know when to read it, know when to do what you're to do, know that is now, 'cuz there'll be time enough for ____ing once the reading's done.”

All done to that tune.

The song repeated itself. Kept doing so.

It worked. They stopped their mutual seduction.

Darcy-Drake picked up the envelope. The singing stopped. He said, “Ah-ha. What do we have here. Yes, the knife. Thank you. Right. What do you think, Azura? Eh? Let's see. Right.”

And he had the envelope open, found a letter inside, and unfolded it, and began to read: “Right. This is what it says: 'Great and good steady greetings, oh Sir Darcy-Drake. It is I. Your friend, Ben Prophet. You see, I thought it was time for you to be properly settled here. After all, you are to know all of your uncle's mind. All of his memories. This way, you can bring your expertise as a ruthless espionage agent into the future history of human civilization. I dare you to change anything you judge needs to be changed.

'To help you do this, I have prepared a special dispensation for you. The full knowledge of all of your uncle's memories. As of this moment, it is so. You will be strongly affected by this. You will be of great use to your homeland. As your uncle, you will serve the rock and soil, nook and dale, glen and brook, bay and point, tree and meadow, town and pub, village and London, all of it. For it is a sacred land, this island you owe your seed. It is to be made fit to once again rule, and now to rule as never before. To remake an empire, nothing less.

'You are the chosen one. Plucked from the time stream to serve the force of destiny. Pushed into the forefront, pulled into being the agent of change. Explicit change of what I want you to think of as 'Intended History', which is a fancy way of saying 'what would normally have happened, if left alone and to itself and not interfered with'.

'You are going to be interfering with Intended History. You are not going to leave it alone or leave it to itself. You are going to remake The Empire. And to do this, we need to murder Hitler and his inner circle. Then we insert our chosen leader, a real ultra nationalist, but pragmatic, not a lunatic. And with him, his inner-circle. A sizzling legion of ambidexterous masters of bureaucracy, a cesspool of palace intriguers, all bent on the task of keeping the nut-jobs fed on so many lies, telling lies about lies told moments ago.

'And for their society, too many spies. Every street corner, each cafe, inside the office, at the family table, too many spies. Each one in service of the state. And this spying, is there any reason for it? There is no reason for it, and that the reason for it, that there is no reason for it. It is without reason. The unreasonable use of too many spies serves the state. And the state is the new leader of Germany.

'And so too, Mussolini must be murdered. And his inner-circle. The worst of the lot. Murdered. And we turn to Japan. Yes, the Imperial Peacock Throne. Buddy Boy must be murdered. And some of the most hideous of the inner-circle. And some of their biggest warships must be sunk while at anchor. Kaboom.

'And we turn to China. Mao must be murdered. And all of his inner-circle. And all aid must go to Chang Kai Shek. The warlords will bend to his will. You will see to it. The people of China will live, each in their land, according to their province--- ruled by the New China Empire as a vassal state of The New British Empire.

'And to India, we have the monster of differences, and so best to have the Old States of Great Maharaja. The old style colonial ideal of worthy rulers of the people taken from them and shipped off to Britain to be given the treatment. Boarding school. Given a taste for wealth and power. Bent to the will of The New British Empire.

'As we look to the south, and The Sudan, it is vital that Egypt keeps The Sudan. We will rule all of Africa...one way or another. And as we look to South America and Central America, we see the need for the New British Empire to manage the natural resources and potential of all these lands. Left to the Americans, these territories are nothing but slave states, bolstered by Yankee indulgence of the Strong Man and his circle of fellow villains.

'You are going to change all that. You are going to purge the trouble makers and put in power your best choice to accept guidance from the British advisors. This advice will be delivered modestly. And only when required. In fact, those who administer the policies of the ruling junta will all be former fellows of the Imperial Colonial College. The exclusive prep school for the chosen few from all over The New British Empire.

'We brain wash each one. Empty their minds. And then slowly fill their brains with our deep implants. Now we have willing vassals. And then we send them to the best universities. Each one sent to study according to your needs.

'And from the best of the best, you will recruit your loyal servants who will die for you without hesitation, if needed. And all of this will be yours to use to force Britain to become, finally, truly Great. What you require will be given to you. Look for continuous supplies of useful idiots and unending lucky breaks. All the indispensably dispensable treasure at your fingertips to power the bending of history.

'As for the appearance of democracy and free and fair elections, there is none better at defending this highest principle than Her Majesty's Government. The nations of the earth choose, each to their own way, how to rule and how to be ruled. The New Great Britain relies on old colonial models to rule the rulers of the ruled. And you are going to reshape the world to fit this perfect model.'”

Darcy-Drake finished reading the letter.

Azura sat quietly. She was looking at him. Her face was a mask of calm inscrutability. He whistled softly, a man facing a daunting task. A bit of amazedness in that whistle, too.

The corner of her lips tugged at a smile.

He wished he could read her mind.

“Well?” he asked. Finally.

“Hmmmmm. It is ambitious.” She drawled the words, with the fluid engine of her native Arabic language making her English a pure delight to his ears.

She gazed at him fondly. He said, “You think I'm quite mad. Well. That is sensible. For where is the evidence of such power? Only that it, what? Materialized out of thin air, floating over this table? I read the letter. Only that. Ah. I see. You think I am of the belief it is true. Well. You see, Azura. My recent entry into your life is proof enough. Of the power. And not my power. Oh no. Come to that, I can't believe it, either. Even if it is true. Doing as commanded will change everything that is supposed to actually come to pass. And I have direct knowledge. I lived it. I have lived what is yet to be lived. And now, I will unlive what I once lived.”

Her face stayed calm, yet her brow knitted concern. He was watching her carefully. She knew it, too. The intimacy of the moment kept giving birth to the next intimate moment. And as if that wasn't enough, he became abruptly aware that he was able to hear her thoughts. Just like a radio in his mind. He didn't know he had one in his mind. And suddenly, just like that, it was switched on. And then suddenly he could read her mind.

Snap of the fingers.

Just like that.

He said, “The letter is starting to kick in. I can hear your thoughts. Right now. No. Seriously. I am not larking about, Azura. Yes, go on, think of something. A number. Yes. Twenty three million four hundred and seventy five thousand and ten point three five nine seven eight one two nine...”

She said plaintively, “Robert, stop it.”

His smile was infectious. She responded slowly.

“That's it. Good. Now. I seem to be getting another one. Oh my. That is a formidable secret weapon. The Persuader. Now it is clear, Azura. Why the letter is so uber confident about outcomes. I am getting another one, right now. Oh Holy ____!”

Putin's army destroyed by his own 'Maskirovka' | Philip Ingram

***

***

He'd been told to meet up at the usual place at the usual time. But he had no idea where or when or what was usual were. As he put it that way in his own mind, he was amused for a moment or two at the confusion it caused him.

Where and when in Cairo? For it was the bustling crossroads of the Middle East. A place where the present was threaded with the past.

***

When Sir Darcy returned from his visit with Azura, he found he was exactly where he had left off with Ben. He couldn’t help stretching and flexing and remembering the time he’d had with that woman! Oh!

His body was no longer the fit vessel of Robert Drake. Youth a memory his body had forgotten. Back inside the hulking body --- his body, after all --- the one he'd started out with. The old body. Not quite ready for the knackers, but hi-ho, 'twas closer now than before.

Sir Darcy was given to consider, in the quick moment, what was next. He felt sludged in his body. He didn't like it, at all. The impossible task of bending over made so by the gross sludging gut. Out of breath trying to bend over and tie a shoe. The gludge-sludge globbo pushed into his other organs. That made him gasp.

And it made him keenly aware, the few moments after popping back into his Sir Darcy body, all of that contrast. And the horror of once again taking up residence. In all of that little droplet of less than one moment, a clarity undramatically knocked him right in the face. And with this, his decision made ---snap fingers!--- just like that: Get back to Azura just where and when he'd left her. And be Robert Drake.

With that, he stared through old eyes and took in his current reality. And he was thinking to himself:';Well, I’m back, and here is this old man, waiting for me, and I don’t want to do anything but go back and have a good time!'

Sir Darcy couldn’t help the way he felt. Still, he was a big boy and knew about delayed gratification. He had studied psychology and practiced it in his trade, and knew an addict when he met one, and Sir Darcy WAS an addict. Just like Dmitri. And in a strange way, just like Bertle.

Queer and funny thing to live another life and then come back to the exact moment that you left to go and live that other life. Sir Darcy had been gone for about two months, had the time of his life, and now, he was back, with Ben contentedly smiling at him.

Ben spoke in a pleasant sounding voice:

“Have a nice time, did you? That’s the ticket. Though I don’t suppose you really want to be hanging about with the likes of me when you’ve come from a woman like Azura! And no, before you go thinking you shouldn't, it isn’t like that, either. I’m old enough to be her great-grandfather, and that’s sort of thing is all past me now. There was a time when I might have been interested but a man has to make choices or they get made for him, and I made a choice about the ladies and haven’t looked back except to admire the really great ones, the stunning beauties, the very few who posses the eternal mystery, like Azura.”

Ben poured some tea. “You might want this cuppa,” and did not wait for an answer, handed over the fresh cup, poured another cup for himself and settled back, now even more comfortable. Then he did the steeple thing with his hands and fingers and stared out over all that, right at Sir Darcy, pinning him to the chair.
“Heart ache makes duty a scared thing. Now you have something you believe in more than your own flesh, and in a woman. This crazy thing called love. Will this force rule your life and make you work for me and become my minion? No, I do not want subservience. Not like the servant I have.”

Darcy was somewhat unastonished by what the magician said next.

“Oh, I know he is at the very least two-faced. I require you to be forthright with me, and ignore my servant as best you can. He means no one well. I harbour him as best I can. Perhaps he will betray us all. You can deal with him as you see fit. His rudeness is his own downfall, and it is proper that a new envoy to me administer the dose of salts to the uppity servant.”

Darcy was not keeping up, at all. His quick wits explained to his bewildered mind that the magician wanted Darcy to do the magician's own dirty work. His wits and his bewildered mind asked each other, 'Yes, but how?'

The magician's gentle voice answered:

“I am going to give you a special token of power, as my envoy. This is a piece of wood, as you can see, very small, and shaped like the head of a horse. Strange little thing, isn’t it? Very nice bit of work, if I do say so myself. This is the horse of seven gateways. With this you will be able to defeat any malice or deceit or intrigue, and you will hear the thoughts of those who wish you harm, and those who are plotting your downfall, or harbour grudges, and even those who just don’t like you and would be willing to see you slip up and might even give you a bit of a push or put a banana-skin to work. That’s quite a range, so you’ll be well put to use gateway-one first and sort that out before you listen in to any of the other gateways. Mind you do that, Sir Darcy, or I won’t be responsible for the results.”

Ben Prophet paused. The steeple of fingers was now down, and he was waiting for a response.

“You can read my mind, after all,” thought Sir Darcy. Ben laughed, and slapped his thighs, delighted, and again, the arch of his eyebrows and the set of his jaw, and the old creased lines of his face straightening into THAT look of, ‘It has sure taken you long enough!’

Sir Darcy asked calmly, “What would you have me do?”

Ben settled down and sighed, and became quite contented. “You must test my work. The bracelet and the horse-head. Test them. The bracelet you have is to be kept a secret. I am going to give you another one now, and you will protect this one within a special department that you will have authorized under a special powers bill that the Prime Minister will enact on your behalf because you will show him and a select panel of the bureaucracy and military, a select few, mind you, no more than five in total, including you and the Prime Minister, must see the testing of the bracelet. “Create a team of scientists and technicians who will verify the results. The volunteer who wears the bracelet will be invincible as I have already described to you, ah, previously. Keep the scientists and technicians under the strictest surveillance, and any sign of violation of the Official Secrets Act, enforce the strictest confinement until further notice. Throw away the key, Sir Darcy.

“You’ll have to find a place for the few fools who will inevitably risk the penalty, and attempt to go public with what they know. Whistle blowing is not for the faint of heart, so choose your team with this in mind.”

Ben stopped and drank a good, long and thoughtful sip of his tea. Sir Darcy’s brain was bent in two, at least, and buckling. Ben beamed at him in full approval of the demise of reality.

He added to this by telling Sir Darcy, in a very pleasant tone of voice, as if he thoroughly approved of him, “I dare say it’ll be a challenge, and I know you’re the man who can do it. And you have my help. The horse-head will let you know if anyone is up to no good. Squealers heard before squealing: Best wiretap ever invented, scans for plots and betrayal, and lets you hear what the bugger is thinking. Make no mistake, this is kitted up for only you, Sir Darcy. This is our little secret. And stay with gateway number one, and work your way along, and remember what I said about doubling? Well, each gateway is bigger, and you can do more, as you will see. When you’re done one, you will know. Until you do, wait. You will, ah, make discoveries. Eventually.”

He wanted to ask Ben, “How do I make it work?” But before he could ask, Ben said, “Ah, simplest thing. Just hold it in your left hand and ask out loud to be permitted entry through gateway number one and swear never to use any of the other gateways until you are done with number one. You will learn the thoughts of those you know. You will hear them in your mind. The horse-head will explain everything once you ask to be permitted.” He added as an afterthought, “And keep the bloody thing our little secret. Well, you’d be a proper fool, it won’t work for anyone else..”

***

The setting up of Britain’s foray into top secret research of a wooden bracelet began with a steady pace of growing nuttiness. When the eventual testing took place, astonishment gave way to a new world order and Britannia greater than she ever was. The stunning news that the secret asset could produce any number of such bracelets, and set only to work for a specified person, and wait, there is more!

The General that witnessed the testing of the bracelet was flabbergasted. He asked in a state of almost madness, “How many of the damned things can this, this asset produce? I want a number, dammit', not something vague!”

“That’s just it, General, as many as you ask for.”

The General looked at the Volunteer. “Do you mind if I have a go at it?”

The Prime Minister laughed. There was a bit of a flutter in the room.

“Strictly as a test, see for myself.”

The Volunteer shrugged. “Suit yourself. Same as if one of them does it to me.” He meant the two technicians assigned to trying to kill him. They had used a flame-thrower, a shotgun, a machine gun, and he had been put in a bomb-testing chamber along with a two tons of high explosives, and --- boom! --- the Volunteer was laughing at the way the scientists tried to find something wrong with him.

“Stop sticking those damn needles into me...that hurts a lot more than that bomb did!”

So when the General asked to have a go, it was as if Sir Darcy had been planning to wet the select few's appetite, and get them emotionally involved. What better way than to try and kill a Volunteer? A mere nobody who know one will miss if the bally thing doesn’t work properly.

“Go right ahead, General,” said Sir Darcy.

“A gun, I think. This one. Yes, I’d swear these are real bullets. Alright, you there, are you ready? Everyone got their ear thingies on? Good. Alright, ten shots, .45 caliber automatic, beast of a gun, kick like a mule. Here goes!”

The General shot the Volunteer, all ten except one hit the target, a nice tight pattern of chest, neck and head, three big fat slugs for each, and the roar of the gun, and the smack! of each slug, flattening against the Volunteer, falling to floor of the testing chamber with a hard clanking, each bullet bouncing to a stop and lying still on the floor. The Volunteer yawned, and scratched his neck. The slug that had missed the Volunteer had mangled the backstop. A big dent showed the full power of the slug. Enough to blast through the side of a house made of brick and kill someone on the other side.

The General removed his ear protectors and shook his head and held the gun in his hand. He stared at it, and then looked at the Volunteer, and the bracelet. He said quite clearly, for everyone to here, “This defies all logic. It is not natural.”

The General went to where the Volunteer was now sitting, and pointed at the bracelet. He said, “It is made of wood?” He made a gesture of surrender. “How can we trust anything like this not to give out. Or that it be intended to do so, to fail, at our worst moment of smug absurdness? We need certainty, Prime Minister. Not a possible trap.”

Sir Darcy smoothly countered with a very nice tone, saying, “Gentlemen, not in front of the children, please. Doctor Shmernif, could you please excuse us? Perhaps Mr. Blank’s testing of residual effects, PTSD? Thank you, Doctor.”

***

What a pretty kettle of fish. So many secrets to keep. And what secrets! How could one General deal with the idea that he could kit out his entire army, navy, air force with bracelets of invincibility! The problems with use were horrendous! How could you make them give you back the bracelets? What fool in their right mind would do such a thing? Once he was invincible, what could you do to make him do anything you asked, or demanded?

Tricky, tricky, tricky.

Sir Darcy fielded all the requests for refinements to suit the power structure. Certain safeguards were required to ensure the bracelet could somehow be easily turned off by the appropriate personnel.

Who?

And so the exponential growth of dilemma solving! With enough dilemmas to keep everyone busy, all the time; for each dilemma spawned several more, and each one more fascinatingly absurd than the next, or so it seemed to Sir Darcy.

After the bracelet came the wooden wings and then the wooden doll of impersonation. Wait. Stop. Back up. Wooden wings?

When Ben Prophet handed the first one over to Sir Darcy, he said, “Yes, little wooden wings, with a wood pin, and a wood clip, all set out in the special gleaming hard wood, and the wings nicely done with feathers in miniature, and a very nice bit of work, if I do say so myself. Thing of it is, you clip the wooden wings on, and you can fly, just like Superman. What with that and the bracelet, a fighting force is now mobile and unkillable.”

The General wanted to know how many could be made. He’d said, after the first demonstration, “Never would have believed it. Can’t be real but it is. You do realize, a small force of men trained in the use of these...devices...they would be unstoppable. Men like that must be controllable or we will have a serious problem, and I fear, without those controls, this entire undertaking MUST be highly contained.”

The wooden doll of impersonation was another highly complex problem creation. It stood nor more than three inches high, and carved in the shape of a hydrogenous hominid, and it was a very fine piece of work. The carving was exquisite, with exceptional detailing of face and hands and feet and every other bit. It almost seemed to be real, so well done was the carving work, and the proportions.

How did it work? And what did it do?

You put your left hand on the doll and said the name of the person you wanted to become. You immediately changed into that person.

This was such a startling idea. Even with bracelets of invincibility, and wooden wings. Somehow this wooden doll seemed the most unnatural and very suspect. The General certainly thought so. Yet, he was also grudgingly wanting to experiment and try the damn thing and see what could be done.

After seeing for himself that the thing actually worked, he half-barked, “But have to keep the damn thing under the tightest security. This is a ultra-secret weapon. Have to come up with some sort of policy draft for this, old boy.”

Blah blah blah, thought Sir Darcy. The General sounded like a braying jack-ass and was an annoying man, given to curt rudeness when it suited him, and a fondling gruff humour that sought to appease fools with concessions that gave nothing away, and left the fool with even less than a moment ago. He was an excellent choice: Prideful, ambitious, a bully, feared by his peers, and without any compunctions concerning ordering men to their deaths...in the line of duty, of course! All of his true-lights carefully disguised with the modern bullshit of the advanced new British Armed Forces.

***

Chapter 11

WITHOUT VICTORY THERE IS NO SURVIVAL

Truth has no concern for anyone's comfort.

The little wooden wings brought a whole host of problems. Navigation, for one. And how to avoid being seen. Well, not many would be able to believe there own eyes, certainly, Besides, a man wearing the bracelet and the wings would be able to fly very fast.

How fast was very fast?

The scientists tested a Navy Pilot. Wooden wings and all, including the bracelet of invincibility. Off you go. How does it work? Ask the wings to teach you how to fly. Yes, out loud. Go on, ask the wooden wings

The Navy Pilot was the New Volunteer. Good thing he was a bachelor. This was beyond top secret. They all knew it was madness come to reality. The pilot asked the wooden wings, “Wings, please teach me how to fly.”

No sooner said and the pilot leaned back into the air. He tottered on his heels. He was leaning backwards at an impossible angle, NOT falling. He seemed to be leaning on something that was supporting him.

“Quite pleasant, actually,” said the pilot.

His heels rose up and then stopped. He was set at angle typical of a cockpit seat in a fighter jet.

Ready to go.

The pilot seemed to be listening keenly to a voice no one else could hear. “Allright, I understand. Say forward at ten feet, go ten paces, at a pace each second....”

The pilot rose up to a height of ten feet, maintaining the easy pose of sitting in the cockpit of a fighter jet. Then he moved forward, ten of his own paces, measured to the second. He stopped and stayed in the air.

“Turn round? Right, turn around and go 10 paces every second, and when we get to the wall turn around and go 100 paces every second until we come to the wall. Go back and forth, increasing speed each time by powers of ten. Got it? Right! Go!”

The pilot no sooner said go!...and the scientists were pulling their hair out. Well, not really. They were too busy recording history. And looking astonished. Sir Darcy was going to have some problems with the Test Tubes (research scientists).

In the meantime, he watched the New Volunteer flying through the air, back and forth, faster each time, until the fellow was a blur, and then he was going so fast he was barely visible.

And then he became invisible. Going too fast for the naked eye to see.

When he broke the sound barrier, and the cracking boom broke unprepared windows, and the top secret techies and boffins and military and politicos and spies all jumped and covered their faces, as if an explosion had happened. That was absolutely, bone chillingly frightening. And not one of the men and two women who witnessed this absurdity of freakdom came away the same. In some strange way, the bracelet of invincibility had a normalcy compared to the flying at speeds that made the scientists assume their instruments were wrong.

The air began to glow where the now invisible pilot flew, back and forth, over the testing field, coming to one side and crossing the marker, and stopping and then turning and going back, but now at such speed the very air was being super-heated and a great wave of complicated turbulence was sucking up objects and hurling them into the air, where they started to fall several miles away. The observers had retreated behind ear protectors and substantial amounts of concrete and rebar and solid steel and some pleasant amenities suitable for the elite.

They had issued an order to stop, and the pilot did. He flew slowly back to the anxious group of technicians and scientists. The other observers tried to give words to the impossible. For some this meant silence. The Prime Minister, Mr. Blair, was heard to say, “Such a power must by treated with great respect and never misused, it must always serve the needs of the people. An air force of men flying at such astonishing speeds, and invincible! The possibilities for our Nation’s security! Even though I have seen this with my own eyes, I still can’t believe what I have...ah! I can see that the men of science seem to have a final figure for us.”

Doctor Shmernif approached the group of five powerful men. The scientist looked disturbed. It was plain something was wrong. He stood in front of them as if he was about to announce the end of the world. He spoke to them in a tone devoid of feeling, except towards the end of his speech. As you shall see for yourself.

A fussy little man with big thick spectacles and something of a certifiable genius. And one who could talk sense and did, often. But you didn’t mind too-too much because the guy was good at what he said, and knew a lot of shit about a lot of things and most particularly everything.

He told the five powerful men, “I won’t bore you with a lot of preamble. The facts as I can understand them are impossible to support...except I have the evidence. Top speed was measured at just over sixty-four thousand miles each second.” He paused. There was a lot of throat clearing and the General gave off a sharp, barking sound. The Doctor went on.

“There is some dispute among my colleagues. A question of the equipment failing. I am given to understand from Captain Blank that he has successfully passed Phase One of his flight training, and is now ready for Phase Two, tomorrow. He has informed me that these are his instructions from his flight instructor, which is none other than the wooden wings. Apparently there is some sort of mental telepathy because the Captain ‘hears’ the ‘flight instructor’ in his mind. However, when he removes the wooden wings, he no longer has any communication with the ‘flight instructor’ and neither can he fly.”

The figure was so high that none of the five powerful men heard much of what the Doctor said after sixty-four thousand miles each SECOND. This was sickening news. The Doctor went on, not exactly droning, but as mentioned, unemotional.

“As we all know, the speed of light travels at one hundred and eighty six thousand miles each second. How a mass as large as the pilot can be moved at such speeds in such a small area, and come to a stop in an immeasurable instant, this is beyond explanation by science. I cannot tell you how it works, or if it will work again. That a human being could survive such speeds is beyond comprehension, even given the possibility of invincibility. The friction generated by the Captain would be much hotter than that of a nuclear explosion. Yet we saw little evidence of any such normal physics as we understand them, if any. A mass such as this man’s, one hundred and two kilos, moving at speeds such as we have recorded, through the atmosphere, to begin with, Captain blank should have been vaporized, at least, even so, his mass should have created a shock wave of such magnitude! But no, a few broken windows, nothing more. Where does all this energy go? We won’t know the exact figures for a few more minutes but we saw much less energy being released than we should have, and on a scale of magnitude that is completely preposterous. We can only hope the machines were faulty. Though I do not think this is the case.”

The Doctor made a little gesture of impatience, licked his lips and adjusting his big thick spectacles, he said with great emotion, seemingly out of nowhere, “The Captain informed me that tomorrow, he will be going much faster. I suggest a close watch of this man is in order. A man who has done what the Captain has done will need to be watched. Much faster! This is beyond our understanding! Completely impossible! It is dangerous. And I think it is wicked. I wonder how such things could ever be accepted by the citizens of this country?”

The Prime Minister was all serious and perfect as a man who knew next to nothing about anything, yet quite prepared to take a well-balanced view. He stiffly denied the slightest chance that this was the work of the devil. Such ideas would not help sell Britain on the use of real magic. He told the Doctor (after a suitable sober pause), “Shmernif, the use of a tool is an accepted custom AFTER a new and startling thing comes along. This is the time to investigate, and measure, and study, LEARN as much as we can, while we can. We have been given an opportunity, and IF we are careful, we will be able to keep this secret until a decision can be made. AFTER we learn as much as we can. We are relying on your team, Shmernif. And I am personally relying on you. Just as you need me to keep my head and not be swayed by superstition, I need you to be a scientist, in fact, the whole Nation sleeps while we few keep a precious secret. It must remain so, Doctor. I assure you, we MUST only study, and in great secrecy, these marvels.”

***

The five powerful men of Britain kept a reverential silence after Tony finished his little speech. It was quite the rouser, and the ghost of Winston seemed to sweep off in a cloud of cigar fumes. But not really.

“My liberty is your gracious act of kindness?” asked the Doctor.

The General barked preemptively, “Stand to, there Shmernif. I say, be a good fellow and take some pills and go away and do your damn job, there’s a good chap. And make sure you get some sleep!” The last was added with a nasty grin, a parody of the new compassionate senior officer of the British Military.

Shmernif started to say something, “You are all insane? Do you not have eyes in your head? This defies science! It is not of nature. Is that not plain? If you ever wanted evidence of the existence of the supernatural, here it is. I have the proof. And tomorrow? What? The pilot will go ‘much faster’. You did not hear the way this pilot said this to me. He must be watched at all times. Don’t you see? He was wearing a flight suit. That’s all. He could have been naked! Don’t you see? This human being, this frail mortal shell, a man like you or me, puts on this bracelet and a pair of wings, both made of some sort of hardwood, and he is able to fly at speeds that defy logic, approaching the speed of light? Yes. This man wore no visor or glasses, let alone an oxygen mask. His body was subjected to forces of gravity that would squash him into the size of an atom, yet there he was, sitting in the air, smiling. Don’t you see? This is beyond insane. And all this by wearing these, these, these, pieces of wood?”

The five men waited until the man was quite finished. He stared at them with bulging eyes behind thick lenses. His brow was beetling with his raging perplexity at their collective thickness. Why wouldn’t they admit to what he was saying? He felt useless and alone, surrounded by idiots. Even his brother and two sister scientists had the gleam of great discovery in their eyes and were in a daze of proof blinding them to the greater ethical question. Shmernif tasted the addiction this real magic brought with it. The supplier would be in the driver’s seat.

So far they had seen the carrots, and the good Doctor was wondering what the stick would be like when it came. Based on the carrots, so far, Shmernif could only wonder about the sticks.

Sir Darcy approached the Doctor, and the kind and gentle way he said, “That really is enough, you know,” seemed to help, and he put his arm around the Doctor’s shoulder, and pulled him along, saying, “What you don’t understand is that if we don’t come to terms with this, we won’t have any choices at all. What you don’t know can’t hurt you, Doctor? Surely it bloody well can. So you learn a new form of science? Any knowledge can be used for good or evil, Doctor. That it will be used for both is always our problem. What we have here is a rare opportunity to seal this power for use only in a cause of genuine self-defense. And that what we know is kept absolutely secret.”

Shmernif wriggled free of Sir Darcy’s embrace and took a few steps back. He looked frightened of the five men. The General was giving him a very hard look that really made Shmernif tremble. The Official Secrets Act was nothing compared to what he glimpsed in that hard, cold stare.

Sir Darcy was still being nice. He said in a friendly voice, “Shmernif, don’t you see we all have felt the same way about this? We are all human, like you. We agree with you. Is that what you want to hear? We are all wondering, ‘what the hell?’ But we can’t cower behind our fears, Doctor. We just can’t do that. If you can’t do the job, just say so, and we will replace you. Why don’t you think that over. I’ll get back to you after our meeting, unless you can tell me now. Can you tell me now?”

Shmernif was finished.

He nodded and said tamely, “It won’t be a problem to do the job as you say. You gentlemen can trust me to do the science objectively. You have my larger view, as a scientist. I trust you will see that I wish to be a good boy now. And with your permission....”

He made a little bow and went away looking as if he was going to start weeping.

***

The five men settled the Doctor’s fate. The General said, “Fellow should be locked up as soon as possible. Get a sterner replacement, somebody without a damned conscience! Somebody a bit clearer about our priorities!”

Tony said brightly, “What do you think, Darcy? Anyone on the science team who can sub for Shmernif? Until we can find another Shmernif minus the hysteria?”

Sir Darcy said thoughtfully, “There’s Molly Flanders, the other ones listen to what she has to say. Clever woman. Took a first at Oxford. Have to make up a story, all of us stick to it. Far as the others go, the good Doctor has taken ill and been rushed to the base hospital, heart attack from stress, he’s in the ICU and no visitors.”

The General gave a short laugh that was more of a bark. “You don’t fart around, Sir Darcy. That’s the ticket. Take the bad shoe off the horse. Well done!”

The Prime Minister said, “Really suggest he be....?”

Sir Darcy looked at Tony with a quiet and hidden dislike. He could see the man was out of his depth. Ever aware of risks, he said in a soothing tone, “Yes, I think a nice rest will do the Doctor some good. He can do his job until we have a replacement, and I’ll have a word with Doctor Flanders.”

The General barked, “Are you serious?” He caught a glance from Sir Darcy, and barked again, this time at Tony, “Did you think we meant?” and he barked a few short laughs. Sir Darcy was impressed at this little quick pick-up by the General. The man had been about to hurl this accusation at Darcy. Good. The General understood. Or at least he thought he did.

He thought Sir Darcy was lying to Mr. Blair about the Doctor’s fate. The Prime Minister was being told what the Prime Minister wanted to hear. Sir Darcy had two new options, and two sides to play, and a further secrecy within the five men. For a start, Sir Darcy had not said a word about the horses-head.

There was already intrigue amongst the five powerful men of the Very Select Committee. Sir Darcy had expected nothing less. He knew that no man of power could resist attempting to control and manage invincibility and solo flights at near one-third the speed of light.

One of the other five men, the other politician, the Minister of Something, was dying to say something. “I say, the Doctor fellow does have a point. If you think about the facts of the test...for example, the test course is ten miles long. Just this one fact in alliance with the speeds traveled, and apparently recorded, and the air force chap, he wasn’t even protected, was he? Well? It is rather a bit strange, isn’t it? I still can’t believe it, really. A bit much to take in, really. Defies logic, like the Doctor said. Oh say what you want about him cracking up, but it IS unnatural, really.”

The General barked exquisitely, “I think that point is quite clear to me, by now. Let’s stop dithering and get down to brass tacks. This whole thing is by agreement absolutely absurd. Yet it is real. So we put a watch on that airman, give Shmernif a holiday, and get on with the bloody job.”

Tony Blair said meditatively, “Yes, but what is the job?”

The last of the five to speak said, “Fairly asked, Sir. Our job must be assessment, at this stage. Though I know the General wants a broader outline to take into account forward planning, for every potential use comes planning BEFORE implementation. Surely we all agree on that.”

The General grinned humorlessness and said, “Do you think if the bloody Russians had this they wouldn’t be plotting day and night to take over the whole bloody world? I am here to speak for the defense of this Nation. You won’t hear me telling you to NOT use this, this... impossibility. Keep it secret, but prepare and make ready.”

***

Chapter 12

WHOEVER DOES NOT MISS THE SOVIET UNION HAS NO HEART. WHOEVER WANTS IT BACK HAS NO BRAIN

The problem with a really excellent liar is that you have to just assume they’re always lying.

In Russia, the opposition was the Post-Perestroika real politiks transition to the next defacto dictator. Vladmir Putin. The weight of oppression shifted somewhat, true, and the benign growths turned malignant and metastasize, and everywhere went Joe Stalin’s ghost, grinning from ear to ear, drinking a bottle of peppermint vodka and eating cold meat and pickles.

Chechnya was a graveyard, and Georgia welcomed American troops, and Bush and Putin made side deals and carved up the map, and the bombs fell somewhere other than where either man was at, that’s for sure.

After nine-eleven.

But before that, Dmitri had returned to the Moscow he'd left in 2001. He came from the last year he'd lived as Veepo in 1965. Ten years of happiness and a different time, a different body, another life, really. Then he went back, to the exact second he had read the last word in the letter that had sent him to the Cuba of 1955.

Ten years is a long time to be away from Moscow.

Upon his instant return, he thought to himself, “Hello, Dmitri, it is the year 2001. You are in your office, and it is the morning, and you had been ready to leave Moscow, anyway.”

He muttered to himself, “Here is my old office. Yes, I remember everything. I sent Vasil to wait for me. My God, this place, I'd forgotten what it looks like! And this body! Horrible! I am old. But I still have power. All is not lost!”

Dmitri had a dream, and in it, he could change the outcome of the hit and run so that Romana came to no harm and learned a lesson about looking carefully before crossing any street. To him, the original transition to Veepo had come sweetly, and fulfilled the deepest longing of an orphan reared into servitude to the State.

He had no such compunctions now. His foremost goal was clear and evident to anyone who cared to read his mind. Veepo as Dmitri knew he was out of his depth, and relied on the usual trust in the sacredness of his quest. The essential selfishness of such a dream, the narcissistic blaze of creation, demanding another take, and Romana is safe, scared, and careful from then on about crossing streets.

See, it is simple, thought Dmitri. I will meet with this magician, and plead my case.

***

Dmitri went at the appointed time, and to the address, as directed by the invitation written in the second to last paragraph of the letter. He was not so used to Russian after ten years, and the culture shock of being in the future!

He had his private thoughts to keep him company.

“Yes, it’s all better for many reasons, but there is so much chaos now, and the mafia runs this country. I make deals with the worst enemies of law and order. The drug peddlers and arms dealers and flesh peddlers have paid for my golden nest egg.”

Vasil drove him, armed to the teeth and wearing a bullet-resistant vest. The dash across Moscow, from the former KGB headquarters to the outer suburbs, to the Siberia of Moscow, The Stalin era Soviet Worker Housing apartment blocks. Vasil swore in disgust and yelled curses at street kids who stared at the big car, and they all seemed to be sizing them up for vicious car-jacking. The closer they got to the right block the more Vasil was saying, “I know this place! It is a maze of scabs, and puss grows under the scabs, Comrade General. Trust me, I know this area. I served here as a Control for this entire section. They all betrayed each other, no one trusted anyone, oh yes, those were merry years. The mafia was just starting to take over, and then came the drugs and that was the end of communism. Stalin was a madman, all you have to do is come here and see what Soviet architecture does to a human being.”

Dmitri was depressed. The long street of forlorn buildings rising up five stories in a uniform pattern of space, building, space, building, connected by roads and paths through what were supposed to be Parks of the Soviet Workers. Dmitri sighed as he saw a mangled sign on a post, covered in graffiti, and it said, “General Blank Workers Park”. This man was a great hero of the Patriotic War, and not one of Stalin’s toadies. After the great Patriotic War, Stalin had the man shot for treason. Wonderful man, Stalin. Had a way about him. Ever since Lenin kicked it, this one man, Stalin, kept a whole Nation on it’s toes until the day he croaked.

Vasil said, “When this was all first built, nothing was too good for this colony of loyal party comrades. This was a good place, there were trees! Yes, I see you don’t believe me. But it is true, trust me. Most of these buildings are slated for demolition. But there is no money to do anything anymore. So the worst scum can be found here, for some of the buildings are officially condemned, but the scum find a way in and live, some of them even get the power back on and the water. It is a nest of crime and violence, and I warn you, shoot first and ask questions later is your safest bet. Even the kids have guns in this place. We should have come with tanks, and a corp of special forces.”

At last they came to the right address and it was a modest building of five floors, spread out over a square city block, with an interior courtyard that whistled in gloomy darkness amid the surrounding cliffs of concrete and glass. A strong wind blew at the two men as they got out of the car. Dmitri told Vasil, “You stay here, take care of the car. Don’t worry Vasil, I may be old but I am no saint. I will shoot first and ask questions later.”

Vasil said generously, “Only IF you need to, of course.”

“I will be discrete,” said Dmitri in a conspiratorial whisper.

***

The apartment was on the fifth floor and, miracle of miracles, the elevator worked! Miracle of the Post-Soviet Free Market Economy. He saw a sign in the elevator proclaiming a tenants society that had bought the building and was now managing it, and the sign bravely declared that the building was off limits to any criminals and drugs were prohibited.

There was a poster for free aids testing, and a poster for a 12 step drugs addiction group. Dmitri sighed. He was remembering 1965! The Beatles had just released Rubber Soul, and before this, Veepo had taken Romana on trips to see the Beatles in Hamburg, before they were even the Beatles, and then had taken her along to shows, to Liverpool and the famous Cavern Club. He’d arranged for Romana to see the Beatles, live, at the Ed Sullivan Show.

What had the world come too?

George Harrison was very ill, and John was dead for many years, and Paul’s great second wife had died. And Ringo? All he wanted to do was play the drums. And Russia had gone rotten. If you had lots of money, Moscow was a great city to live in, if you like pollution of every kind.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened, and it was the fifth floor, he got out and walked along to apartment number blank, and knocked on the very ordinary looking door. Standard issue in a Russian apartment building, it had three deadbolts, and the hinges were enclosed so you’d have to cut the frame of the door out first, and then pop the entire doorway out from the wall, and the wall was concrete.

The door opened. A man stood, staring at Dmitri with an unpleasant sly look. He gave every appearance of being a human looking rat, right down to his slightly protruding yellowish teeth. “Yes?” the man asked in a voice of great superiority.

Dmitri ansered firmly, “I am Dmitri Blank and I have an appointment with the Maestro.”

The man sneered and gave a bow to usher Dmitri inside. He stepped aside to let Dmitri enter through the doorway. Once inside the man closed the door.

***

“I am Verchinski. Pure Russian, right down to my Nikes, and living in hope for our future with men like you in charge. Don’t go thinking you know anything anymore, Comrade General. Oh, don’t worry, I am not the one you seek. I am his servant and shall announce you. My little opportunity to remind you of your place in the scheme of things, Russian style. Forget all your versions of what is right or wrong and you end up with what we have. I am a psychopath when it comes to Russia. A nation of drunks with bad teeth. Well, you have a job ahead of you!”

And without another word he turned on his heels and led the way, gesturing to be followed. Through a door, into another hall, with three doors, all closed. Each door had a number over it, one, three and nine. Verchinski put a finger to his lips and said quietly, “Wait here and don’t make a sound.”

He knocked on the door with the number nine. After a pause he opened the door and looked in, and then said, “Alright, come on in, quickly, quickly, I haven’t all day for the likes of you. Corrupt officials are the worst problem we have in Russia. And Putin is a prime example. Yes, I’ve met Putin, and told him what I’m telling you. I don’t grovel at your feet, do I? Well, you need telling. My Master is far too nice for his own good, so go twist him round your little finger and watch out! Power does not corrupt out of nowhere, it requires the use of power for naughtiness and golden nest eggs.”

He paused and seemed to listen to some distant noise.

“My Master approaches. So my last word, you scoundrel! How Russian of me if I were to steal your golden nest egg. Your little retirement fund? You remember: The little account in the Bank of Blank. Yes. Be a good boy, Comrade General.”

Verchinski underwent a sudden change from sneering blame thrower, threat-maker and giver-of-warnings, all gone in a flash, and he was standing at the door, and opening it, and remaining at attention, with all expression of sly sneering wiped clean, and now the studiously blank-faced Servant stepped out of the room, intoning in a very grave and dignified tone of voice, “The Master will see you now, if you will please follow me?”

The transformation complete, this seemingly two-faced fellow led the Comrade General out of room number nine, into the large vestibule, and then knocked on door number one. A slight hesitation, as if had heard someone tell him to come in. Dmitri heard nothing. They could have been in outer space, that’s how quiet the apartment was.

Verchinski opened the door and with a bow of great dignity said, “If you will be so good as to go inside and make yourself comfortable, the Master will be with you shortly.”

Dmitri walked into room number one.

***

The room seemed to stretch out in most directions, but that wasn’t possible, of course. About twenty paces from the door, two chairs sat, waiting, empty, and a slight arrangement of domestic furniture to warrant the accompanying rack of bottles and tea pots, cups and glasses, and a smoking stand for each chair. He spied out the little fridge under the table by the chairs, conveniently close for minimum inconvenience. Quickly he took in the fact that there were two other doors into the room, both closed, and no windows, and only one source of light, a lamp on it’s own stand, near one of the chairs.

He heard the sound of another, new voice, just outside the room.

“Ah, Very, have you been tormenting our new friend? You are incorrigible. I will call you if I need you, and I’ll close the door, if you don’t mind.”

***

The Master walked into the room. And over to Dmitri, extending his hand to be grasped and shaken, heartily, and his voice one of instant intimacy and friendliness. “You can be sure I am glad you have come back, Comrade General. You don’t know me, of course, but I know you. A million questions, eh? And you are right, I can read your mind, completely. I know what you want, Comrade. Your dream is safe. After all, I am a real magician. Why don’t we sit down and have a drink and I will tell you why I have brought you here.”

The still open door now began to close, on it’s own, and then Dmitri heard a clunking click as locks sealed the door tight with a final clunk of such impressive solidity and heavy duty machinery, moving big, thick pieces of tempered steel into precision fitted mounts and couplings. Dmitri raised his eyebrows and waited for the Master to sit down, then he sat in the remaining, vacant chair.

***

The Master was a tall man, thin and sort of narrow, a bit like a happy looking bean pole that had arms and legs and a scrawny neck and a big, high domed foreheaded head, stuck with big, bulging eyes, a big rubbery looking nose, and an equally big set of lips, and a silly chin that wasn’t quite sure what it was: Neck or chin? Or Chin or neck? The hair on his head was in thick tufts growing in clumps, separated from each other by vast spaces of bald scalp. The tufts varied from one inch to seven inches or so in length, and each tuft was stiff and seemed that each hair in each tuft was stiff and wirey.

He was dressed in a tropical suit of Plover’s white, cut like a Panama suit but with a bit more dash and flare. He looked very strange. All he was lacking, the big white hat with the band of black or some other matching colour. Sitting down he looked like a folded stick insect. At least he was well shaved, and though his hairdo WAS quite strange, all in all he was most amusing to look at. Partly because of the lively sparkle in this peculiar looking specimen’s eyes. He knew he was silly looking, and didn’t seem to care, and in fact liked being amusing to look at.

Dmitri cleared his throat, but the Master said, “Yes, of course, how rude, would you like something to drink, yes, well, regardless, I will have a drink. There, ah, now that is thoughtful of Verchinski. Peppermint Vodka, the same brand that Stalin liked so much. Now he was a funny chap. All that murder! Gets to a man. The first time it is a bit of a big deal, and of course what with the few that stand out over time, a bit like a man who chases after women and has many, and some stand out in his mind, but a few he might forget altogether, hey, it’s happened before, I’m sure.”

In the course of this speech a glass of vodka went down the hatch. Without pausing for breath, pouring ANOTHER full glass, and taking a fair sized sip, he told Dmitri, “Another thing I am sure about is that you are missing someone and your heart is wrapped in sorrow, and you have to hide all this, and be Dmitri, living in the year 2002. Well, you can go back, if you want. I can do this for you, Dmitri. We make a deal, and you get to go back, and have another ten years with Romana, just like your dream. I can do this for you and Romana.”

The Master paused and fixed Dmitri with a quiet look of contemplation. His hair cut made him seem most absurd sitting calmly, as in repose. Dmitri could feel the presence of great intellect, examining him carefully and weighing how much of everything this human could take in without cracking up. To this end, the Master quietly said, “Another ten years, and then you return, to this room, and I will be here, waiting for you. I will need you to come back and help me, here. Then, when you are done with that sacred duty, you will have fulfilled your covenant to me, and I will let you have the final letter, and you can take Romana wherever you want to go, and the universe will be your play thing.”

Dmitri was on the mountain and the Master could have been Satan or God, or both, or a life insurance salesman from Gdansk. It could have been a talking piece of turd, or even Putin, President of Russia. You get the idea.

With great respect he said, “Without seeking to offend you, may I ask questions?”

“Of course! Ask away!”

With even greater respect he asked the Master, “Maestro, what is it you would have me do to earn such a...prize?”

Happy laughter greeted this question, and it was pure, not condescending. A happy man finding humourous, playful fondness for this sad, old Russian General. “Ah, you make me glad I have chosen YOU, Comrade. And that you accepted! This is splendid! But you are right to ask what is expected. Come, let me fill your glass, and if you want to smoke, please, help yourself. Good.”

He poured more peppermint vodka, refilling his own empty glass, and then taking a generous sip, settled back, lit a cigarette, and sighed. “Ahhhh. Now, then, the world is being invaded by hosts of insupportable entities who have been attracted here by the waters, so to speak. They have come to take the waters, and these waters are the sea of vibrations created by your species. That’s just the beginning of your problems. There are shit disturbers who are here, now, and they want to do irreparable harm to the flow of good vibrations. They get off on the ugly and horrible. These are entities who take possession of humans and make a lot of trouble. Then there are the New Arrivals.

“Beings from another place altogether. I can’t explain this to you, this place they come from. However, I can tell you they are very strange beings and very powerful. Oh, there are others, some who just are more or less tourists, and every kind of regular vibe sucking energy parasite. The usual angels and goblins posing as humans, and the space aliens and a few disenchanted gods and collected weirdos. This planet is full of intrigue. Any pebble could be a space alien taking a break from being a human being. I am telling you that space and time is not what your species has come up with, and therefore, you do not know what I am talking about. There is a huge conspiracy to keep your species in the dark. It serves the purpose of certain gods and others who want to remain in dominion over you. They are constantly flirting with you and holding you all back with a pretense of knowledge being granted to a few of your species from time to time.

“I am talking about your inalienable rights to the same qualifications as God, and with that, the freedom to create within the creation that you find under your nose, where you discover you had left it all the time. And since time doesn’t really exist at all and is a figment of your imagination, you are trapped in a dream world that does not actually exist at all.”

He refilled his glass and lit another cigarette from end of his last one. Dmitri sat in silence. This absurd man was serious. He drank vodka and seemed completely sober. He had emptied one bottle in just a few minutes. Dmitri waited to see if the man would fall over. Instead, he went on talking, in a quiet and informative tone of voice.

“These things have been building up, and recently we had a serious rupture in the whole delicate balance of all the, ah, different places and sort of other versions of, ah, reality. Very serious, indeed. Many a bad seed was set adrift. Yes, it is peculiar to have a word like bad, because it always spawns the word good. Without one, can the other exist? These are the questions some of these, ah, experimentalists try to answer. The point I am making may not be clear.

“Dmitri, you love another being with your whole heart. That is purely selfish. And it is what you want. When you think of her, you feel so much, and when you think of being with her again, you want that, don’t you? This is desire, and without it, life cannot function in this place. This basic force of nature is one of the forces that is used to get people to do something they otherwise would never do. Supply and demand, which comes first? You have to have the thing to be demanded before you can supply the demand for the thing which you must first have. So what is the thing? In your case this is obvious. But what about all these other, ah, creatures who are messing about in this place?

“They have been drawn here, and some have been sort of thrown here by this, ah, most recent disruption. Some can come and go inside a human host, and do the same with any object or part of anything solid and real. Some will play games and generally screw with your life, and others like to suck on the vibrations they most enjoy, so they like to encourage the fortunes of the host to give them the best supply of what they want to, ah, feed on.

“It doesn’t take much to attract such a creature and have it come and live inside you. If you want to kill it, you have to stop giving it the food it likes to eat. Simple, and not so simple. That is why I am here. And why I need your help. We are going to stop ALL the bad guys and bring peace to the entire species of humans. And Russia will be the guardian of this new world spiritual socialism, powered by the birth of the Age of Real Magic.”

He opened another bottle of vodka and this one was peach flavoured. Another cigarette was ignited. Dmitri did not regret asking to ask a question so much as he was waiting to know, eventually what he must actually, physically do. The scope of this fantastical story the Master told him did nothing to dissuade him. The limits of craziness receded like the room, into a vague, unknowable distance, like the sky on a clear night.

The Master added to this.

“What to do, what to do? Give the humans the entire secret and let them be as I am, and set them all free, for once, and they can make up their own minds, in the not too distant future. That’s what we are going to do. Of their own free will...that we will help create, this ultimate freedom. Of course, once your species has this knowledge, which one of them will want to remain in this version of reality? Well, that’s anyone’s guess. So there you are. You are going to help me free your species and at the same time I will have the eternal satisfaction of having routed some nasty pieces of work, and cleaned up the neighbourhood so I can go back to my retirement. So you see, we both are after the same basic desire. We both would prefer to being doing something else!”

The Master laughed at this and poured some more vodka into Dmitri’s nearly full glass. “Another cigarette, Comrade General?”

“No thank you, Sir.”

The Master beamed his approval at the old Russian General. “Soon you’ll see Romana again, and you’ll be very happy. She will know, by the way, what you have done for her. You know that the car that hit her, it was driven by a very dubious fellow by the name of Chang. If you come across him, don’t worry anymore, I am going to give you a ring to wear, and that will sort Chang.” No sooner said, and the Master was handing a ring of wood to Dmitri. “Yes, you might as well put it on now. Chang is around, I can feel him doing things, nearby. You see, he is parked next to us, so to speak, and different versions are colliding and disrupting and meddling and contriving and searching about for some way to win out and get away or come to control or even destroy...all these different intentions are colliding and making a big mess.”

He leaned back and drank more vodka and sighed and smiled like a man thinking of freedom from a prison cell, about to be released tomorrow, and here was the Warden, come to revoke his parole on a trumped up charge. He shook his head wryly, and laughed at himself. “I indulge in our Russian misery, and it makes me roll up my sleeves, here is the job, waiting for us.”

Again with the quiet contemplative taking in of Dmitri’s capacity to deal with a whole new set of realities. Then, he resumed speaking, this time with crisp authority and no nonsense in his cheerful voice and smiling face. “I will be giving you some tools to have tested by certain select members of your government. Your President, Mr. Putin, will be part of this select group. You and I will use the force of desire to get what we need to do done. Then we can get on with the rest of our lives.

“We will guide this Nation into the new age of Real Magic, and liberate the entire species. Russia will become pure and chaste, and from this land of great sorrow will be borne it’s natural opposite. We will use the energy of suffering and transform it like alchemists into it’s opposite.

“To get this done, we first capture a select few, and get them hooked. To do this we give them toys to play with and make dreams with. For example, here is a stick of wood the size of an average pencil, yet the bearer can use this device to know the thoughts of any human. All you have to do is hold the stick in your left hand and bring to mind the person you want to, ah, listen to, and you will hear what they are CONSCIOUSLY thinking. Keep in mind that distinction.”

The Master offered the stick for Dmitri’s inspection “See? Think of someone....”

Dmitri thought of Vasil while he held the little wooden stick in his left hand. At first nothing happened. Then he could hear Vasil, and feel, too, the thoughts of Vasil. Too much rich detail settled quickly to a more bearable simplicity. The wooden stick seemed to adjust to Dmitri’s potential, and stretch him a bit so that he could take a little more detail until he was taking the whole dose of Vasil’s conscious thoughts.

It was an impressive demonstration. Dmitri could hear the whole extent of Vasil's private musings. Apparently Vasil was thinking about a woman and the trouble he was having with this woman and what he planned to do to get what he wanted. The thoughts moved with emotion and seemed to form into a complete idea, and then be wiped-out by the next thought-train to come rolling along. After a few minutes of this listening, Dmitri opened his left hand and let the little wooden stick drop into his lap. The connection to Vasil’s mind stopped immediately.

The Master was waiting, with a half-smile, and twinkling eyes. He lightly clapped his hands, and in some apparent delight said, “You’ll never be quite the same regarding personal privacy. I want you to eat this piece of paper,” the Master showed him a little piece of paper. “It will give any mind-readers who look your way a very convincing broadcast, and any who can go a little deeper, this little mouthful is going to tell the story we want to tell. Go on, it tastes like peppermint.”

He handed over the small piece of paper. Very small and strange characters were written all over the little piece of paper. Dmitri took the piece of paper and sniffed: Peppermint!

He looked at the strange writing and asked,”What is this writing?” and popped the paper into his mouth and began chewing thoughtfully. The paper dissolved in his mouth.

The Master told him, “It is the bark of a special tree that is not native to this place. I make the paper myself. It is very nutritious. A feast of rare elements! It is made from the Zib Bib Burr Ree tree. A rather large tree, actually.”

Dmitri felt peculiar. His mouth was getting fatter and fatter. Or so it seemed. He touched his cheeks to make sure. No, they were normal. He swallowed and the fatter and fatter feeling moved into his gullet, and all the way down into his stomach. The Master laughed and said, “You will feel a bit queer while the sub-atomic molecules move into place. Oh, the writing! Yes, it is very beautiful writing and now completely unknown in this place. Yet, there was a time, really, when this writing came from this place. It is the original language of Gardener.”

***

What secrets! If Dmitri had only known what he was being told, he might have been able to do SOMETHING! ANYTHING! But he had no context, no connection.

Brutal and true.

So, as a consequence, the whole weird and whacky tale rolled on to its final conclusion. From that conclusion came the rest of the story, which you shall hear of, and must hear BECAUSE then YOU will know, and be able to do SOMETHING! ANYTHING!

When it is the end of the world and you know it, and the safety and succor of your species is doomed, and the future is extinction, what to do?

What to do?

The magician played with life as you would never do. Nothing was different. Life was programmed to play with itself. The baby asserted and grew, and there you are, one complete universe. And then the universe ate the baby.

But wait, said the magician. Perhaps we can do SOMETHING! ANYTHING!

The two words stressed one way sound like a cry of desperation. The same two words can also sound triumphant, confident and do+able. When you are no longer in conflict, you will know your power.

The magician prepared the mind for the advent of real magic. Stretching the human mind by giving it more than words and fanciful talk. The object of real magic is the release of doubt, recognition of who you are, and what you can do. The magician told the world, “You can do SOMETHING! ANYTHING!”

He gave Dmitri another wooden object.

“...To be tested in secrecy, and you will have to choose the team. Keep this secret, Dmitri. This tube of wood is very powerful. The person who operates this must be a woman. When you have selected the woman, give her the tube, and then only she will be able to use the tube.” He smiled like a saint with very strange hair, and said rather dreamily, “Do you know what the tube does?” He leaned a little forward and said, “Why don’t you use the mind-reading stick, and read my mind?”

Dmitri picked up the little stick of wood in his left hand. He thought of the Master and reading his mind. Pause. In came the thoughts, and majestic feelings, deep and poignant and rich and wide...and there it was, mind-link download about the tube the Magician held in his hands. Tube, wood, hollow, two inches round and twelve inches long, with the strange characters inscribed on the surface of the tube.

The thoughts: “Here is the tube! Beautiful work, taken a long time to make this work perfectly, every time and in every place. Now it is yours to take and show to a few, and keep them in secrecy! The tube gives you every reason to bow in terror and treat with respect. The woman you select will point the tube at any object that she can physically see and be able to make it disappear. She can then make the same object reappear somewhere else and anytime she decides to. She only has to be holding the tube.

“Ah! The simplicity of this tube! She only has to hold in in either of her hands, and the tube will communicate with her, link-up with her and it is done. She will know what to do and how to do it. This is real magic. The Master is present in the tube, you see. A sort of cloning into wood, and a particular kind of wood, at that. Take in the genius! She will be able to use the tube like an artist!

“Let us consider. She holds the tube in her hand and is walking along the road somewhere, in any city, and she sees a building, say an office tower, a big one. She points the tube at the building and tells the tube to send out a beam of light that only she can see, day or night. The light comes from the hollow end of the tube and she can see the light where it touches the building. Good, now she takes the next step. She directs the light to dematerialize the building, wherever the light touches, dematerializes! A genuine marvel!”

***

The testing was done in great secrecy, and Dmitri held the little wooden stick in his left hand and listened to the mind of the woman holding the tube. If there was the slightest hint of trouble, she would be instantly shot by expert marksmen, the elite killers of the Comrade General’s flying force.

Vladmir Putin was present, as were three other generals and one anxious civilian. The staff of six scientists stood apart from Putin and Co. They were busy with fussing over the experiments so hastily devised, and all to measure what they were all sure would turn out to be a complete hoax and waste of time. Dmitri had had to assure them they would not be held responsible in some way when this tube did not work.

The woman holding the tube was serene and obviously listening to a voice only she could hear. Her name? Sosha Vlidma. One of the Comrade General’s best covert soldiers. She knew the deal: Instant death for ANY signs of disobedience. The long and slender woman stood out among all the men. Certainly, she was fair, and didn’t seem to care about anything except the sound of the voice only she could hear.

“Ready to begin!” she announced with enthusiasm.

The head scientist told her to proceed. There were many cynical half-grins and some looks of outright contempt on their scientific faces. Sosha ignored all this, other than the command to proceed.

She pointed the tube at the first of the objects on the list of targets.

One old military transport truck.

A beam of light only she could see touched two of the truck’s rear wheels. She told the light to widen and to begin dematerializing. There was, of course, a gasp of astonishment, and outright shock from everyone else who was watching, except, of course, for Sosha who cried out the equivalent of, “Holy ____!”

***

The testing went on until all the objects on the list of targets had been both dematerialized and then rematerialized at another location. Ten miles away!

To say that the scientists were now silent dummies would be a slight exaggeration. They did talk, but among themselves, and in a way that was new and respectful and very humble.

To a man, they were afraid.

This was something not possible breaking all their laws and observations and principles and theories. Men snap under less strain and over smaller inconsistencies. Dmitri had chosen well?

Some of the objects rematerialized slightly above the ground, and came down with a thump or a crack or a smash, depending on the object. Sosha got better at rematerializing, and the last few were done flawlessly. Then she handed over the tube to Dmitri. Sosha would now be tested by the scientists. Before she went to do this, in confidence she said to Dmitri, “Sir, the fantastic is my pawn? Or will you be able to resist the temptation? Those are the messages from the device. This is the dilemma you have been given.”

Sosha stared at the General, searching his face, and she was lit up from something he could not touch. He asked, “Are you alright, Sosha?”

“Yes, I think so. I will never be the same. You knew that, though.” Then a brief pause, and, “Please be careful, Sir. This could be a terrible weapon in the wrong hands.” Her face was very serious. Not grim, no.

Serious.

***

The Comrade General resisted his temptation to laugh in Sosha’s face. The serious face she presented to him was not contrived. Even so, Dmitri wanted to chuckle, at least, and pinch one of her cheeks, gently pat her on top of her head and tell her, “There, there, there, it doesn’t really matter, not in the least. You see, even what we thought was the REAL world was all the time...the not-real world. And....”

No, he couldn’t, maybe wouldn’t, utter the remaining few words to be said. Even the terrible tube seemed logical and normal and scientific compared to what he thought he now knew about the REAL story of life. Sure, you might never come to understand what Dmitri now knew of life. This MAY all pass you by and your here never come to know the perils of freedom.

You see, Dmitri had returned to being Veepo, and 1965, and to Romana, alive, and waiting for him at the restaurant, still shaken from her near death.

Of course she’d recognized the driver.

Mr. Chang Chang Chang.

Dmitri as Veepo had to explain what had happened to her, and how he had left and come back, and when once she had been dead, she was now alive. This was fact, of course. Reality. Not a dream world or a fantasy. Do you think he tried to tell her all this right away? No, he waited. He had ten years.

He waited three days.

“I have something to talk over with you. First, a question. Have you noticed that I seem different to you?”

She was painting her nails and doing so with great pleasure. He always enjoyed watching her do this. Somehow he found it soothing and erotic at the same time. Romana knew this and it doubled her pleasure. Still, he was right. Since the near brush with being squashed, he WAS different. She frowned in thought. How exactly was Veepo different?

She told him plainly, “Yes, you are a bit. You have something you’ve been waiting to tell me, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I have. But it will sound...quite mad. I had to go back to 2002. I had to be Dmitri.”

She blinked. Her eyes widened.

“Then it wasn’t a dream,” she whispered to the air, and also to Veepo Mosst, her husband.

***

“What?” he said. He felt his mind lurch to a stop. A big hand had come and wiped his brain clean. No thought would come and he was stuck, trying to think, and each time, his brain seemed to skip, and come down with a thud into a single word, “What?” He said the word several times, as if it had some meaning, somewhere, maybe.

“I had a dream. I thought it was a dream. I was run over by the car, and my body was dead, and I had left my body and walked around for awhile and tried to talk with you at the restaurant but you didn’t know I was there. You couldn’t see me or hear me. Until you read the letter and left Veepo, and the old Veepo was back. That’s when I left, too. But, it is strange, the old Veepo, he could see me, and he told me so, too. One of the reasons I went so quickly after you left.

“I followed you to Dmitri. Oh, it is all coming back to me, Veepo!”

Romana had stopped painting her nails. Some of the nails were dry, and some were wet. Her eyes were now closed, and her face puckered from the flow of memory. In a voice betraying a subtle profundity, she said clearly, “I was alive, and I was dead, and now I am alive means only this Veepo: I was dead, and I was alive, and now I am dead.”

***

Therefore, Sosha’s sincere seriousness touched the Comrade General’s funny bone and made him want to laugh. “Oh, there are a few things you don’t know, I think,” is what he wanted to say, as much to her as to himself and certainly to the President, Putin. The others were of no account and would all be alive soon, so it didn’t matter. Putin was going to alive them all, even though Putin thought he was having them all killed.

This is a bit of a twister because you don’t know what Dmitri knew. Or thought he knew, which as it turned out was the same thing. At the time, Putin didn’t even know he was going to start plotting to kill the ones who stood in his way of gaining control over the secrets and becoming a magician.

No, at the time of the tube’s demonstration, he was still shitting his pants and pretending not to be terrified of Dmitri. Putin had received a letter by special delivery before the demonstration of the tube. The contents made him (a) freak.

“Dear Sir, enclosed please find the proof necessary to gain your unqualified attention. Not excluding this letter, I have the esteemed pleasure to read you mind. I know you quite well. As a consequence, I know all your secrets, all your plans, and even to the incidents you have forgotten, the most trivial detail, all of this, and more, I know.

“You will receive a request from General Dmitri Blank to attend a demonstration of a most startling nature. I think you will be more receptive to General Blank’s invitation after you finish reading this letter. He will ask you to attend the testing of a small example of my minor skills in a smallish area of the practice of Real Magic.

“To give scope and dimension to such terms as ‘minor skills’ let us use this letter as an example. On a scale of one to sixty-four, this letter is a minus one to the ninth millionth power of the nine of the nine of the nine of the nine of the nine of the nine of the nine of the nine of the nine. In other terms, it is a very, very small bit of real magic.

“Consider this: the General comes to you acting as my emissary and the sole recipient of my gifts to you. He is not in my employ, and will never be so. He acts from his motivation to serve his country faithfully, which is why I choose him to be a go-between. He certainly could not refuse, and he did not. I consider him privy to all my councils concerning my plans to assist you, Mr. President, in the reconstruction of our Great Nation through the implementation of real magic.

“I will make available to you through his good offices the following items of great interest that I ask you to test and begin to evaluate for possible use by Our Great Nation to reach our full potential and lead the world. I ask that you consider accepting the role of World Leader, and to consider accepting General Blank as my liaison. Not withstanding any of these considerations, my sincere invitation to meet with me and confer, together, on the best use of these following items of great interest.

“Consider this invitation to come meet with me at my apartment in the following simple way: If you read every word of the next sentence, I swear to you, you will be transported to a safe and comfortable room in my apartment, where you will be sitting, in a comfy chair, and quite free to go, if you want to, and there I will be, ready to talk with you. Here is that wonderful sentence, you keep on reading, go on, and see for yourself.”

***

Chapter 13

DON'T BE MAD AT THE MIRROR IF YOU ARE UGLY

Mr. Vladmir Putin read the last sentence, every word, and was immediately transported to the nice and comfortable room. One moment in his office, alone, reading that last sentence. The next moment, in room number one, sitting in the same big chair that Dmitri had sat in. Shock, bafflement, gaping, blank-faced, utter bewildered astonishment. Brain resorting to: 'This can’t be happening! Not real! Unknown! Foreign! What’s going on? I’m losing my mind!'

The calm presence of the (Vladelets
Fokusnik) Master’s voice, and tone, and vibration of contentment and serenity, filling Mr. Putin with hope, a hallucination? Temporary madness? What with the special delivery of the letter, and this, this, this...?

“No, no, no, Mr. President, I assure you, this is not your madness. I am real. What has happened, your coming here the way you did...all of it...is real. You are really here. I want you to prove this fact to yourself. Go on, use your cell phone, call your secretary and see if you are in your office like you’re supposed to be. Go on, let them find out you are not there and that somehow you managed to get out of your office and come to this place, miles away from your office, and not one of your bodyguards saw you or anyone in the office, or at the doors? How did you get here? Car? Taxi? Bus? Bicycle? Walk? Besides, you are really here. And of course, you can go anytime you want. But, call...see for yourself, go on, call.” The magician paused significantly, and then said quietly, almost whispering, “I would advise you to tell your secretary that you have been abducted.”

Putin could feel the chair, and knew he wasn’t dreaming, even though he felt this was all too crazy for words, and used his cell phone to call his own office. If he was insane it was convincing him, and scaring him, completely. The skin of his body was one big long goose bump.

Somehow he managed to use his cellphone. The voice of his secretary answering almost made him faint.

“Hello?”

This was no dream and he wasn’t crazy.

Putin quickly terminated the call and closed his cell phone up as if it was the only thing he could think of doing. He realised he was baffled, unable to speak to Sig, his secretary. What would he say to him?

The President of Russia tried again. His cell phone bleeped as the call went through.

“Sig, this Vlad. Listen, something important has come up. I want to ask you a question. As far as you know, I am in my office, alone. Correct?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Sig, go into my office.”

“Yes Sir.”

The secretary got up from his desk and crossed over to the private door leading to his master’s private office, and opened the door and went into the big room, lit by the morning light through windows fit for a Czar and, in fact, had been, at one time. Such was the inheritance of history, and a soon to be King of the world talked to his minion using the modern version of real magic, a cellphone, using the mysterious waves of energy called by humans micro-waves, the carrier of signals needing translation back into the original version. This is magic.

“Are you in my office?”

“Yes Sir. I am the only one here. I am alone.” He paused, a troubled sort of pause, and then asked, nervously, “Where are you, Sir?”

Putin answered calmly, “Sig, if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. I have been abducted, and I want you to do nothing about it. I am perfectly serious, too. I might sound calm to you, but I tell you, I have been abducted. Don’t do anything. I think I am perfectly safe, and when they have told me whatever they have to tell me, I can go. In fact, in all fairness, I have already been informed that I can leave at any time. So, don’t do anything. When I want to come back, I will call you. Until then, don’t say a word to anyone! Is that clear?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Right, good, now, you will have to cancel my appointments until lunch time, and stand by for the afternoon, I’ll let you know. Now, get back to work, and no calls! You make sure you keep your mouth shut, and don’t let anyone enter my office, on my strictest orders, I am not to be disturbed! You got that?”

“Yes Sir.”

But Putin had already hung up. He faced the Master with impatience and a look of ‘well you better get on with it and stop wasting my time!’ and then the reality of the situation hit him, again, and he was facing those very wise and knowing eyes set in a soft sea of tranquility. Here was the fellow who could do all this. IF any of it was real and not crazy wild madness.

“Oh no, you are not mad, not at all. Come, come, it is bound to be a bit of shock. After all, really, it is new and shocking, isn’t it? Really. So accept that fact, it is rather crazy, in your perspective, but in my my perspective this is all a mere bit of dippsy doodle, a flick of the limpest sort, a twitch of a start of a nod, a tiny, tiny, tiny glimpse at what is and isn’t. For example, my will and your will. Why can’t you make what you want happen, and why can I? How can I create directly into your reality and you can not? Oh great perplexing mystery. Well, Mr. President, all that is going to change. We are going to get there yet! I have a plan, you see. And I want you to help me.

“Here is my hand on it. I want you to be leader of the world. I will help you to change the world. Finally, socialism, and every human can have what they want. Real Magic will solve all the problems of transportation, communications, health care, the justice system, social ills, trade, self-defense, you see. It is the end of the problems of man. You can have everything you want through the use of Real Magic. And I will help you to bring this to the world. You will be blessed among men, Mr. President.

“I only ask you accept General Dmitri Blank as my emissary. His role will remain secret. Only the three of us will know of his role. From time-to-time, you and I will have a nice chat, and I can give you some practical tools to use in your own personal life. Here is one I have made for you, as a personal gift to you.”

The Master handed over a little wooden bead strung on a thick string of hemp. Putin accepted the gift. His head heard the words that came next, but, really, what can you think? Judge for yourself.

“This little bead holds the work necessary. It will act as a constant reminder of the presence of Real Magic. Wear this around your neck, and you will be invincible....”

***

And so it went. Putin got his gifts and heard the rap about changing the world, and he bought into it as far as the gifts went, and doing nothing more than stalling for time until he could...what?...he didn’t exactly know, but it was instinct at this point, and just trying to keep up with the big new news.

At the end of it all, Mr. Putin was politely told that the interview was over, and he would be contacted shortly by the Comrade General, and it has been so nice to meet you, and I do hope you haven’t been too inconvenienced, please go downstairs, your car will be there to pick you up, and goodbye until the next time.

The end result was Mr. Putin waiting in the little lobby of the old apartment building. Several people noticed him, he was wearing a nice suit, after all, and he did look very much like Mr. Putin. Some went by, grinning, going, “Naw, it can’t be! Buddy, anyone ever tell you who you look like?”

When his car pulled up to the curb, Putin walked quickly over and got in and said, “Back to the office.” He used his cell phone to call his secretary. “Sig, yeah, listen, I want a security detail to go in and arrest everyone in the following apartment and put them in detention, and then have them interrogated. Here is the address. I want you to hurry, Sig. They may try and get away. Yes, these are the men who abducted me.”

***

Putin got back to his office and waited for the crack squad of elite thugs to bust into that damned apartment. They did. They found a simple three room apartment with an old woman mending socks and a young boy playing with wooden blocks, both in the little sitting room. It turned out that the old woman had lived there for years, and the boy was her grandson. The boy’s mother was dead, and the father was a sailor. The old woman’s husband was out at the library and would be home soon.

Putin returned to the apartment building to see for himself. He was stunned. Did it mean he was insane? He was beginning to think so. But then he remembered the wooden bead round his neck, and worked his finger past his shirt and tie to touch the bead. How did this come to exist if he was insane?

After seeing the apartment for himself, he returned to his office and received the puzzled stares of his secretary and security detail. A new and strange behaviour sprouted the ill seeds of malicious gossip, and the affair became a little known event, suppressed, of course, and hidden, effectively, and made to disappear in the memories of those involved. A hazy memory, at best, and of little interest to the bearer. Putin had been given his other little gift.

The Master had told him, “After you leave, you will send the security team to try and arrest me. It is important that you verify the reality of my abilities. You must be convinced that you are not insane and that I am really real. Once this is accomplished, you will be covered with gossip. ‘Oh, Putin is crazy! Claims he was abducted, and sent this squad to an apartment on a wild goose chase.’

“You will be perceived as a nut. What is remembered will be but briefly remembered, will fade, and be as if it never happened. In your world, this description is apt, anyway, but now, I will aid this effect, and here is a little wooden feather to help you.”

***

This next part might be a bit confusing.

So hang on to your brain,and try and keep up. Okay?

Of course, none of the above happened because Vladmir Putin hung-up on Sig, and the rest is what really happened. Oh sure, the wooden bead and the wooden feather? That happened. Putin really did get those going away gifts.

And then Putin was told it was time for him to go.

“I hope you won’t think it too rude of me, Mr. President. A human, even one as remarkable as yourself, you can only take in so much before you’ll burst at the seams. So off you go, and prove to yourself that I am very real. The feather will give you anonymity. You can wander where you will and not be recognized. Touch the feather once with any part of your left hand and you activate anonymity. Touch again, deactivate. Repeat as desired. Very simple.

“I admire your discretion and know you are worthy of our trust, this Great Nation being the 'our', and you are the leader of the people. So go, and take the time to go slowly with your self. This is going to be a lot to take in, and you will rise to the occasion. The gifts I give you will prove the truth of my word. Now go in peace, Mr. Putin.”

***

When Putin left the apartment building he felt like he’d already done this, before, as if he had spoken to Sig, and the cars would be arriving any second, and ...but it wasn’t true, and no one seemed to recognize him, or notice a striking resemblance to The President.

The entrance to the apartment building was some meters from the curb. He fully expected to see the security detail coming to a halt, and his own car waiting, with the door being opened by his body guards, and safety and dignity restored. He remembered the bead and touched it, and then the feather. Yes, he wasn’t insane.

“Should I call and get the car sent, and all that? I will have been missed hours ago. Putin disappears! Mystery in the Kremlin...how did I manage to get by everyone and not be seen? Ah, I see...Putin proves a point. Eludes security and roams freely around Moscow, posing as a common citizen. No, it must be that I have a lover, or a secret vice...Putin is opium addict! No. Putin goes mad! Yes, that is much more like it.” So went some of his inner dialogue. Meanwhile Putin had walked to the curb, past blank-faced citizens who didn’t give him a second glance other than to covet his gleaming shoes. He was probably a tax collector and best avoided.

Putin was a man with very mixed feelings. The walk along this deplorable street gave him time to put his hands in his pockets and puzzle over the last few hours of his life. He was partly aware of the downtrodden neighbourhood. His eyes registered visual facts. Some of the apartment blocks he passed seemed to be partly abandoned. He read signs that said something about this building is condemned by order of blah blah blah. He noticed the junk laying around. So much junk! And then he saw some of the citizens had been eyeing him, and not because he looked like the President.

No. Putin knew that look well enough.

The stalking eyes. Predators.

Putin thought what they must be thinking: “What a nice suit you are wearing, and your shoes? They look very nice, very expensive. You must be an important man to be so rich. Perhaps we can assist you. You see, Sir, there are many disreputable characters who would try and rob a rich man like yourself. We cannot have that happening in our neighbourhood, can we? So we will provide you with an escort so you can arrive at your destination safely. For a very modest fee, I assure you. Let me have your wallet so that it will be safe, and then I will give it back to you when you are no longer in danger of being the victim of a robbery. Some of these disreputable characters carry loaded guns and very sharp knives and won’t hesitate to use these weapons. This being the case, it is only natural that we must be likewise prepared to deal effectively with such scum. See? My friends and I are all armed in this way. I have a Walther PPK (Polizei Pistole Kriminal), and this commando knife from my time in Afghanistan. Serg has a preference for butterfly knives and Beretta’s. Hard to get ammunition! But we manage, like all good Russians.”

Putin went through all this in his mind, but nothing happened. He kept walking. After another twenty minutes he passed a cafe that was open. He stopped and took out his cell phone and called his secretary.

“Hello?”

“Sig, it’s me,”

“Sir! Where are you? Are you alright?”

Mr. Putin was prepared as best he could be. He could hear the sounds of other voices in the back ground. He was trying to imagine the scene. Ah, forget it! More important things waited.

“Yes, of course I am fine. I went for a walk to think a few things over. Apologies all round to my bodyguards for letting me slip away like this. And you too, Sig. Think it over. We obviously need to talk about our security arrangements. I am sorry to have to prove a point in such a melodramatic manner, but there, it is done, and now we can make improvements. Now listen, I am at 508945 Vladivostah Boulevard, it is a cafe, ‘the Sophak’. Yes, I’ll be inside. You send an unmarked car to come and get me. No, don’t make a fuss about coming with bodyguards.”

Sig started to tell Putin, “Sir, it has been chaos here since you disappeared...I just want to warn you. I have done my best to keep this quiet. I am very glad you have called! We were just about ready to issue a full alert....”

Putin knew it was much more than that. What would happen if the country was suddenly attacked and the President was not available? There were strict guidelines. He realized what a big mess he had made. Well, leadership was required, not blithering about.

“Sig, is the car on the way?”

A pause.

“Yes, Sir.”

Putin said firmly, “Good. Keep your mouth buttoned about any details. When I get back, I want to see the Head of Security in my office, and you tell him this is a strictly private meeting. Talk to him yourself, Sig. Everybody else, you keep silent, and the President is fine and is having lunch, and will be back soon. Now please ____ off. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Right. Talk to you later.”

***

Putin didn’t like the inside of the cafe. It was a bar. The vomit inside looked like men and women. These were the citizens, most of them drunk by lunch time, and some here to pelt back the booze and go back to a job or on their way to or from some act of crime, most likely prostitution, drug pushing, robbery, fraud, begging, selling an organ, and of course, gambling.

Putin was surprised how many people were in the Sophak Cafe.

He was assaulted by the stench of cigarette smoke and the rank smell of liquor and badly washed humans in not so clean clothes with not such great teeth, nourished by not such a great diet, and living with the socio-economic reality of being stupid, no-good losers in the new economy of Russia. Putin stared at the grand fiasco of modern Russia. Scum was scum.

He felt their eyes take him in.

A new fish!

Putin needed to urinate. Not from fear. He had been building up to it for some hours. And now he needed to pee. God knew what the lavatory was like in a place like this! Well, piss moved away, so no germ could infect him. Ignoring the riff-raft, he went to the gents and held his breath and tried to close the door to a stall, and then gave up and opened up and let go.

Ah!

Two men came in.

Without so much as a word they attacked Putin. They both hit him with coshes on the back of his neck, right where the skull and spine meet. All done in a flash, without warning, and he had no time react. Before he had a chance to flinch, the coshes whammed on target. Sure he felt the impact. But no pain. His pissing was completely interrupted and he turned quickly with dire consequences of flying pee spraying the two attackers.

Putin was on the move.

Pushing past the two men. Coming out of the cubicle.

Impossible!

The two men made various horrible noises and rushed to finish this freak. Sure, before, IF he had been severely injured and left for dead in the lavatory, draped over a toilet...all is fair in love and war. The two men didn’t really care about that so much, at first, just strip the asshole and leave him. But now it was personal. The guy had pissed on them and refused to fall down. So a rain of blows at full force struck Putin’s frantic arms, and beat on his body and shoulders and the side of his head.

As this continued, Putin realized he wasn’t being hurt. Really. Not at all.

“Yes, I feel the blows hitting me, but it doesn’t hurt at all. And there is no damage. I’m getting pushed around, but that’s all.”

One of the men was tiring, and the pace of his blows slowed, and he yelled in pure frustration, and summoned up a terrific blow to Putin’s face, right on the nose. The whack was cruel and the bounce off the face led to another blow. Putin was knocked about, but not as much as he should have been. What would have knocked him flying he acknowledged by a slight stagger, and now came back to his starting point, not being able to help the growing smile of wonder on his surprised face.

The blow to his nose was repeated three times.

No blood. No falling victim. Only this goofy smiling face. The second man pulled out a smallish hand gun and yelled to look out, he was going to shoot the ____er. The other man jumped back, and the gun fired, and Putin felt the bullets hit him, but they flattened and fell to the floor, bouncing. Three shots into this craziness, the gunman aimed at Putin’s face and shot the rest of his clip. Bang bang bang bang bang bang.

Bullets hit Putin’s face and he felt the impact. No pain. The bullets flattened and fell to the ground. A slight jerk with the hit of each individual bullet. As the last bullet hit the gross and disgusting floor, the two attackers stood in horror. Putin was smiling in a whole new way. Very dangerous and very confident.

He reached out, saying, “Let me have the gun please. Obviously you are a very bad shot. Let me see if I can do better.”

The shooting had the place in a turmoil. But in the toilet, there was an oh-so special silence, followed by an eruption of choices being made by three different men. Putin was invincible, the bead worked, he had his obvious proof. Why not clobber one of these mutants? Meanwhile, the gunman had decided that this was the devil come to get him and he better run away because he was starting to shit his pants. So he tore out of the toilet, and left the bar, running for his life. As he left the toilet, the other attacker charged at Putin, with a knife, and repeatedly tried to slash and stab Putin. Putin now began to enjoy himself.

“Come on, certainly you can do better than that? See?”

Whack! -- went Putin’s open hand. A hard slap across the thug’s furious face.

Savage cry, and the knife flashed, tip striking with all the weight of the thug at the end, perfectly angled, should have pierced deep, a stab to drive the knife right through Putin’s body, have the knife sticking out the back, hilt embedded into the body.

A murderous blow!

Nothing of the sort happened.

The attack cost thuggo dearly. Trading blow for blow, Putin smashed the thug in the face. He he hit as hard as he could. He felt no pain from the impact of his fist. But, ah, the satisfaction he felt! Ah! It was thrilling to hit the thug in the face. The head snapping back, and crack of bones breaking in the nose, the burst of blood, head hitting the edge of the something hard and sharp. The knife falling to the floor. Clank! Ah! Then to stop and see the thuggo-scum gather himself, and see him hurting and shying away. But now it was Putin who showed no mercy. Ah! The surging pleasure of smashing his fists into the man’s face. He had hold of him after the first few blows, and followed the man to the floor, and sat on his chest, beating the bloodying face into submission.

There were men and women at the door of the toilet, and the owner was coming in with a bat and shouting for the fighting to stop. But it was all chaos, and Putin continued to smash the thug’s face. His fists were invincible. Not a mark and no pain as he smashed in teeth and nose and hammered on the side of the jaw, trying to pop it out. After about twenty such blows, he took hold of the man’s head and pounded it against the floor. Three whacks on the same side, ear first.

The bar owner told him to stop, and when Putin didn't, he tried to hit a home run, aiming at Putin’s right arm. The owner of the bar was not a small fellow. He had arms like fire hydrants and fingers like meat hooks, and a face to match, with a half chewed ear and some graphic damage to his nose from past chaos. He put all he had in that swing. The bat hit an almost immovable object. The shock went back through the bat and stung the huge man’s hands. He bellowed and swung for Putin’s head.

Putin ignored all this. The bat hit his head, and he gave about an inch of give, not missing a beat in his punching out the gory mess that used to be just an ugly, evil looking face. The bat didn’t bounce, it split, and the bar-owner shrieked because the handle broke in his hands and all the energy went into his hands and it hurt like a sonofabitch.

Putin had to control himself. Blood lust rampage! President of Russia kills Attacker!

He stood up from the silent, motionless body. The crowd in the door moved away as he came towards them. He said, “If you don’t mind, I was having a piss, and then this! So, I am going to finish my piss.”

He turned and took a step back to the body of the thuggo-scum and opened up and let go the contents of his pent-up bladder.

The piss of Putin fell on the body of the unconscious thug. Putin aimed the stream of urine to fall on the man’s broken face. He aimed more precisely and began to fill the man’s swelling, bloody mouth. The pee splattered into the blood and mess of bits of teeth and open cuts and the swelling lips busted open against broken teeth. Bubbles from the man’s open mouth and smashed in nose gave proof that he lived, barely.

Putin finished pissing and shook off the last few errant drips, put it all back and zipped it all up, and went to the sink and washed his hands. Not a hair was out of place, and there were no marks and certainly his clothing was still immaculate. Done with his toilette, this anonymous man turned and left the toilet.

The bar owner had been watching with his mouth hanging open. He held the split bat in one hand. The other hand hung down at the side of his body, attached to his arm, and useless, like his brain. He couldn’t comprehend this, this, this...impossibility.

The remaining patrons were edging away from him, clearing a path. The owner suddenly lurched into the toilet to be sick because of his shock and fear. There was a lot of yelling going on. In fact, there was talk racing round, and people leaving, and some coming in to take a look. Word spread fast!

But no one in the Sophak Cafe was prepared to come near him.

***

Putin touched the feather twice. The patrons would forget some of the details. In general, the patrons had no reason to stick around. And that was spurred on as some official looking car came to a stop outside the cafe. There were two men in the car, unmistakably some sort of heat, and the patrons hit the back door, and the crowd grew in the front, on the sidewalk.

Putin walked over to the bar where a bottle of vodka had been left behind. He found a cleanish glass and poured himself a drink. He sipped the stuff and grimaced. White lightening. Bootleg, for sure. He took a small sip and swallowed, grimaced and then tossed back the shot. He noticed his hands were unmarked and felt fine and were steady as rocks.

The owner of the bar came out of the gents and called out, “Hey! You got to pay like anybody else! I don’t care if you are the devil.”

Putin couldn’t help grinning at the man.

One of the two men in the car entered the cafe and seemed quite ready to kill anyone who might start something. He said to Putin with great respect in his voice, “Sir, it is good to see you. Is there any trouble?”

Putin touched the feather twice, quickly, touch-touch, as he said confidently, “No trouble for me, Chekoff.”

The bar owner looked puzzled, as if he was going to say something. He was trying to remember something. About this man and a split bat. Other stuff, too. There had been a fight, right? Yes. That’s right. Someone had tried to rob this man? Yes. And he had defended himself? Yes. And I had broken up the whole thing...I think.

Putin put a bill down on the bar and without saying a word left the cafe. Chekoff rushed to open the door for him, and went out behind him and the other man had the door open, and Putin was getting into the car, a wall of people waiting for more than this to happen. Where were the police and the ambulance and the fuss?

As Chekoff closed the door after Putin and then got in the front, the bar owner came out and yelled, “There is a body in my toilet! What are you going to do about that?”

Chekoff lowered the power window and yelled back, “Call the police!”

The window closed and the car moved away, with a slight squeal of tires, and then driving away, down the long, horrible industrial section of Vladivostok Boulevard.

***

Before he met the magician, Putin was not a man like any other. Was he worse? Who knows? Who cares? These men didn’t exactly care, did they? The minute you start dropping bombs on people, we want to know how you’d like the same dropped on you? Bombs! What’s that about?

One word: FEAR! All the sets and subsets contained within this one word. Greed, anger, revenge, hate...to start.

Is all that under one word?

No. Or yes?

We wish it the simplicity it deserves.

***

Chapter 14

BACK IN THE GOOD OLD USA

(Americans will always do the right thing,

but only after they have tried everything else )

Bertle McPhee watched the door to Joe Future’s hotel room swing open and then stop at about half-way. He could see part of the room, and darkness. Bertle wasn’t quite sure what to expect once he stepped through the doorway. This was going to be his second meeting with Mr. Future. Well, if it was a trap of revenge waiting for him, so be it. Bertle knew he was going to heaven.

A voice he did not recognize called out to him from inside the room, “Are you coming in, or what?”

Bertle entered the room, slipping past the half open door, into the darkness. Once inside, he could make out the figure of a man standing in the room, near the windows. Bertle began to introduce himself.

The man near the windows cut him off, telling him, “Close the door.”

Bertle put his back to the door and pushed it closed. A soft light went on, over by the windows. The man had turned on a lamp hanging over a little table. This guy wasn’t Joe Future.

The man arched an eyebrow and said in a snotty tone, “I know who you are, Mr. McPhee, don’t worry. You are expected. Me? I am nothing compared to such as yourself. I barely deserve a name. Even that you should have to speak with the likes of myself. Myself? Not fit to lick your boot-heels. All I ask is that you show me the mercy of your Saviour, Sir.”

Then there was a pause because neither man said a word.

***

After a bit of this, the man said, “By now most men would have been asking questions. Saying something. Making inquiries. Giving a conversational push, like, ‘So where is Mr. Future?’ But you don’t say nothing. Now why is that?”

Bertle was leaning against the back of the door. His eyes had adjusted to the lighting in the room. He could see the man, and noticed how ordinary he appeared to be. Dressed in clean and casual pants, shirt, sports coat and black penny loafers. Right off the racks of Walmart.

Bertle had still not answered.

The man made a slight bow to Bertle and crisply told him, “Please forgive me, Sir. My name is Hubert Franks, and I am Mr. Future’s executive assistant. That is a polite way of saying I am his indentured servant.” He stopped talking and studied Bertle’s face and went on.

“Don’t be thinking you can bribe me, Mr. McPhee. I know all your sleazy tricks, and a few even you haven’t heard of.”

At this last comment, Bertle cleared his throat and said, “Yep. I bet that’s true. Wouldn’t surprise me in the least if that were so. Now, when do I get to meet your Boss? After all, that’s why I am here.”

This was greeted with a burst of satirical laughter, and then Hubert Franks’ cynical voice saying, “You have one hell of a nerve taking that tone with me. You’re nothing but a one man death squad babbling about teaching Jesus not to ____ with Jesus. You are so filled with your own shit, you don’t even know what I am talking about, do you?

“No, not really. Some sort of new age crap about everybody being Jesus?”

More hoots of incredulous laughter. Then, “No, dumb-dumb. You really did shoot Jesus. Joe is Jesus, you complete blithering idiot. Don’t you understand? Joe ____ing Future is really the anointed one: Jesus Christ, the Son of God. He’s the one you’ve been praying to, all this time!”

***.

Bertle McPhee leveled a stern set of eyes at the man who called himself Hubert Franks, and from behind this mask, Bertle was putting two and two together and coming up with the new math. He thought to himself, “This is whacked out birdie la la land and everything is topsy turvy and whirl-a-jiggy ga ga goo goo. Good thing I have the real Jesus on my side!”

To this Hubert Franks snarled and spat, “Oh, do please shut-up with that infernal brain of yours! You tried to kill The Lord, and failed, of course, and now here you are, still seeing Satan behind every enchilada and visitation of the same beautiful spirit that is here to save your pathetic murderous species...oh just listen, for once!”

But Bertle was stern behind his mask of sternness, and watching with absolute purity of devotion to serving the One and True Lord who even now was speaking to him. As Bertle went into prayer and spoke to his Jesus, so came Bertle’s Jesus, and spoke to him.

“Bertle, save the world. Do the work of the Lord in all that you lift your hand to do, and set your tongue to speaking, all for The Lord, your Saviour, Jesus Christ. Be what you are, MY servant, for the power of the Holy Spirit fills you with great powers, and you are able to see what must be done.”

Hubert Franks stiffened as he read Bertle’s mind: “A servant of Satan, no less, and one privy to the secrets of great things. Well, obviously! Perhaps I am being fooled? And this isn't really real?”

Yet, there he was, this servant of The Devil, indisputably there, a tall, spare man, with the hawk like visage and the penetrating eyes set deep in their hollows, and two eyes never better made for spying in the most astonishing ways. If Hubert wanted to spy on your liver, well, he could see anything he wanted to look at. And if you were in Berlin and he was in Prague or Constantinople or Kathmandu or Akron, Ohio, Tire Capital of the whole USA, he could see your liver or anything else he wanted to examine.

He could watch you anytime he wanted. With those eyes, Hubert watched Bertle receive the Holy Spirit of Bertle’s saviour.

Hubert sneered impolitely and said, “Ah, the expected reinforcements have arrived, I will set another place for dinner. I do hope you will enjoy the menu, dear Sirs, fatted calf, and tender young lamb, and roast white doves.”

That said, he gave a modest bow, and made for the one other door in the room, the one leading to little room with the toilet and shower and sink and mirror and about as small as you can get. A nasty little room with no fan and much abused over time. Hubert opened the door to this room. The open door stood in darkness for no light came from the now open door and the little bathroom within.

Or so Bertle thought, at first.

He stood with his back to the door, deep in the folds of peace and power and assurance of security and immortality and no fear of death or any possible possession of him by the spirits of the damned and the evil ones and the servants of darkness. He stood firm in his devotion to Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit and The Lord. Even so, he could plainly see that in what he thought was a bathroom in darkness because no light was on in the bathroom...he could see something. And that damned man was grinning at him, but barely, and Bertle let his eyebrows rise up and Hubert said smartly, “Yes, if you please, gentlemen, Mr. Future IS waiting for you.”

***

Bertle stepped forward in the service of his country, his job, his pension, his service to himself, and above all else, for Jesus. The power of the Holy Spirit, as mentioned previously, was well and truly with him. The open doorway obviously did not lead to a little shitty bathroom. Bertle stood by Hubert and looked through the open doorway.

Bertle blinked.

When he opened his eyes, he saw again, a night sky set with clear bright stars and the rush of fresh air, clean and pure, he could hear the sound of wind and water, too, faintly, surf crashing, and yes, as he took a step onto the threshold of the door, and leaned a little into the...a night sky stretched out and up and as real as the other side of the door. Bertle took a good look round and saw miles of country in darkness, and under the sky, far below, the sea. What sea he didn’t know, but he could smell it. The wind buffeted his hair and made him blink a bit, and his eyes watered, and he realized it was quite real.

He stepped back into the hotel room and looked at Hubert Franks, and said in a tone of voice that made all this quite commonplace, “There is only one Jesus.” He patted Hubert on the left shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Hubert said nothing at all and made a little “Hmmmmmm...” in a very neutral tone of contemplation. Hubert understood perfectly, of course, and gave another small bow as usher to the open door, “You have nothing to fear. See...?” and he stepped through the door, and stood on the other side. He pointed down at his feet. “I am standing on the firm ground of another land, far from the room you are in. The door opens to this place, and the door here opens to the room you are in. Very simple. Two doors leading to each other. Don’t be afraid, you can come back to where you are.” Hubert paused meaningfully and said, “Are you afraid?”

“No. Since you ask. I am not.”

Hubert barked out a short burst of laughter. Then he said, “You have got nerve! I’ll give you that! Cool as can be, and going to meet the very man you tried to murder...whew-eee....well? What are you waiting for? A burning bush? Come on, Jesus Freak, and meet the real Jesus!”

Bertle stepped through the doorway, coming to stand beside the jeering face of Hubert Franks. Both men squared off and brought their faces close to each other. They exchanged hard, unflinching looks. Bertle stood his ground, outmatched in all weapons and tactics but nonetheless steadfast in his glory, shining with the light of the Holy Spirit of his Saviour, The Lord Jesus Christ.

Franks whispered, “You are a fool, Mr. McPhee. Open your eyes, look around you. Jesus is alive. You are about to meet him. This is a part of heaven. You have literally stepped into the realm of heaven. You get to meet the Gardener. Before he becomes corrupted by you...filth of abomination. For you are the devil worshipers, Mr. McPhee. For it is your....”

Bertle moved away, and stopped listening to the words. He began to take in the star lit night sky, and the strange porticoe cut in the wall of stone, and through the open doorway he could see the hotel room he had just left.

The door to what was a grubby little bathroom...but now was a door to this so-called realm of heaven, this door was still open. And on this side seemed to be stoutly built and made of strong wood, cut from a single piece, hewed and carved, and fastened to the stone wall surrounding it. Bertle considered for a few moments what could breach such a door. He put his hands on it and marveled, yes, and swung the heavy door on the seamless hinges set deep in the porticoe. Oh, and the wall the door was set in rose up and up, joining finally into the living rock of a mountain massif that towered and reared to it’s ending some thousands of feet below, tumbling into the sea.

What the ____?

Up seemed to become down. And then it became up, again. It made his head swim. And then it all became normal, with down settling in the right way, and up now being truly up, again.

A moon, almost full, began to rise.

All around him, he could see the stretch and yield of mountains meeting the sea, and the lines of grandeur stretching out behind these massive giants of rock and stone, in lines descending into the darkened sea, cut clear on the horizon where stars pierced the night sky clear and clean, marking oh so clear and bright where the horizon line kisses you off. He stood on a narrow ledge, over looking a precipice, and in the darkness, he could only make out a dizzying height and declivities falling to the sea. It took his breath away.

He estimated that he was standing along a coast that stretched for many miles with mountains of twenty thousand feet descending in less than a mile to meet the sea. The coastline ran for miles, as he could see, and some of the mountains ran quickly into valleys, and these marched along his line of vision as far as he could see, and this was growing to be considerable; he was a fair judge of distances and size of objects. Bertle was sober, and not confused by what he saw, so much as drawn to the shimmering beauty of this place.

For now the moon was rising out of the sea, and coming up big, and fat, and Bertle could feel the strong and sweet wind rising up to greet the silken milk purple incandescence as water gorged on moonlight rising. The big fat moon swung up and out over the top of the horizon line, and with this new light, he was able to see things like the jungle of trees growing from the sides of the mountains and the stout wood and the lines of creepers and vines and rich crazy shapes that swayed and moved, all along the wall that rose up to meet the mountain, and to the edge of the stone mantel, and around the roof of the porticoe, living stone, vines and thick matted moss and branches and trees and all set in every nitch and crevice and part of the wall, and along every mountain face that rose and fell from the sea, the swaying mass of vegetation, for the moon was very big and very bright.

Bertle could see his shadow clearly. But he wasn’t listening to Hubert Franks. And then he was. He tuned in and heard, “...Jesus who is the devil, Mr. McPhee. That’s what you have to sort out.”

That got his attention. But still! Really!

“Yes, you’ve got it all backwards. The Jesus who you are worshiping is not the real Jesus. He is an impostor. And so is his Holy Spirit. You are going to meet the real Jesus.”

Bertle didn’t quite know what to say to this. It didn’t occur to him that the man might be correct. So he told the truth, “I really don’t know what to say to you.”

Hubert’s face was clearly visible in the moonlight, and all the hidden insight of great experience, and this experience older than the moon, and with as much mercy and forbearance. From this vast scale of difference the two men regarded each other. Hubert sighed dramatically and said in a voice of quiet despair, “I suppose there is nothing left but to bring you to my Master. I had supposed that a prelude, a private briefing would prepare you for the truth, and to at least make clear the enormity of what YOU face, Bertle McPhee.”

Bertle stared back with impunity, safe in the bedrock of his living Jesus. He wanted to say, “It is you who are deluded, no matter how great and powerful you are!”

Hubert’s face screwed up in pained laughter. He was reading Bertle’s mind. It was too much!

“Oh, begone foul spirit!” Hissed Hubert.

***

Having said that, his face underwent a transformation. Hubert Franks put on the satirical, servile mask, resuming his earlier properties of insolence and haughty disdain. He said with a hollow laughter like laurels round each word, “Oh, ho, foolish mortal, ho ho ho.” Then he pointed at the door and said, “Mr. Future will see you now.”

Hubert went to the side of the open door and gave a slight bow and gestured for Bertle to go back through the doorway. Bertle let his eyebrows go up, and he took the few steps to the open door and he could hear the traffic sounds of the street in front of Joe’s hotel room. Bertle went into the hotel room, and the door to the bathroom closed behind him. Hubert had closed the door and not followed Bertle.

Trap!

What door to where?

Bertle didnt’ know. He was trying to think like a magician, trying to run all the configurations through his Jesus soaked brain, and all in a split instant.

Such is the power of Bertle’s Holy Spirit.

Maybe the doorway wasn’t leading to exactly the same place he had left from in the first place. Maybe he wasn’t going anywhere and he was sitting in a chair and hypnotized by...whatever. He couldn’t get very far in his mind without taking in the fact that there WAS a man sitting in a chair, crossed legged, leaning slightly forward, and a rather trim man, at that.

Bertle knew him at once.

Mr. Joe Future.

Wearing his undistinguished apparel of dirty, old track pants, and equally odious sweat-tops, and his feet, bare and dirty, with cracked nails and horny pads of toughness. A pair of soiled and tatty running shoes lay at the bottom of the chair.

Mr. Joe Future’s face was ravaged and old and seamed, and at the same time, the dance of the candle light showed the glory of a sustained youth and something wholesome and true to life itself. As if this face proclaimed a motto to live by, “I have made it this far! What more can I do or suffer for you? I will wear any crown you give me as long as you hear my words: I AM...alive.”

The table lamp was off, and on the table burned a candle. This single source of light brought all the ridiculous melodrama of stepping from one reality to the next and back again, well, it made Bertle wonder, see?

He wondered, “While I am gone, what mischief done? Moved the boxes, so to speak, load the deck, put in a few mirrors, string a few wires...load the dice. And here, have a friendly game, take a roll, for a beneficial stake, why not?”

All this going through his brain, and putting on the sublime professional blandness of: “Oh yeah? So? What’s the point? What are you selling? Let’s hear the fugging tale, please. So roll out the con, buddy. And let’s stop wasting time.”

At about this point in Bertle’s mental cavalcade, Joe Future looked up at him and said quitely, “Please sit down, Bert, and STFU. You’re bugging me with all the bad vibes, man. So cut the act and make the kowtow --- put your big ass down, Bert, on the mudderfugging ground, Bert. Like NOW BERT!”

***

Chapter 15

A HALO IS ONLY ONE MORE THING TO KEEP CLEAN

(Beings with such awesome power

that our lives are in their hands?)

Boom, boom, boom...down he went! On the old carpet, onto his knees, and forehead to the ground, and hands, palms down, flat to the carpet, and pressing hard, and on his knees! He’d felt the hand of a force greater than that of his own Holy Spirit, and it came and pushed him down onto the carpet. He couldn’t resist this power. The ground below the hotel was pulling him down. He could feel that. Gravity pushing him down and pulling him down, too.

Joe’s voice changed at once. Barely a whisper, yet Bertle could hear every word. “Good...better...yes, now, don’t you disagree that you have been a very bad servant of your government by trying to kill me? You are in the shit dude. I’ve got you on tape, some nice close ups of your face while you are shooting me. Fiendish, that’s the word for how you look. Did it make you feel good? You looked like you were really enjoying yourself. A large blot on the record book, Bert.

“At least it proves that you can’t murder me by small arms fire. I will say that. And so, I am going to use the video, Bert. But only to show the impossible. Any incriminating parts will be removed, Bert. You’re gonna look like a hero! Call it a favour. Anyway, I did you a favour, ‘cuz now you had a chance to vent some steam. It felt good, didn't it? You liked it. Well, perhaps one day you’ll be lucky enough to know what it feels like to be shot the way you shot me. What’s gotta be worrying you, Bert, is how I can keep resurrecting and you still won’t get the big picture. I’m the Big Cheese, Bert. I’m your original Jesus. The guy BEFORE all the versions got made up by, ah, imagination.

“Ah, hell, Bert, what are you gonna do? Fight the whole system? You think I’m the devil? Is that it? Well, I am not the devil, Bert. America needs a spiritual awakening, Bert. And I am going to help you do that. You have the right vision, Bert. Just worshiping the wrong version. So cut the bullshit, and tell me, exactly how do you want everyone in America to live.”

The pulling and pushing force stopped, and Bertle was able to move, and he did, sitting up, and staring at Joe Future, and to Bertle’s credit, the same bland indifference of the sublime professional going, “Yeah? Okay, so what’s the deal?”, and all in the look he gave Joe.

One look in Joe’s eyes was enough. Such a deep rush into heaven. But Bertle was hard-core. Not getting tempted.

Bertle played along and said, “Okay, sure. Here it is, and this is full-out righteous America with every citizen God-fearing and pays their taxes that are fair and even and spread out, and every citizen has a vote and votes, each one! In all the elections! And they know the issues of the day, both local and national. And it is a Christian nation, with the democracy of Protestantism. With the miracle of faith, and the strict obedience to the ten commandments. You can’t go wrong if you follow the ten commandments!”

Having issued this first daft draft stream of assembled prejudices, Bertle paused, and the meaning of what he was doing came flooding into his awareness. The words he was saying turned serious. His mouth puckered in indignation at the idea that these noble concepts might be laughed at by this strange concoction of a man sitting in front of him. So Bertle burst forth with something close to authentic feeling and told Joe Future, “I want all that stuff, sure, but what I really want is an end to the troubles of morality and loose living. No more abortions, no more mercy for the pedophiles, get rid of the drugs and the pushers, and get rid of welfare and bums and the atheists. Get rid of all the fringe groups that are commie-sucking, elitists. And as a Christian nation, go to the world and change the world: Bring Jesus to the entire world!”

Bertle stopped abruptly. The words seemed stupid. For some reason, none of what he said really moved him as it should have. Why, these were the very bedrocks of ALL that informed him of any meaning in the universe. He was too smart a man NOT to see the big picture, even when he was frothing at the mouth with Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. To transcend his intellect he used the old tool of faith. That’s what he’d done, before being forced to the carpet.

Joe’s eyes moved Bertle to tears. There was a tender mercy in those eyes that forgave all hypocrisy and limitations and only asked you to stop the struggle and surrender to the will of Jesus, the Lord of the Universe. Bertle felt he could hear Joe’s thoughts.

“To command you must first obey. Free will is MY will for you to follow. With this, I give you transcendental powers. For what you need and want, seek first the Kingdom of Heaven within, and all else shall be added unto you.”

Joe nodded slightly, and spoke with a small voice near a whisper, yet Bertle heard him clearly. Through sounds of traffic passing outside, and the calls of the street life swelling now that the sun was going down.

Joe wasn’t going for his walk. Or maybe he was.

Bertle didn’t know.

He had the framing of numerous tricks going on in his mind, yet listening to the fake-out artist of all-time, and pretending to be bland and professional. Yet there was the fact of Joe’s eyes, staring at him with the beams of deep compassion and simple bliss, and a little behind all this, Bertle saw the beginnings of eternity, and a hunger in his soul to sink deep into those eyes of such tender joy and serious concern for him, Bertle McPhee...and then the sight of something so startling as to deliver a shock to Bertle.

Bertle was given a vision of what he knew was the future.

Airplanes smashing into buildings and exploding and death and destruction. Right here, in New York City, and just across the bay, and this same bay only a few short blocks from this crap-hole hotel...the old shoreline, and several miles away, across the bay, the Twin Towers...doomed. Joe blinked and the vision stopped and Bertle was left tight chested and struggling to understand what he’d just been through. He searched Joe’s face to see if it was a threat or a prophecy, or what.

Joe said, “Is this what you want to have happen? For it will come to pass. America must stop interfering in the affairs of other nations. We must get out of getting into our next Vietnam, Bert. We must stop getting into any new Vietnams. Hey, you’ve seen what we’ve done to the world. Under our stewardship, the world is a rotten place. It is time we become a truly Christian Nation, Bert. And this time I aim to back up the deal. For this new age of yours, I decided I’d go high-tech, baby! The Lord has gone wood, buddy. Forget silicon. Wood is the thing. My chips do stuff like you wouldn’t believe. So boasteth the Lord, Bertle McPhee.”

In a different tone he went on, almost braggadocios, and clearly enjoying himself, Joe spoke of his life, and not hesitant or refrained in passion or gestures of emotion, he began telling Bertle with such frank simplicity and less desire to impress, but just stating facts eloquently; so Bertle couldn’t help but become involved and interested.

“You see, our aims are essentially the same, except I can actually articulate a policy and give power to it. You are ruled by the will of the mob. So your rules do not deliver a crime free society. If attendance at Church is voluntary, you will see what happens. Apply the same principal to taxes, make paying taxes voluntary, and you’ll see what we mean. This means enforcement, and that is where you come in. With my chips, we can give substance to the experience of real miracles. Imagine Bertle, what it would do to life if you could transport yourself anywhere in America, instantaneously, and safely, anywhere at all. I can give you a chip, right now that can do that. I made one for you, it’ll only work for you. That’s one of the features of this little beauty, a chip off the old block, ha ha ha.

“This one is good for twenty trips to anywhere within the USA. Just hold the chip in your left hand and say out loud where you want to be, like, ‘I want to go to Miami, Beach Street at Vine' -- zap! -- you’re there. No fuss, no muss, safely, and discretely, every time. Whatever you want to carry on your person will go with you, whatever you’re holding or carrying, all done in an instant. Here you go.”

Joe tossed over a little chip of wood about an eighth of an inch thick and about the size of a pack of matches. Bertle caught the chip in his right hand and examined it carefully. Engraved in thick copper plate font: ‘Go AnyWhere USA!’ He cold feel the density of the wood, and the almost slippery gloss of finish, so that it felt almost like soapstone and not wood.

Bertle was wondering how this did something about enforcement or Christian Nation or whatever. This was more like the tale of a con. Joe smiled at Bertle and chuckled in almost the first trace of annoyance since he’d put Bertle on his knees. “Jeez, dude, press the deal down some more. Don’t you get it? Jesus saves, man. Transport is big business. Do you know how much money this will raise for the Cause? But that’s almost nothing compared to what I’ve got next. Heh heh heh.

“See, I’ve got big plans for a real lasting revival in America. A true democracy, where a person is entitled to live in a crime free society. I have a solution to crime. I have made a chip that will abolish crime anywhere within a eleven mile radius, guaranteed. I have set the parameters to the newly revised eleven commandments. That’s all the regular ten plus one new one...Thou Shalt Have Fun! See, here, catch this little beauty.”

He threw another chip at Bertle. It hit the front of Bertle’s chest, fell to the carpet, and Bertle picked it up as Joe said, “It’s ready to be activated when it hears the passwords. All you need are those few words, and all human behaviour will be conducted within the parameters of the eleven commandants. No adultery, wow! Think of that...geez, if people knew about that, whew! Or how about making a false statement? Or taking the Lord’s name in vain? Leave your wallet on the front porch, stuffed with dead presidents, see? No one is stealing for eleven miles all around you. Go to sleep at night and never worry about someone trying to kill you or steal from you or do your wife. Blows my mind! And what about my eleventh commandment and having fun? You see. Instant morality with FUN! thrown in to make it all worthwhile, see? This is a powerful chip, Mr. McPhee. And I don’t want it being used as just another one of the very many chips you carry on your shoulder, if you get my drift there, buddy boy!”

***

Chapter 16

ENTER CHANG THE MAGNIFICENT

(Sometimes you are the pigeon,

and sometimes you are the statue)

We interrupt this story for an important message.

Please do not adjust your television set.

Forgive this next part, and this intrusion. In this part, you don't know most of these people. It will be your first time. You have met Chang.

Our interest in this story goes so far and then runs into the unlikely alliance of Mr. VT and Chang The Magnificent, AKA Chang The Invincible, and of course, Miss Loonie Poon.

Of those names, you have only met Chang.

Mr. VT and Miss Loonie Poon are unknown to you. Unless you've stumbled across the book called 'Loonie Speaks.'

What you are about to read is the true story of their involvement with the master and his servant. The three joined together in support of attaining a common goal. Dear one, it is suggested you be like Bertle and apply the many-sided viewing of why all this came to be.

In this version of the TRUTH, the names of many have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty. I have set out the order of events as required and it is up to you to follow the story as best you can. Remember, every word is the TRUTH. When these events take place, and you can go to the Chateau Laurier Hotel in Ottawa, Canada, and find a Mr. V.T. and one Miss Poon...then you will know the s;lice is real.

S;lice = ic (instantaneous change)

In reality there are sentient beings who are masters of the physical and the non-physical. This story tells something of the truth about these beings and what they are up to in your human world. Some of these beings are in your here voluntarily...and some are not.

You do not know who VT is, or Miss Loonie Poon, but you do know of Chang. You have met Chang. Have you heard the name MoZeus or Berkley or Lady Vanesa Deeply, or even Cerio Ghost?

Ah, the story is true and what can I do but tell it to you? After all, you have paid your money and want the truth...after all. So so so here we go with the tale of VT AKA Gardiner and Miss Loonie Poon. Then you will understand Thomas Whyrd and the world of MoZeus and Medulax. The truth is here, now. In this day and age, there are real adepts who come and go at will and do mysterious things in mysterious ways. Humans as a mass have no conscious awareness of the workings of these beings, however, as you will see, they can come and go as they please and take on perfect, alternative identities, and play these parts at the same time and in completely different bodies and circumstances, even to the temporal and lineal-sidereal.

Your adult life is absorbed in making a living and you do not have time to develop the necessary skills of awareness to be able to perform Real Magic, that is to manifest your desire directly and instantaneously, into your physical experience of the world you live in. The story will instruct you in how to become a master. Prepare yourself for this instruction.

This is the true liberation.

As you know, humanity stands at the brink of destiny, and never before more than now. All the obvious villains are on the stage, and more pressing to get on the stage...there they are! All the components to the end of your species. Believe me, what you can conceive of misery and suffering is nothing compared to what is to come UNLESS there is a transformation of consciousness.

Without this crucial linkage to the Earth and the Sky, your species will become extinct. By practicing the Earth and Sky Relationship, all will be well. One simple technique will end all human suffering forever. As more and more people practice the technique, all the problems of daily life will vanish. This is the magic pill that will solve every problem. It is the real Medula-X. It is the Kingdom of Heaven Within.

Sincerely,

The Authors:

The Committee of Siam

Department of Abundance

Raj of Joyastan.

Government of the Free Association for the Giving of Boons.

The Colonel Bloom Trust for Higher Learning.

***

On August 1, 2002, at 10:39 A.M., Mr. Chang Chang Chang strode into the lobby of the Chateau Laurier Hotel. This meant he was in Ottawa, Canada, in your here.

He was a big man and built to last.

On this morning, he was dressed in the best that money can buy, from his Jerymn Street shoes, to the French cuffs of his shirt, custom made by Charvet. But nothing could dress away that face and posture.

Ageless skin burnished by the light of countless stars, and eyes that had seen all of them, up close and personal, sailing the universes in ages past, this man, now in Ottawa and dressed like an icon of business, with flair and style. No wonder people gave him a third look. Sure, the guy simply exuded the vibration of absolute confidence, one of those who can give you a look as they talk and you know what they’re saying is true. Somehow, just looking at Chang, you knew pretty much right away this was a guy with substance, and money was no object.

But Chang wasn’t broadcasting heavy vibes that morning in the lobby of the Chateau Laurier Hotel. No sir. He wasn’t doing anything like that. He was keeping it all in the key of low, and being easy with almost having just being squashed, splat!

Now this guy had a big consciousness, and so to bring it down into the human context, you’re gonna loose a lot of other stuff, but that just can’t be helped, can it? Because Chang saw and knew so much, and here is a very concise version of what he was thinking as he walked into the lobby of the hotel in Ottawa.

“What the heck just happened? I was doing my own thing in my here and now I am in this here. Why can’t I make it so, Number One? At least I can s;lice in this here. I just can’t seem to leave this here. How long can I survive without my free-will? Hmmmm. And why back into this here, with VT and Loonie, doing their thing in this here? Well, I can feel the presence of another at work, rest or play or whatever ‘it’ is doing. Well, at least 'it' has good taste: Nice shoes, and I like this suit. Since I am here in this here, I’m gonna have me a good time. I always liked eating a lot, and come to think of it, I remember that drinking was a lot of fun. Hmmmmmmm. “These people are stressed-out. Check out the whole species, wow, this planet is messed up, big time. Hmmmmm. The humans need bliss, bad. They need a miracle or two. All that can wait for a few minutes while I go find Loonie. I can smell her...and VT. I wonder if it was them? Naw, no way. VT is insane, true, but this isn’t his style, and Loonie just wouldn’t do something like this. You know, I don’t think any one of us could do it, anyway, and pull it off. I can smell a whole bunch of idiots that came in on this little shifty-whiffty, peek-a-boo, I see you! Hmmmmmm.”

He was being played, knew it, and hated it. And so surrendered, thus leaving the power of entrapment to itself. Being a supreme king of pirates, he knew the game within the game within the game, and ended up back at the beginning. Chang ripped the universe apart, like a telephone book, and put it back together again, but no success, and no way out of this here, and stuck, knowing it, and cheerful, giving up and deciding to have as much fun as he could.

***

CHANG COMES THROUGH

(Notes from Chang's private journal.)

This is a quote I like taken from a human being, a member of your species, and I will even give you the name of the person, too.

Here is the quote: “The only mystery in life is why the kamikaze pilots wore helmets.” ―Al McGuire

I would humbly add to this idea another mystery of life, and that is why anyone would ever create a place like Ottawa.

So, Ottawa! Of all the places in all the heres, I am put in this Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. What a place! Capital City! Jean Poutine as Mayor of Canada. The Grand Party of Forever courting the general public and revealing that they were all perpetual liars and thieves and scoundrels, hiding behind the illusion of propriety. Proclaiming a victory over ‘the budget’ deficit and hey! -- presto! -- now there is a surplus! To accomplish this, The Mayor and his City Treasurer, Mr. Paul Martini, had cut funding to the Wards of the City and cut cut cut...until -- hey! -- presto! -- no more deficit.

A miracle!

The City of Canada had a surplus.

Hooray!

The Grand Party of Forever surveyed a mighty Nation, without faults, and decided that they had been very kind to the citizens of this great Nation. So the politicians did their best to govern a mighty land that stretched from Atlantic to Pacific to Arctic oceans. Sure, they spent money stupidly. They inherited a bureaucracy more blind and stupid than they were.

These were my thoughts about the political situation in Canada.

At least I have an opinion. Canadians are good cannon fodder for the Grand Party of Forever. The ghost of Pierre Trudeau is laughing at the antics of his protege. And Mr. Trudeau is laughing at The Treasurer of the Nation, the son of another Great White Father, and like his father, this son had the starry eyes of nobility and to the manor born. What I saw was expensive education and the smooth confidence of a man who should be Prime Minister. I saw the hope of the Nation: Mr. Paul Martini.

But would this leader of men get his chance?

No.

The Grand Party of Forever would not win the next election. No one would win. There wasn’t going to be an election. There wasn’t going to be a Capital City. I could see that as I landed in this here. The entire schismatic of the s;lice laid out. Oh sure, I tried to make a bounce and get away. Listen, I did stuff nobody never did. And nobody is the best, everybody knows that!

I hit this here between the revolving doors, and I put it all together, like that! Seamless. Perfect. Could of heard a pin drop as I came in to this here. Get the picture in your mind: I materialize stepping out of the revolving door and my first step touches this here and I’m decked out, and my WHOLE set-up is in place and ready to go. Like they say in this here, I landed on my feet. So I was humming as I came into the lobby, and just vibing and trying to bring down my rush, and taking the facts in. Like that! Done, and I can smell Loonie and VT, too! So, I am not alone in all this craziness.

Back in human form, and loving it.

Sure, I’m remembering the eating and drinking and loving! Man, this is the Earth, baby! Crazy! So I was right into it. This was gonna be fun. Tricks were being played, and sure, some of my free will was gone, but I could still do a lot of mischief. No, I didn’t go into some snotty rant about my free will being thwarted. And it didn’t get me down. But that it was a fact was unbelievable.

Fortunately, I have been through worse, so I had some balance of perspective. Besides, what is there to fear? The moment you go into the fear vibe, strange and wonderful festations occur. We don’t have all that much time before the bad things start to happen. You want to believe that you won’t be hurt, but that’s just self-deception. If I let it get to me, I am done before I even start.

My lesson had begun.

As usual the teacher was me, and the student was me, and the whole grading system was mine, too. So, Ottawa. Land of the gray drone. Land of the careful plodders. Land of the endless winter and the monsoon summers. Overhead, the same naked sky and the same merciless stars as everywhere else. What you could see of stars...from the city streets. I could see. But I am NOT your typical average sort of fellow.

So, the lobby of the Chateau Laurier and my many memories, all accurate, of days and nights making history in this same hotel, years ago, and in another here.

I’m playing it deep and wide.

***

I’m standing in the lobby, and knowing I’m doing that for a reason, only I don’t know the reason. Patience. So I take a look around the hotel without moving. Standing there, admiring the baronial ceiling and inspecting every room and hall and closet, noticing each human, and all the rest that humans generally never see, for every hotel has it’s ghost and other creatures. I think Mr. Whyrd refers to them as blobs and such. The unseen world of the spirit existed here, as it does everywhere on this planet. I note the changes made since last I was here.

I see the sign for the meeting of Global Holdings Incorporated, next to the doors to the big meeting room, and I note the two big goons standing guard, and the foxy chicklet sitting at the greeting table, and standing near her, Miss Loonie Poon. I could see the future and it sure looked good. I looked at my fingers to see if I was wearing any rings. Yes, one, on my left hand big finger. The ring was glowing green, deep and dark, and looked like it could be some high tech trick, but it wasn’t, of course.

I would have to make sure no one cuts that finger off and takes my ring.

I watched Loonie catch on to how I’d arrived. I took in VT behind those closed doors, in that meeting room, with thirty sheep-goats, and he was sitting like an indulgent king, surveying the favours he has granted the packet of gulls sent to him by his own imagination. Of course, VT is rather insane.

The plot being spun revealed itself to me, and I knew what was to come. I kept watching this scene of Earthly business being conducted by this great master. VT wept tears of golden coins, and any pocket he reached into was bottomless. He could do whatever he wanted. With his imagination he could create anything out of nothing. He was listening to a self-satisfied looking human making a report to this assembly of investors. Just so you know, another being will explain some of this, later, and you will know more than you know now.

VT was insane, true, but here he was the undisputed master of the art and science of making money. So I had VT in view, and Loonie, and taking some good long glances at the human female called Julia Peterson. That was her name, on the name tag she wore, and reading her mind, and taking in the whole chromosomal history, going back all the way to the beginning of this here, the very first moment of conception of matter and space and time. I knew what she’d eaten for breakfast when she was twelve years old, on July 21, I knew her whole life, snap! -- just like that!

The future looked bright and promising. The swelling mounds beckoned. All around me, I could smell the women in heat. And the men, ah, the bodies, and shapes, some fat and misguided and others bent to this or that, and all without the gleam of hard like a diamond and no invincibility, anywhere, in the lot of them. Except for VT, Loonie and the two goons at the doors to the meeting room, all the rest were humans.

The flesh looked weak. Mortal flesh.

Well then, I would breath some life into this place.

It was obvious VT had no taste for saving humanity. In fact it appeared he was helping the species to destroy itself.

Ah, he was using money to do this.

Brilliant. These humans loved money. And why not? Love is always a good thing. I think VT loved money more than any human. When he thought of money it made him go deep and wide, and the smile that came to his face, as it did now, was a thing of beauty. The semiology of his face exuded fidelity and absurd assuredness, and all the humans in the room were affected, even if they didn’t know it.

The disastrous s’lice-ing had so jarred VT as to make his telepathic greeting to me as brief as this, “I know you are here Old Man. So you’re back, as it were, eh? Don’t trust anyone, least of all me. If you can get out of here, please do. I’d like you to remove this impossibility. As you can see, it wasn’t me, or Loonie. I think she is still in shock. Look, Chang, leave off for now, right? We will meet.”

Yes, I could see exactly where and when.

“Sure, fine with me, VT.”

“Good. Right, now go away and let me work, alright?”

***

BERKLEY COMES THROUGH

Yeah, it was alright. But Loonie knew it wasn’t alright. Yeah, so she’s drooling over that Julia, and pretending not to, and I can see all this, but I am standing in the lobby, staring at the motifs and arches and ‘art’. Enough of doing the standing, I keep watching Loonie and Miss Peterson and go over to a chair and sit down. I add in a diagnosis of the entire species of humans on this planet. I take an inventory of each one. The span of life on the planet revealed itself to me. Every organism, as it was, in that moment of this here, known to me, exposed, and the drama of each cell, known to me. All done, --- snap! --- just like that!

Right then a man came and sat down in the chair next to mine. He sighed majestically. Not looking at me, he said confidently, “Chang, you old rascal. How good to see you. I am glad I caught you. No it wasn’t me. No. I need your help, Chang. You don’t remember me. No, I am not playing a trick on you. Berkley? That name mean anything?”

No sooner had he said the name, it all came back to me. I had yet to meet him. That had not happened, not yet. But here he was, reawakening me so I could do something deep and wide.

Oh, I remembered him.

He told me, still not looking at me, “He was doing a good job, Chang. That Thomas Whyrd was the right choice. Only the magician has come in with this botched attempt at taking over everynothing, but the magician isn’t the source, oh no. For example, I am here by my Bosses intervention. And only briefly. You know what I want you to do, here. Yes, you’ve got it all, eh?”

Yes. I do. I did. He had put the message in a bottle and put the bottle in my mind.

“Right,” he said, with a stern nod, and his eyes checking out the humans, a gleam of amusement in his tone, “Now that you’ve got the plan, I have to go away. So...good luck. And if you get caught, you won’t know me.”

***

Having said this, he got up and walked away, leaving the lobby, and pausing for a moment to look at the revolving doors I had come in through. He threw me a look, half grin and half amused sorrow. Then he laughed. I heard him do it. Shrugged his shoulders and left the hotel by the standard non-revolving doors. Yes, a good looking man. I watched him walk up Wellington Street towards the Parliament Buildings. He wore blonder hair and blue eyes, freshly barbered and glowing with vigour and health. His skin had a luster and his eyes, too. Life was good for Berkley.

When he spoke, it was with a drawl and slight burr that betrayed his penchant for the long, lost days of the Old South. The days and nights of Whitey being the massah', and Berkley had pursued agriculture, acres of King Cotton, and living the life of a Southern Gentleman. He was a grand sight. Fit for another time, certainly, and rather precise about each step he took.

The message in the bottle he had put in my mind was revealing itself. Obviously he could see what was coming to this here, and he did not like it one bit. But Berkley never did have a taste for wanton destruction. As he walked over the bridge spanning the canal I could see that he was seeing the future. He could see the blown-up bits of all that was now whole and intact. The buildings would be reduced to rubble. The bridges all blown to smithereens and the roads clogged with debris and pocked with craters. Chunks and sections and bits and pieces of buildings and cars and busses and trucks and people, and glass, so much glass, broken and scattered, and all this mixed together and left as a smoldering ruin to be admired by the lovers of this rare form of art.

I sat in the chair in the lobby of the hotel and let Berkley walk away. Of course, I was still watching Loonie and Miss Peterson. The message Berkley had put in my mind was clear about what I was to do. There was no question in my mind about helping him. After all, as I’d just found out, he was my boss, but not yet. This was to come, or rather, it had already happened, but later. So he had come here to remind me of our future relationship.

A relationship that already had occurred.

***

CHANG SAYS DON’T BE STUPID

It's too bad that stupidity isn't painful.

Ah, don’t worry, I’m doing my best to keep this as uncomplicated as possible. After all, you are human, so allowances must be made. An explanation is in order. See (of course you don’t!) this here is one of many of the same heres that coexist together and are each completely ignorant about the presence of the other.

A fellow of my stature can come along and peel away a layer of this here and then have as much fun as I want. Or I can spl;ce in to this here whatever I want to. For someone of my character, the home-run feeling is all in making the spl;ce perfectly seamless. No bumps, no jumps, no thuds and no duds.

If I have a motto it is ‘S;lice upwards!’, and any fool can make a mess out of something great. Yeah, sure, humanity as a species sucked, but that was all in the good-bad hierarchy. Can’t be making a value judgment? No? Sure, you can. See, this world I had come into, this here of yours had a whole heap of problems BUT nothing to what was coming. Chit-shit, man, I could see a baker’s dozen of spools of this here, each one different, and from each of those another dozen sp;ices streaming out, and so on, until the factor of infinity had been surpassed, and the s;lices and sp;ices and spl;ces were past counting, even by me.

I couldn’t be bothered. After the first trillion or so streamers had been realised by me, I gave up and came back to sitting in the lobby of the Chateau Laurier. Swanksville. Yet it is a pathetic pile compared to my regular haunts.

Even so, the aspect this hotel commands is rather good. I looked back to a time before the hotel was built, and saw the way it once was, before the white man came. The immense stands of pine and spruce and cedar and oak and maple and birch...mammoths of trees, now gone, and never to be seen again, not by this current crop of humans.

Ha.

I lingered a bit longer and let the times shift from this year to that month to that century, and for awhile was content in my own little film festival. Nice place to sit and do such a recreation. Because I was so obviously well-heeled, by my manner of dress, and of course my imposing physical attributes, including the piercing eyes of such power as to make you blink, if I so wanted. But more, too. In my eyes there was grace, and the wounded and the strong knew it, and came with their hearts on their sleeves for me to wipe my dirty face on.

Love is a many faced lover. Trembling on the flower and in the vine, by root, so strong, Earth and Sky bound as one into a lover of life found so precariously in this here, on this planet.

Fugger!

I could see the wood in the beams of the ceiling and archways and each piece, I could see what tree it came from and the story of the tree, the story of that trees life, and his family. The family tree of a tree, see?

So don’t talk to me about love. You don’t think a tree has feelings? A tree can feel love.

So, I am tripping in the lobby, taking it all in and giving Berkley’s implant a rest. The work for him would leave me with more raw power. How that could be is of course impossible, yet it was apparently so. I grinned in sheer ecstasy and stretched and locked my hands above my head and gave it all a good, long flex. That done, I sat back and breathed in and out and thought about nothing for a long time.

***

CHANG MEETS MISS PETERSON

Wise people think all they say, fools say all they think.

One second later, I got up and headed for the Global Holding Incorporated meeting room. Ah, what a confused and disorderly lot these humans are, were...still are. Such naked and unobserved mentalities.

Oh, the tone of the place!

All of them were oblivious to the obvious and truly naked power. Dust to dust and ashes to ashes, all that rather prosaic (sic) reality eluded each one of them. Even so, I enjoyed it all immensely. There is something of the dirt in these people. They are all like spoiled children. Each one truly responds to the real love vibe. Each one was ready to melt into the power of love.

The hotel swam with the vibes of seeking a living, and that means, here on this Earth, the chasing of money. Almost everyone in the entire precinct of the hotel had that objective. Doing something to get money. The money could be used for getting whatever you could trade for the money. These people traded money with each other and gave something as a trade to get the money. Someone gave you money as a trade for a stove or a television or a food or a house, a car. All these humans did was centered around the pursuit of this money.

Each one of them believed in money. Without that belief, the money would not work. I surveyed these humans with fond contempt and deep unremitting admiration. A plucky lot, really. Oh, you can smell the worry and the sense of doom. All are dimly aware that something is not right with the ‘environment’. Plus the thuggery of their modern times. The blatant insanity of Mr. Bush, President of the Great Empire, America. Soon to be a wasteland, and a cruel place, even by my standards.

I am not a personal fan of cannibalism.

I walked along the sumptuous rich gallery of the hotel, past the exclusive shops, and round the corner up the hall I could see the desk greeting table and Miss Peterson, sitting behind all that, and her name tag as pert as she was. Of all the women I had seen so far, since being in this here, she was the one I noticed the most. Ah, Loonie had a good eye for beauty, and so did VT.

I went ‘hmmmm’ at this and regarded this beautiful human with an entirely polite love-lamps-well-lowered sort-of-manner, but still, after all, I am Chang, and even with these adjustments she was, well, her curiosity was whetted, if you know what I mean. I am a big man, and now that I am here, a very rich man. Act like a rich man for the rest of your day, but don’t spend a dime. You’ll see what a little imagination can do for you.

This is what happened.

I walk up the hall and she’s checking me out, as they say here, and I don’t mind, at all. But I can see she is not mine. There is another she will come to serve and then...ah, but that would be telling stories before I want to.

“Ah,” I say to her, “I am here to see Miss Poon. She is expecting me.”

I tower over the desk and she is forced to lean back and look at my face. I take a step back so that she can sit normally, ah, that was worth it! What a rich and succulent offering...the throat and lines of this one, and the true, oh so true soul that burned in her heart and mind.

She blushes a little, and asks, “Could you tell me your name please?”

“Tell her an old friend has come back.”

I read her mind and watched her translate honestly. She told me plainly, “Miss Poon is in a meeting, and I cannot disturb her right now. I can send a message into the room for you. She might come out soon, and you can always wait, if you want, or, I’ll pass on the message to her: 'an old friend'....”

I made a motion with my hand, and said, “No, I won’t bother her now. She’ll be out soon enough, and I can catch her then. I’ll leave my message with you. She’ll know it’s me, that’s for sure. Thank you so much, Miss Peterson. A pleasure, I assure you.”

I made a little bow and our eyes met, just that once, really, and oh, the depths of this one, even then, in her human incarnation. The man she was destined to serve would be humbled by this gateway to what he would come to lose.

Ah, a little moment, and then I turned and went back the way I’d come. I watched her blush and stir, the natural arousal of any woman who comes near me, and looks in my eyes. I know for a fact that most get sizzled with a vision of the naked male, fabulously me, basically pulsating with vigour and passion. It is heady stuff. The vision of oh-so fabulously me comes with formidable, sweeping longing for their own submission by nature to this power of craven desire. Their submission. Engulfed in a masterpiece of desire to be possessed and ravaged by this power. My eyes are a gateway to even a blind man or woman. Burns away the lust and the lusting, revealing the orgasm of life, blasting and coming forever. Even in this here.

I walked away and went back to the lobby and sat down. I was beginning to feel an appetite, and lingered admist the tempting smells of food and drink. I have rather a good sniffer, better than any dog or bear or any creature, come to that. Lest you think I am not bragging, I most decidedly am. Set the scale of perspective for you, and give you a bit of a hint of my heft.

Why not brag? Americans did not invent this art form. I did, long before America’s genetic origin. Bye bye Yankee Birdie. Gone so soon, and such a messy way to go. Turned into a rubble heap, and roads all blasted and cratered by what was to come. I sat in the lobby and smelled food and drink and got hungry and watched the future unwind.

A man materialized in a hallway in a residence of a university not too far from the hotel. He came in on the top floor of the building and immediately got to work. He opened a set of utility doors and brought out some rather large cases on wheels, and rolled one out and opened it up. I watched the machines come out and begin to roll out the rest of the cases and begin to open them and other machines rose out and more assembly and equipping took place until three outfitted machines hovered in the air, on top of the roof of the residence. The man was now set out in his own gear and he began to do what he’d come to do.

I watched as he had interacted with a human in the hallway, and that had been enough. He was going to start killing and destroying. But this was nothing compared to what the three machines would do. Oh, yes, just these four would be enough to do the entire continent. He would destroy every human built structure. Would not stop until he was finished. And as for humans, well, each one, fair game. That was his entire game.

You see, dear human, you are not alone in this here, and what you think is real is not. You are being played with, all the time, by interfering thrill seekers, and well intentioned do-gooders, and obviously by the purely malicious. One here going here and one here going there, spl;ced on, as it were, and yet so detailed and perfect you would never notice. But sometimes not so smoothly, done on purpose or by blunder, and only maybe a few of your sages might notice something. Certainly the few non-humans posing as saints and such, well, they would notice.

I watched the future,and watched Miss Peterson having to deal with some rowdy human accompanied by three fresh men, all in suits, bubbling with their barely suppressed hostility. Hostility genuine in the case of the senior man, and a professional hostility from the two other men, both younger and in less expensive suits, though certainly not cheap, no, but the main man was really well dressed, and he was barely controlling his anger.

Julia Peterson remained cool and calm, helped by the presence of the two very well-dressed goons standing by the doors to the meeting room. They were rather large lads and definitely not human. Not that you’d notice. The angry and senior man was not intimidated, and his the two men with him seemed intent on backing up a righteous cause. Ah, of course, they were lawyers. And it was all about money.

How sordid.

Well, here comes Loonie, and she is looking very sour and on edge. She doesn’t like this odious specimen barking at her Miss Peterson and trying to bully and bluster past the sanctity of a closed meeting. Ah, the boring spectacle of bad manners reached a rather pathetic conclusion.

To the side of all this spectacle, there was an obvious news hound, a.k.a. journalist. It was a she, and as the three men stormed off, she approached Loonie.

I watched Loonie dodge this sniffing herald, obviously on the scent of what I read as ‘a big story’, whatever that means. They love to investigate and expose. All in the name of something called ‘the truth’.

Loonie ditched the curious journalist, and left all that in the capable hands of Miss Peterson. Loonie went off, coming to the lobby, in search of me. Well, I was standing at the end of the hall, near the turn that goes to the lobby, and she could see me. Sure, I was in the lobby, sure I was also at the turn in the hall, by the smart shops. I took off and headed back to where I was already sitting in the lobby, and join myself, and in she comes, looking for me and I play around for a bit and then come in behind her and she sees me and the rest is history.

***

And now...back to our regularly scheduled program.

Chapter 17

SIR DARCY WANTS OUT

(Who were the mystical entities

Hitler conversed with and took guidance from?)

Long before the magician and his servant popped into his life, Sir Darcy had become used to the absurd and bizarre. When the General came to him with the idea of using a hydrogen-bomb to test the bracelet of invincibility, it seemed to Sir Darcy the natural extension of the absurd and bizarre. The two men were sitting in Sir Darcy’s London office, and tea had been served.

The General was out of uniform and seemed quite at ease. He’d met Ben Prophet, and found the old gent to have a lot of common sense. In the General’s opinion, the man was solid as a rock and represented the great hope for the future of these little, little British Isles. Crossing his well dressed legs, the General sat in the bright day light of a fine London morning, and told Sir Darcy, “Can’t see anything wrong with doing the test. After all, our, ah, asset has made this little dingus for us, and we can go ahead and do what we bloody well want and no one will be the wiser.”

Sir Darcy looked at the wooden object on his desk. The little dingus, as the General called it. A strange wood doll of a tortoise, partially withdrawn into it's shell, and on the shell-back, the strange characters, written in shapes following the lines of the shells pattern, the house of the turtle. It was made of a dark and dense wood, all in one piece about the size of a thick pocket book.

The General pointed at the wooden tortoise, and braying like a jack-ass, he said, “Do you know how this works? That’s the best part, it is all so very simple. That’s the part I like. It is so simple. Do you realize we can blow up a thermonuclear weapon and strictly contain the blast to a specific area? This, ah, dingus will handle anything up to four hundred megatons, and restrict the blast to, well, hold on to your hats, to an area smaller than a mouse.”

The General laughed and shook his head in mock judgment of his own sanity. “It is preposterous, of course, but none the less true. I have seen it with my own eyes. Well, with this, ah, little thing, we can finally really test the bracelet. The PM wants to go ahead, test both at the same time. The science lady is fascinated, as usual. Have to watch her. Bit too enthusiastic, don’t you know. Every single one of ‘em needs a careful watch. Like YOUR way of thinking on this, Darcy. Never could stand half-measures. Security on this job has to be our number one concern.”

There was more of the same sort of stuff, and the General did not spare Sir Darcy any of the bumptious and platitudinous bumf, all delivered from the grinning rictus of a much enthused General.

Sir Darcy endured the requiem of Britain. Britain once great, oh yes, undeniably --- once upon a time, Britain had been truly great. And with this advent of a new age, all courtesy of Mr. Ben Prophet, well, it was obvious. Britain would be once more, truly great. After all, America was now the great ruler ONLY because of Britain’s supreme sacrifice during the First and Second World Wars.

The General put the thought this way, “...After all, the Yanks have us to thank. You and I both lived through the war...but it was after the last war, that’s when the Yanks really put it to us. Kept us down and quite on purpose. They rebuilt Germany AND Japan but not a farthing for us, Darcy. Always made me sick to see those, those, those Americans swanning ‘bout the globe, putting their big feet in it and getting it all wrong. Can you imagine what it would be like if this new, ah, this asset, if the Americans had it? What would they do?”

Sir Darcy was in professional mode, doing the one-eighty on a mental road rated for no faster than sixty. Pushing it, that's what he was doing. Sanity seemed to be the least of his concerns. He was now at level two of the seven gateways of the little wooden horse head. Being thus, he said, “General Blank, where is it written that we should be the servants of the Americans? Those days are done. I can tell you that we must spy on the Americans to ensure they know nothing about this, ah, enterprise of ours. But at a distance, I think. Certainly we can keep them from knowing anything, but for how long? We must have a policy in place, the what to do IF we are discovered.”

Sir Darcy was going to go on, but the General interrupted. He was still grinning like it hurt, and Sir Darcy searched the man’s face, and his eyes, to see if it was madness. Even so, he knew the General had been mad before all this magic came along.

The General said, “In the bag, actually. Met an interesting fellow at that man’s place. Servant of the man. Rather took a liking to him, actually. Can see a lot of sense in the approach of this thing. Bit of a secret, I can tell you, but the man’s servant is willing to, ah, help us. He made a device for us to use, told me the ‘old man’ told him to give it to us.”

The General took out a small wooden ball, removing it from his left suit coat pocket, with a quick, deft touch of ball coming to rest at fingers tips, and he told the ball of wood, “Be done your task for me!”

The ball leapt from his finger tips and immediately assumed a position in the middle of the large room. Thus in space and time it remained still in the centre of the room, resting, and then as if real, the space in front of each man became that of another space and time. The ball projected the reality of another place. In this case it was the office of the Head of the CIA. The General laughed out loud, and in delight. Sir Darcy was astonished and startled and all that, but once he heard the General laugh, he knew he could make noise, so he gasped.

The Head of the CIA was talking to the infamous Bertle McPhee.

***

The General barked out, “Can’t hear us, can’t see us. Don’t know a damn thing, don’t know we’re watching. See?” At this the General began clapping and cheering, “Hooray for America! Hooray for apple pie! Hooray for Spam!”

Sir Darcy certainly could hear the General and he gave him another searching look for signs of sanity. Over the clapping and the cheering of the General came the sounds of the Head of the CIA talking to Bertle McPhee. The General exclaimed, “See, doesn’t even know. Can’t hear. Like we’re in the room. Damnedest thing. Works all by itself.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, “Let’s listen in to the great American spy master. You know the fellow. That other one...I’ve seen him on file. Can’t place the name.”

The General stopped and the voice of the Head of the CIA was as plain as his image. Sir Darcy swore to himself that it seemed as if he was actually in the man’s office. The shock of the whole thing was still harpooning his mind, yet he’d come to accept the fact of the event itself, and that it was real enough. In his spy mind a thousand possibilities resounded and he came up with the fact that what he was seeing and hearing could be a fake, and not the actual words and even gestures of the REAL Head of the CIA, and Bertle.

This dalliance was caught by the very keen General, and Sir Darcy was struck with the impression that perhaps the General had received his own special and very private wooden artifacts to do things like read people’s minds. Sir Darcy knew that anything was possible, based on real bracelets of invincibility and wooden wings that worked. But all this was discarded as he realized that he could let go of it all and stop the madness. Somehow he would learn to keep his thoughts private. Until then, he would remain an innocent mirror of duty and National pride. He would hide among the scoundrels and remain a shadow.

The General was keenly staring at him, inspecting him, and observing his reaction. He whispered to himself, not moving his lips, “The damn stuff IS crazy making, Darcy. Have to grab hold of this one and make it serve the right purpose. Can’t be losing our grip on the big picture. I think it is the real thing, Darcy. Not a fake at all.”

All the while, the Head of the CIA was telling Bertle, “...No one is going to die anymore, Bertle. We’re going to do this by the book. No more clandestine operations. We’re going to be shutting the whole thing down. The President has seen the light. So, it is all up to you and your new department. The President is on board completely. The free will issue is going to be avoided. We’re just not going to mention the existence of the, ah, device. So once testing is finished, we’ll know. Until then, we go on as usual. The shut down won’t take place until the final decision has been made. I can tell you that this is for your ears only. Only you, and the President and myself, Bertle. The rest only know the story. I’ve got to congratulate you on the story, Bertle. It is a perfect cover.

“The funding for your department? We’ve got that locked down. Oh, I see that look, Bertle. Well, if the project can fund itself, well, come on, don’t be like that, you know it is a good thing. It isn’t like it is counterfeit or anything. Old war gold, Bertle, just one of those lucky breaks that comes along. A few diamond mines, a few tons of platinum, who’s to know, right? The way you’ve got this set up, it’ll be a smooth machine, right through the testing to the final deployment. But we’re all struggling with this free will issue, Bertle, you’re not alone.”

***

Bertle did not know whether he would tell the Head of the CIA that they were being spied upon by an invisible presence. For the time being he said nothing. He listened to the unbelievable words coming out of the mouth of a sober, well-educated, white-man, and Bertle was thinking, “...No, I won’t tell him. Better let it go. Long as we aren’t mentioning names and details...and he won’t be doing that. Wants to keep it all hush-hush, even in here. Wow, think of that, a whole secret department, and I’m the big cheese. Get to dream up all the cons, all the cover stories, all the shells to hide my little pea....”

In London, in the office of Sir Darcy, the General barked out, “That man, he knows they’re being watched. Well, I was warned by the servant chap, there is another fellow approaching the Americans. A rival. Corrupting a few of the top Americans with riff-raft talk of restoring the Christian Nation.”

Sir Darcy was a bit confused by these observations. Yet he knew that Bertle was a religious fanatic, rather a wee bit overboard on the Jesus Saves. And Mr. Bush? Sir Darcy thought Mr. Bush might actually be an android. That was after he thought he was a trained chimp. A talking chimp. Now he watched the Director of the CIA disclose a great state secret, and the big man Bertle sitting, impassive, legs crossed and big shoes gleaming, catching the scene of the Director’s office, miniature mirrors reflecting back to Sir Darcy and the General, and leading their thoughts astray into the vistas of the great American Dream of Prosperity and Democracy and Peace for all.

The Director had gone on, through all of this, telling Bertle in firm and persuasive tones, “YOUR work is to lead us to the promised land, Bertle. As far as I can see, the first test was very impressive. Yet we want to rule the world without it knowing. This is the highest of state craft. And this agencies greatest historical flaw. The record book speaks to this. Look at how much is known of what The Agency has done. Oh, we keep a lot of it out of the press, but word gets around. I mean, the Bay of Pigs, and how about Chile and Nicaragua? And well, how many operations have you run, Bertle?

“We just have to get around this free will issue. So we need the tests, and the right public relations, to get this thing across to the American people. The President feels his boys can come up with a good front for us. Let you do your thing, Bertle, without any hassles. Alright, let’s get down to it. The first test will be set for Los Angeles. In one week. Your monitoring team is in place. Right?”

Bertle answered clearly, enunciating each word, “All set, Boss. Good to go. The team is in place. We go on my arrival. You know my objections. That’s now been resolved.”

The Director frowned and then smiled like a doctor about to give bad news. “Then why do you bring it up? This is the decision we want to present to the American People. But we need the proof and the right approach to the American People. Some will take the view that it isn’t right to have your free will taken away. Well, we’re thinking maybe people might need to have free-will zones. After all, nobody likes a total prohibition, do they?”

Bertle spoke up for democracy. “Much as I want to do this, somehow it isn’t right. This isn’t natural.”

The Director waved a well manicured hand, absenting free-will as a mere nothing in the face of, “Bertle, Bertle, Bertle, do you know how much money is spent on enforcing the law? Do you know how much money we would save? And no infidelity? Oh, the money we would save in taxes...once people live in such a place, why would they want to go back? Peace and security, just think of it! It seems incredible, doesn’t it? To think what this will mean...to the whole world!”

Bertle regarded the Director with something of disgust and incredulity. How could this man be so stupid? He knew that Mr. Bush was not very smart.

Oh.

These two men were in charge of the future. That was unbelievable. And thus was born in Bertle the idea of protecting the world from insanity. This wasn’t natural, so that meant it was un-natural. Like buggery.

How could a piece of wood do these things?

The Director eyed Bertle with a perceptive all-knowing glance. He grinned easily and addressed Bertle’s doubts. He told him, “Now look here, we can’t have you not being the doubting Thomas. We all accept your role. But you have to see this through, anyway, as objectively as you can. That’s what were counting on.”

Bertle remained impassive and professional, waiting for the cue, and taking it, and playing it back to keep the game going. He said, “Sir, well, yes Sir. We’re gonna do this the right way, all the way down the line. You know where I stand on this. But everything is ready to go. That’s all there is to it.”

The Director smiled like a saint and said, “Good. Good. Good. So, you’ll be going to L.A. and making history happen.”

Bertle said dryly, “Looks that way.”

***

At this point the General interrupted and said to Sir Darcy, “I think that’s the end of their meeting...yes, see, shaking hands, disgusting display. If I don’t like a man, I say it to his face. Yes, there he goes, off to Los Angeles. Have you ever been there? Terrible place. Doomed to disaster. Have to wear a gas mask on bad days. What a place! Paint their bloody lawns green, for God's sake. Oh, I don’t mean to bore, but this is the limit. Smarmy American Imperialism, Darcy. We just can’t sit back and let the bloody bastards have their way with this.”

Sir Darcy stirred in his comfortable chair and leaned forward, slightly, and sighed meaningfully, “I don’t mean to be purposely rude, General, but could you shut up while I listen to what the Director is saying?”

The General glared at him and then broke out in a laugh, and then stopped and smiled sheepishly. All through this exchange, The Director had bid Bertle goodbye and, yes Bertle went away, and the Director poured himself a drink. It was a nice cold Coca-cola, in a big, tall, frosted glass, with little chips of ice, and just a hint of rum and lemon juice. He picked up the phone and pressed the auto dial.

“This is Director Blank. I have to speak with the President. Yes, I’ll hold.”

There was a pause.

Then the bright chimp’s voice, resounding with America on every consonant and vowel dipped in folksy fakery. “How’d you do, Buba? You still there?”

“Not too bad, Sir.”

“That’s good, Buba. I like good news.” This was said with confidence and certainty. The voice of a madman. The Director answered, “Yes Sir, so do I.”

“Well, so far so good. No trouble with our man? You got that all, ah, figured out, right?”

The Director wanted to pause and see if this man’s brain was working or not. But it was The President, and pausing would only bring on the further interrogation and the slip into that little bit of the tiniest cloud of doubt. So it was time to tell the President what the President wanted to hear.

So no pause.

“Yes, Sir, all figured out. He is going to do the job. No problems.”

The President of the United States cleared his throat and said, “Ummmm, see if you can keep an eye on that boy. I sure do want this to go the right way, Blank. We’ve got the chance to really do it here, Blank. So you make sure we keep an eye on that boy.”

***

The General interrupted all this and said, “Seen enough. Can’t watch forever. Ha!”

Sir Darcy wanted to keep listening but the General snapped his fingers and barked out, “Enough! Cease and desist!”

The ball obeyed. The seemingly real projection of the CIA Director and his office in Langley --- gone! --- and the ball flying back to the General’s waiting fingers. Very smooth, thought Sir Darcy. The General grinned heartily and said like a little boy, “That’s quite the little gadget.”

Sir Darcy looked at the wooden ball and dismissed the idea that sanity was anything worth possessing. He could see the future being a new nightmare, a new arms race, the nuclear weapon race, the space race, the cold war, the hot wars...nothing compared to the magic race. His spy-mind dug and sniffed and presented his inner committee with some scenarios.

Was it possible that the Americans had a wizard of their own? And if so, who? Sir Darcy’s head spun at the complexity of intrigue possible with all these magical devices. He saw clearly that all he wanted was to go and be with Azura. The idea of out-thinking adversaries who could read his mind...well, he could see the inevitable build-up of magical bits of wood that would counter the latest magical bit of wood.

Where would it all lead?

He saw the road going to a place quite insane.

The General broke up his thoughts by saying in that braying voice of his, “Thing is, Darcy, old man, they do have their own magic-man. Fellow by the name of Joe Future. Bit of a coincidence, that. Bit too much. Dare say they might be the same man. Posing as Mr. Prophet AND this, this Joe Future. My God! How American! Joe Future!”

The General leveled a stern gaze at Sir Darcy. The ice in those martial eyes told all. Sir Darcy could see the madness dancing behind the man’s pupils. What was it he wanted? Some affirmation? A grunt of acknowledgment? A blessing? Sir Darcy was irritated at this intrusion and bore up a little and glared back at the General. Ah, contention! The General’s eyes lit up even more and rose to the opportunity to bully.

“Now look here, how I know is not the point. Well, you heard for yourself. You saw how I know. I’ve been watching them. Before this time with you, when the servant gave it me. And to practice. I was told to practice with it before I, ah, showed it to you. Well, there it is. I feel better, now that’s all out. Can’t be too careful. Point is, who was spying on the spy, if you see what I mean? I had to be sure of you. I was told to make sure of you, you see. By that Ben chap. All done now. And now? Well, we’ve the fight of our lives. Have to keep the Americans from knowing that we know, and what we have. Somehow.”

Sir Darcy was smiling as if he was hearing a beautiful symphony and having his feet rubbed, by the warm sea, with a gentle breeze, and shade, glorious shade! He was momentarily pretending that it wasn’t coming true, there was going to be no magic race. All a bad, naughty dream, go away!

***

The General barked out laughter and said, “You look like you want a nanny, and the nursery! Buck up, we need you here. Can’t duck this one, old man. Squarely on your plate of shoulders, not mine. Thank God. Well, we all make choices and have to live by what we choose and see it out. We must defeat the Americans, Darcy. If we don’t, well, the world will be an American Pasteurized Disney-Land. Terrible irony if that happens. Well, we have the upper-hand and must keep it.”

Sir Darcy asked quietly, “Does the Prime Minister know that the Americans have it too?”

“Yes, of course. Had to be sure ‘bout YOU, Darcy. The PM is a good man as far as all that. Knows his place. Great leader, figurehead, stalwart of the Nation. That sort of thing he is very good at. Don’t you worry ‘bout the PM. It was you we had to worry ‘bout. Sold out to the Yanks? Try it on for yourself? That servant fellow told me Ben had told him to tell me to test you. Yes, that’s right, only fair you should know now. Did it too, I can tell you that for free. Never took to spying except on a recce. Not my itch to know what your wife’s knickers look like.”

The General was amused by something but containing it to his own private enjoyment. Sir Darcy again felt intruded upon. The General knew it and the smile grew uglier, and the General knew that, too, making it all the more uglier. His smile was like a mirror facing a mirror. You are so ugly, thought Sir Darcy. Oh, but the General knew it, too. Obviously he had some kind of ‘dingus’ in his pocket, or in his left hand. He was holding something in his left hand.

Oh, it was all too bloody obvious and annoying for Sir Darcy. He thought, “I have a good mind to just up and quit and go away, away, away....”

At the end of this, the General was still in his office and so was he. Oh well. Sad duty or possibility to get out, once and for all. Of course, at the mention of his wife’s knickers he’d gone into the world of being a married man. With the obligations and obscure remembrances of a brief passion, long spent, and now a discarded shell, his marriage, on the rocks and dying in sufferance and duty to the children and then to something altogether different. An alliance over time, and the openness of discretion about all the intrigues over the years, politely left under the various rugs.

Oh, his wife!

To escape being who he was was very attractive.

***

Chapter 18

ENTER CHANG

(From The Book of Instruction:

Feed yourself on human astral energy, whatever the quality, and you and your race can control human life

as long as the system remains intact.)

Chang came to see Sir Darcy. After the General had gone away to his secret base. Some hours later. After Sir Darcy had left to go home. Home to his superb, elite and highly protected house. Oh, yes, the family townhouse, looking out over St. James Park. Private enough, even with the permanent security detail. All very discrete. Video surveillance and manned stations with armed response.

Chang came to see Sir Darcy while Her Ladyship was out.

She’d gone to the opera with friends, a big party, taking up several boxes, and after the opera, a fantastic dinner. And then this very smart set was going off to do something or other at some art club. Not Sir Darcy’s thing after a day of interminable strategy sessions, and only a dinner by himself and then more work, in his private study overlooking the back garden. His study was not modern. Except for a few little details. Like the thermalite windows, bomb resistant as the brochures proclaimed. Guaranteed to stop most bullets. The windows looked quite smart in the dignified age-mellowed townhouse.

Chang came up the street, walking his dog. A big, dumb looking Lab-Mongrel, about five years old, and a male. Weighed one hundred and twenty pounds. Big dog. He walked at Chang’s side with obvious devotion and care. For such a big, dumb looking dog, he stepped lightly and quickly, matching and leading Chang’s stride.

The street was one of those private innards of smart London, a square, off the beaten track, and yet just around a corner or two, and then you were on James Street and the Park. The price of one of these townhouse properties reached into the millions of pounds sterling, if that is important. Each one stood, frozen in stone and big windows and glossy doors and long steps and trees in special compartments, and the trash gone from these streets, and a few discrete vehicles parked and a security booth, and cameras and a few signs proclaiming surveillance, and etcetera.

Chang smiled at his dog and said loudly, “Oh, what a beautiful evening, eh Cedric?” The two passed by the door of Sir Darcy’s house, and the dog stopped and pulled at the leash. Chang stopped and cried out, “Yes, here it is! Sir Darcy’s! Good work, Pluto!”

Chang went up the stairs and rang the bell.

The intercom scraped into action and a voice issued forth, “Yes?”

Chang smiled earnestly at the intercom and said sincerely, “Oh, hello there. Could you tell Sir Darcy that I am here?”

The voice came back, suspicious, “Who are you?”

Chang said confidently, “For one thing, I know you’re not Sir Darcy, you’re Desmond Bradley, on detail, must be a bore, eh Des? Go tell Sir Darcy that I am here.”

The voice was indignant and the intercom crackled a bit with, “I don’t know you, mate, and I’d like to know how you know who I am.”

Chang yelled, “Don’t bother sending for the help, Des. They won’t be coming. Good thing, eh? The way you just gave away who you are? By the way, are you sure the front door IS locked? I don’t think it is. I’ll show you.”

Chang opened the front door and stepped inside Sir Darcy’s house. He called out, “See, I told you it wasn’t locked. Good thing it’s only me and not some madman or terrorist, much of a muchness, I grant you, but still. No, I won’t ‘but still’ you all the time, Des. No, the rest of your detail seems to be off in la-la land, Des. I think they look happy and contented, don’t you?”

Chang had come in, closed the door, the dog by his side. The dog with tongue out and a dumb look, led Chang to where a very startled Desmond Bradley was scrambling to get help (he’d already pushed the panic button). He looked quite upset. He reached for his gun, and all the time, he heard Chang’s loud voice saying all that stuff, and then, there was this very smartly dressed big man with a dumb looking dog on a leash, standing in the now open doorway of the detail’s surveillance room.

It was all just too much.

Chang said cheerfully, “Oh, go ahead and shoot if you think it will do any good, at all. Try not to hit the suit if you can. I’d prefer a head shot or two, if you don’t mind. Paid a lot of money for the suit, and it is rather nice. Where as I can get another head, I can’t get another suit like this.”

Desmond Bradley finally said something.

“Shut the ____ up or I will shoot you! How the ____ did you get in here? Who are you?”

Chang frowned and answered quietly, “Me? I am the man who can walk in here, and nothing much happens. No storm troopers have arrived, have they, Des? Isn’t that a bit strange? Well, it’s all my doing, Des.”

Desmond Bradley had assumed the action-man posture, feet spread, both hands holding the gun, and the gun pointing at Chang. Desmond’s brain was screaming instructions, all contradictory, and trying to figure out what had happened...was happening...and might happen. There should have been a swarm of armed men coming, and the rush of several marked and unmarked vehicles, and it should have been just like in the drills. Where was the team? Where was the back-up?

The video monitors revealed a calm and quiet street and square, and the house, inside, room by room, all quiet and orderly. You could see the security detail at their various posts and stations, some in cars, some standing by, some sitting just down the hall, near the kitchen. There was even one in the surveillance room, the same room Desmond Bradley and Chang and the dog were in.

Desmond called out to this man, “Jim, for bloody Christ's sake, man, pick up your ____ing gun and do something!” The man sat a few feet away from Desmond. He was staring at the video monitor, a happy smile on his face, and quite oblivious to the presence of Des or Chang or the dog. The dog was looking round the room with curiosity, and moved a bit, looking this way and that, slowly, as if it mattered somehow and at the same time did not matter, at all.

“Jim, Jim, don’t be playing silly buggers with me, 'fer ____’s sake, this some kind of freaked out training exercise to see out some ____ing psych-out experiment, will you answer me?” Then piteously, “Where the ____ is everybody?”

Chang interrupted Desmond with a cheerful, “Des, it is all good, take a deep breath, check it all out. Only me and my dog, Here. See? Sit here, Here.”

The dog looked up at Chang and sat down.

“See? Here won’t hurt a fly, just a big, dumb, ever-loving dog, aren’t you, Here?”

Desmond Bradley still had the gun pointing at Chang. He moved over to the intercom system and once more pushed the panic button on the floor, and all the while saying, desperately, “If you move, or that dog does anything, it’s you’ll I’ll shoot.”

He tried to use the intercom to call for help, then the telephone, then his cell phone, pointing the gun at Chang, using one hand for all the telecommunications, and the panic kicking in as each device failed to do what he wanted. He ended up yelling into his cellphone, “Is there anyone there, at all!”

***

Chang stood at ease, a hand gracing one well tailored hip, and the strong, brown fingers at rest, luxuriating in the pure feast of sensual ecstasy, each nodule of nerve and related tissue a sensory playground. The thrill of feeling the fresh, clean fabric of his new and magnificent suit, and to each bit of him that touched all the best that money can buy, a cry of contented purring, a well-dressed man, luxuriating in his playground.

For Chang, life was simplicity itself.

He regarded the turmoil of Desmond Bradley and interceded, telling the distraught man, “Are you satisfied? Do you think you have gone mad? Look at your Jim, he seems happy enough. When I leave, he’ll be good as new. You, Des, will be the only one to remember, except of course for Sir Darcy. Speaking of him, please go and tell him I am here. It’s him I’ve come to see, Des, not you.”

Desmond’s face went white and he hissed, “If you think I’m gonna let you move without shooting you, you’re very much mistaken!”

Chang smiled pleasantly and flicked a finger along the slim lines of his suit coat, smiling, smiling, smiling, he told Desmond, “Oh, I don’t mind if you have to do that. Just shoot me in my head, please. Of course, Here will then kill you. A single bite would do. But all that aside, what if you did shoot me? What would THAT do? Solve your problem of being stuck in limbo land with a dead Chang?”

Desmond Bradley yelled out, “Shut up, shut up, shut up, and let me think 'fer Christ's sake! What have you done? You used a drug? You start talking to me! Shut up!”

Chang smiled helpfully and waited. Des went over to Jim and tried to rouse him. Nothing. Tried to snap Jim out of it, even hit him and shook him, with one hand, and recoiled in horror from this physical contact. Desmond cried out, “What have you done to him? He isn’t...solid.”

Chang said cheerfully, “Oh, It is the other way round, Des. You are the one who isn’t solid. Jim is right as rain. As you’ll soon see, once I leave. And for that to happen, I must meet Sir Darcy. So go and tell him I have come. If you had half-a-wit you’d know my name, for I have already mentioned it, once, in passing.”

Desmond Bradley was sweating and shaking a little, and past yelling. The time had slipped on, and it was if he’d slipped into some deviation of nature. Chang didn’t help matters by saying, “Don’t you see, Des? Des? Listen, don’t you see, IF I’d wanted to hurt you or Sir Darcy, or do something other than sit and talk with him about something very important, don’t you see? Think a bit about it, Des. I am the one who is doing this. Jim there, and all the others, everybody else, except you and Sir Darcy and me and my dog, There.

“The rest of the world, Des, is going on as if nothing is happening, at all, except the normal routine. They are all like Jim. The whole world, Des. Listen, while I have my talk with Sir Darcy, you go take a wander, I’ll call you on your cell phone when I am done and you can get back. Take a car and go for a drive. You’ll see what I mean. Put it this way, Des, IF I wanted to, I could take that gun away from you or turn it into a chicken tikka, a hot one, just out of the cooker, burn your hands and ruin your nice suit. Perhaps I’ll turn your gun into an asp, and it will bite you. Or how about a damsel most fair, and you can take her, and the car, and go for a nice drive. You can go and see London at a standstill.”

Desmond Bradley finally was bracing up. He brought his eyes to those of Chang’s and said, “Sod off you big queer, however you’ve done this, don’t go trying to move or I will shoot you.”

Chang ignored this and said, “I think I’ll turn it into a fish, yes, that’s it...a fish.”

Desmond Bradley now was holding a fish in his right hand. The gun was gone. The fish was alive and slippery and determined to get out of the grip of this deathtrap. The fish succeeded and wriggled out of his hand to land on the security console, and flop and flip and then come off the console and land on a chair, still flipping about, and then to the floor, where it lay thrapping and dying, and all the while, Chang said, “See what you’ve done? Now we have a dying fish, and that isn’t fair to the fish. Bring back the gun....”

Now there was a gun. The fish was gone. The gun remained still; it did not flop and twist. Chang remarked quietly, “Do you see, Des? Do you start to grasp a smidgen of what I can do IF I want to? Go and announce me to Sir Darcy, please. I have been very nice, so far.”

Des scrambled to get the gun from the floor, and he picked it up and then screamed out and dropped the gun as a puff of smoke came up and the strong sickening smell of living flesh being seared. He was grasping his hand, yelling out, “Bloody bastard! I’ve burned my hand!”

Chang greeted this news with a sniff and said, “A mild example of the random differences in scales of perspective. Oh, don’t go on so, it will go away now.”

Des was bent over in agony, clutching at the wrist of his burned hand, and letting go with a long scream of pain. Just as Chang spoke, he’d caught sight of the burned flesh of his hand, and the stench of the burned flesh, and the hit of excruciating agony...rising past the sane, and all in his poor, poor hand, oh so terribly burned!

He heard the words of Chang, and then the pain was gone, and he realized he felt no pain, at all, and he was still clutching his wrist and looked at his burned hand. But it wasn't burned. He wriggled his nice, whole, healthy, burn-free flesh. He looked at Chang and then his now healthy hand, and back again.

He said, “Hypnotism! That’s what it is! Or I’ve gone MAD! Or I am....”

Chang said in a helpful tone, “In that case it won’t matter what you do, so you can certainly help me out and then I’ll have a nice chat with Sri Darcy, and then I will leave and everything will come back to normal. You know, just to rub it in, I would have gone for me changing the gun into a beautiful woman for you to go and play with. A lot more fun to play with than a gun, don’t you think?”

***

CHANG SEES IT THROUGH WITH SIR DARCY

It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane.

The idea of madness was strong in Desmond Bradley’s so-called mind. He kept looking at his hand, opening and closing it, wiggling his fingers. The sickeningly sweet smell of carbonized flesh was gone. The pain was gone. His hand was whole.

Impossible. Does not compute.

The yawning pit of doubt opened under his feet and in he fell, intellect and all, and out through the other side, on his feet, borrowing sanity from familiar objects including the passive big dumb looking dog sitting at Chang’s feet.

Chang noticed all this and said helpfully, “You see? Announce me to Sir Darcy, and then I’ll leave, and only the four of us will know what happened. The entire world is like Jim. It is all frozen, except for us, Des. And I’m the one who did this, see? So go tell Sir Darcy I am here, please?”

The look Chang gave to Desmond said it all: ‘Listen, if I can do all this, then the reason(s) I am doing it, at all, this way, is because it MUST be really important, don’t you think?’

But Desmond wasn’t giving in, and the panic was hard to bear, and his face was cracking into tense lines, and with that came a thin press of rigid lips, altogether a grim rictus of mental shudder.

The dog looked at him twitching with stoic dumbness. The dog laid it’s head down and whimpered.

Chang said cheerfully, “Yes, yes, yes...you have your reasons for doubting...compared to me, well, let’s get the scale of perspective. If I wanted to harm your Sir Darcy, I could turn him into a cantaloupe and then eat him. There (the dog's ever changing name) here likes cantaloupe and so he could have some, too. Perhaps you would like some cantaloupe, too, Des?”

That did it, and Desmond stole a hard glance in those cheerful eyes of this, this, this, creature called Chang. Yet, there was the steel behind the words, and the gold. Rock solid truth in those eyes. Chang nodded and said, “Yes, now you’re seeing it, eh, yeah, so....”

With that, Desmond Bradley moved decisively past Chang and the big dog, out the open doorway, into the big hall and vestibule, and then up the stairs, to the third floor, and then down one wide hallway to a smaller hall, and then a big vestibule, with high ceilings, and one door set in this, a true door of authority, built to last, the work of a craftsman long dead. The door was black as lacquer can be and as glossy, and the polished old brass fittings, gave the door an almost nautical appearance, set as it was in a wall of lush old style, polished wood and stone and mortar. The door spoke of the authority of the man who owned it. And he as on the other side of that door.

All this Desmond Bradley faced as he brought his knuckles to knock on the door to Sir Darcy’s study. He gave it a good, solid knocking, but respectful, too. He was always a good knocker. After a few moments he heard the lock being turned and the door opening, and there was Sir Darcy, looking at him with mild irritation, and a look of, ‘this better be important’.

Desmond was still quite at sea, of course, yet he did his best, taking a breath and saying, “Sorry to disturb you Sir Darcy, but there is a man here to see you, not on the list, and he’s asked to be announced.” Desmond experienced a remarkable thing, and remembered Chang’s name. He added quickly, “Gentleman’s name is Mr. Chang, Sir.”

Sir Darcy did his best, beginning to get impatient, “Bradley, I am not expecting anyone, and therefore neither are you. How the hell did this ‘gentleman’ get in my house?”

Desmond replied promptly, “He opened the front door, Sir. It was locked. I know because I’d just checked it myself about half-a-minute before Mr. Chang came in. He didn’t break in, Sir. He opened the door as if it wasn’t locked at all, I know because I watched him on the monitor.”

Sir Darcy’s face betrayed nothing of his own calm inner acceptance of insanity due to magic, and pretended to be astonished and suspicious.

“Good God man, is he armed? Do you have him at least guarded? What the hell are you playing at, Bradley?” Sir Darcy thought that sounded convincing.

Desmond shook his head quickly and said, “No Sir, he has a dog, but I don’t think the dog is dangerous unless you attacked his, his master. But he isn’t under guard, Sir. And this is the hard part, Sir, so you’ll have to bear with me....”

But Sir Darcy wasn’t going to bear with him. He gave Desmond a hard stare, almost a glare, which was rare for Sir Darcy. He began walking, leaving his study door open, and telling Desmond, “Come on, Bradley, I’ll see this ‘gentleman’ right now --- oh good God man, save your breath, don't try and explain insanity. I don’t want to know the details. Please, spare me more of all this, this, this, madness! No, he is probably here for something Earth shakingly important, and now I will have a whole new mess to sort out. Did it ever occur to any of these GENIOUSES what it is like to have to deal with all the ramifications and and and craziness?”

All the while, he was moving quickly, past old family portraits and wainscoting done two hundred years ago and still maintained, and past all the relics of such a house in such a square, stood for so long and through so much! The master of this house strode with something near true passion and outrage at the loss of freedom of will to be an ordinary plod, and not have to stretch and stretch and then be asked to stretch some more.

Too much!

Desmond Bradley followed at his heels, keeping up and caught up, too, the halls in a blur and the stairway too, all the way to the hall at the front of the house, and the vestibule, door closed, leading to the front door. And the surveillance room, door opened, and there was Chang and the dog, waiting with great style and aplomb, as if he was greeting a distinguished colleague and a fond friend. A friend that Chang would do anything for, and nothing was too good for such a friend.

So these two emotional fronts met and Sir Darcy came up to the big man, and had to look up a bit, and stared him right in the eyes, and went, in his own head, ‘Oh, another one, sees all, knows all, does ____ all!’

At this, Chang burst out laughing, really enjoying himself, no doubt about it. And this broke some of Sir Darcy’s bad temper, but not all of it. There was more to come, of course. Chang didn’t care and went on laughing a bit too long, and Sir Darcy cried out, “Enough, enough, I say it again, enough. What do you want?”

Chang stifled his laughter as best he could, and said amid the giggles, “Oh, how true, how true, but still, here I am, what can I say? You are in a pickle. All this magic, where is it all leading you, Sir Darcy? Plots within plots as never before, and carrying round all these little trinkets. My, my,my, what a pretty mess. That’s what I am here about, Sir Darcy. You need to have a private chat with me. Send Des here out with my dog here,There. That’s the dog’s name, Here or There. Bit silly, but so is life, wouldn’t you all say? So, off you go Des, and make sure you have your cell phone with you. I’ll call you when I want you to come home. No, no, no, off you go. Here, catch this key, to my car, the Alpha round the corner on Green Terrace, license plate says CHANG, so you can’t miss it. Go, go, go. Right Sir Darcy?”

Sir Darcy was in full spy-mode, and whatever anger he had at being pushed into some new twist by some new player in the magic game, he put it to use. All right, if you want to drag me through all these intrigues, yes, I will play, but if I can, I will leave this game and go away. He said to Desmond, “Yes, do go away, Bradley. Mr. Chang will call you when he is done. What are you waiting for?”

Chang threw the key at him and laughed as Desmond caught the key and stood for a moment, and his poor face, so bewildered, yet stricken with realization. What was happening was really happening. Chang said encouragingly, “No, you’re not mad after all. Go out and see the world at a standstill. Go away, Des.”

***

Desmond Bradley left the town house of Sir Darcy and made sure the front door was closed and locked. For the first time he really noticed how quiet it all was. Except for the noises he made, no other noises.

No other noise.

At all.

And the trees. He noticed the trees. In the square. The trees in the square did not move. Not so much as a twitch. And the other, little details he was noticing. He walked in the general direction of Green Terrace. His shoes made noise as they touched the sidewalk. But nothing else was moving. He walked by a car with two men sitting in the car. The men were staring straight ahead, sitting up, and both plastered with the same stupid smile of happiness. Des hesitated and then called out, “Is there anyone there, at all?”

He tapped on the passenger window and yelled, “Polly wants a cracker, brackhh!” No reaction whatsoever. Desmond said to himself, “Must be a dream...must be dreaming...Hey! Heartley! Jemmins! Hello! Can you hear me?”

The two men did not move. The silly smiles of happiness remained. Desmond noticed neither of the two men blinked. He said out loud, “You’re not even breathing, 'fer Christ’s sake.” He watched carefully for five minutes, making sure he saw no movement of their bodies, not even a breath, a twitch, nada; Wax statues made more noise then these two men, and more movement, too.

Desmond threw up his hands and walked away, hurrying now, and making Green Terrace in good time and passing little details, and noticing the standstill, being more aware of what this seemed to mean. He noticed a bird in flight, caught in mid air, in full swing-wing stride, with feathers spread and feet coming out to grip a new perch, but not quite landed. This display, just over a lamp post, truly exhibited the effect of the standstill, and this image stuck in Desmond’s mind. It was to remain with him for the rest of his life.

Yet there was more and he saw it and, in some instances, actually touched people and animals and objects, bits and pieces of an entire world come to a standstill. The people and animals he touched did not feel real. They seemed to be perfect molds of the real thing, but with no give to them.

Desmond found the car. Parked on Green Terrace, in the dappled unmoving sunlight of a perfect day in London. What a motor! This was a sleek and autobahned Italian Coupe convertible, and built for driving.

He passed a woman in mid-stride. He stopped and checked her out because she was young and very pretty, and walking along with such a happy smile on her face. Desmond stopped and stared into those very happy eyes. He reached out a finger to touch the skin of this young woman, and it was not warm or cold, and did not yield, but gave a firm resistance to any movement at all.

Desmond took hold of the girls left hand and tried to move it. He couldn’t budge it. He got a grip of the young ladies entire arm and tried to pull. Then he began to try and push and pull and twist the arm. Nothing. Not a sound, except for him going on, breathing heavily, and getting frustrated. All he got from his exertions was more shock, and another yawning pit of doubt.

This WAS really happening.

This is no dream, Desmond Bradley.

***

Chang watched Desmond go away. So did Sir Darcy. When Desmond was gone, and the front door was closed and locked, and Sir Darcy had made sure of this, then he began to ask Chang a few questions. He did this with a civil tone in his voice, and a polite expression on his face. Sir Darcy had recovered and was playing the game to win.

He said to Chang, “I do not know the rules, Mr Chang. Are there any rules?”

Chang pretended to consider this seriously, but inside he was laughing hysterically. He told Sir Darcy, “No one tries to be cryptic about this, ah, rather grand affair being had on your planet. Some of the players wear more than one coloured hat, and often at the same time. And some of the players ARE the hats. Rules are made up as they go along. Some players on one team will also be playing for other team(s). Rules? What rules? I will tell you what rules. Free-will rules. Those are the rules. The only rule, and that is free-will. Without that, what do you have?”

Sir Darcy listened while standing with his arms crossed, standing in his costume for his study. An old cardigan of some repute, and gray pants, and slippers with wool socks and a good, thick white shirt, cut for him by his own man in Jermyn Street. He looked like a tired old bloodhound, complete with jowls and sad eyes. He wanted to be with Azura, and he wanted out, and he knew it. The spy who abdicated. How could he do it?

Chang read all this, of course, and knew that Sir Darcy knew he was being read. All so cosy. Chang murmured politely, “You are only human, Sir Darcy. Yet, free-will is important to you, personally. Isn’t it important to you? Sir Darcy?”

“Yes, of course it is.”
“Ah you are wishing I would get to the point. I want to sit in your study and talk with you. Alright? I will get to the point. Over a drink or two. After all, I’ve got all the time in the world.”

Sir Darcy caught this and knew it was meant literally. Enough! Capitulate and get it over with. He said, “Alright,” like an affirmation, and, “A drink or two. Come this way, Mr. Chang. Up here, and this is my family rogue’s gallery, going back to the reign of Charles...but I expect you know more than I do.”

Chang walked up the stairs with Sir Darcy, intent on the portraits of men and women and children, done by fair artists of the times past. Oils in frames, all good, and done with quality. Chang looked at each one, and he said, “Yes, I can see the life of each one, even to what they ate for dinner in, ah, leave it, Sir Darcy. To hear me speak of the mundane when some of them saw such things now known as history. A few even struck a blow for that precious gift of free-will.”

Sir Darcy had led Chang to the door of his study and bowed him through, Chang paused in his monologue, and said, “Thank you, but you are the saviour of mankind, so you should go in first, as befits your honour.”

***

Sir Darcy did not argue with this, and stepped inside the room. There to his utter astonishment he saw Azura sitting on the little couch, her legs crossed, and wearing the simple negligee he loved so much. Her breasts immediately taunted him. He almost had a heart attack. He stood with his mouth open and said, “Azura!”

Chang came in and closed the study door, locking it, and then going over to a big wing-back chair, and asking, “Can I have a drink before you do anything else, Sir Darcy?”

***

She rose from the little sofa and crossed over to Sir Darcy and put her arms round his body, and pulled him to her. He was overwhelmed by the scent of her and the warmth pressing against his body. He engulfed her in his big, cardigan covered arms. He realized he had tears in his eyes.

She was real.

He could feel her.

The two lovers sought each others eyes and touched faces with fingers, and then rested foreheads, touching there, holding there, and embracing their third eyes. It was no more and no less.

Chang remained respectfully silent and helped himself to a drink at Sir Darcy’s little bar of gin, whiskey, rum, vodka and beer, with soda and tonic and lemons and limes.

Chang took a good pull of drink and filled the glass again and examined the study while Azura and Sir Darcy dealt with the prime directive.

The study was a big room, set in a high ceiling, with tall, long and wide windows set in two corners, both overlooking the little garden extending from the rear of the townhouse to the little secured service lane. And then the park, extending his range of vision from the desk that sat back of the windows, affording him the best view of London, as far as he was concerned.

Such a view was worth a lot of money. And the rest of the room had the complete quality of good taste all-round, so the bookcases and the big globe of the world, and the several chairs, one of which Chang now went and sat in, and more, with hassocks and the little sofa by the fireplace, and the final touch, the old armory display of several crossed muskets and swords and crests and shields. The chairs were set in old-school leather, and really comfortable. You felt like a billionaire sitting in one of those chairs.

The edges of the room were done in lintels of wood, standard rising arches and slightly domed ceiling, and the dark ambiance of the wood relief and the stone work, all carved and set in place by master craftsmen of the day, and held in mint condition. The room was cherry, dude...but not the colour cherry. No. But meant like those damned Americans sometimes use the word 'cherry' to mean something was in perfect condition, even if it was old.

The mint and yellows and golds and royal greens with the wood, ah, you wanted to stay in this room and stare out at the sylvan park, and the immediate trees in the little garden at the back of Sir Darcy’s house.

Chang approved, he liked the ornate splendor of the study. It was a room of great power. He could see all the splinters of time and space done and to be done in this study.

“Oh baby,” he said silently to himself.

Sir Darcy and Azura were staring at each other.

It was down to the explanations.

Chang crossed his legs and grinned at the power of true love. Only reason he was involved, far as Chang was concerned, was to aid the cause of true love. And put one or two fingers in the eye of the magician. Chang considered the magician as definitely NOT in the cause of true love. He laughed at himself, remembering how he had hit-and-run Romana to death, and thus pushed the magician into a corner. Chang drank more and got up and put more drink in the glass and went back and sat down and drank some more.

Whatever you may think of Chang, he was a gentleman as far as not intruding on the two lovers. He studiously ignored their conversation, but it is recorded here, none the less. With all the earnest, heart-felt inflection of rapture realised and dreams coming true.

Darcy spoke first.

“How is it possible for you to recognize me?”

She answered with her lips brushing his, tantalizing, and he heard her say, “If you were a cabbage, I would know you.”

***

“But how can you be here?” asked Darcy.

“Mr. Chang, he came to the house and asked to see me. Once we were alone, he explained how he could help us to get away. How you could escape from...this place, and we could be together. I came with him. He brought me here.”

Darcy’s mind was going into spy-mode and sifting through all the configurations. He came up with a burning question, “Did you know him before? Did you know Mr. Chang, before?”

She answered honestly, “Not at first, but he reminded me of a name I had forgotten. He told me Mr. Berkley had sent him. Then I remembered --- oh it was a waterfall I went over! Such memories of who I am and why I am what I am...and most terrifying, what I am to...be.”

He hung on every word as if it was the last faint hope of reason left in the insane world he now inhabited. So she looked in his eyes, as previously described, and went on talking in her soft, slightly liquid slurring lazy way, “Oh no, not for turning to evil, oh no, but for turning to love. You came to me by a intervention in the world. You know that? A magician has done this, Mr. Chang showed me how it was done. And I remembered! In the way of a fairy story. Oh my Darling! Mr. Chang will help us escape and have freedom. Completely new identities. Tonight, if you want to, we can return to Cairo...you can become....”

But this was enough for Darcy. He signaled so and she waited, reading his face and eyes and body language. “My Uncle...” and as if for a long time he had known it all along, he realised that he had been his Uncle for many years. This was a quiet bomb going off inside his mind. After this came a second one. Where was his original Uncle? Who did he go into? Where did he go? Did he go...anywhere?

His mind was spinning like a top.

She said softly, “My Darling, you are the only one who can do this. I need you. I am weak and only want to be near you. You don’t want to be in this...place, do you?”

He said whimsically, “It’s not so bad, though sometimes it does seem like time is standing still.”

She chuckled and said, “A sense of humour, though we could all be mad. I remember being a child and thinking I could fly, and I remember a few times I thought I had actually flown around my house. It is true. I was a child. But I remember it, like it was yesterday. I knew how to do the things the magician makes with his pieces of wood. Without any pieces of wood. I remembered, oh so much when Mr. Chang...helped me to remember.”

Darcy looked away and then back at her, and asked quickly,”Do you mean you can do this conjuring?”

She nodded and her eyes were both serious and serene. She said very simply, without pretense, “This is a great responsibility. You are close to having this same responsibility. You have it, but without the power to do what the magician can.”

“Ben Prophet?”

“Yes, among others.”

“What others?”

“One man plays many parts, Sir Darcy.”

“Don’t call me that. I don’t know what my name is anymore. Give me a new name, then.”

She laughed, delighted and drew him a bit closer and swayed against him. She felt like a slender flame in his arms. She told him, “As you want, Chesterton Speeksweillerbergdeim.”

He frowned at his and she laughed and gently pinched his bottom where Chang couldn’t see. Then she said, seriously, “Gerry Cornfeld, peer of the realm, specialist in alabaster and moonstone, and often out in the far, far distant places, looking for opals and moonstones and alabaster. You like it in the rough.”

He could feel her skilled fingers working their way to his flesh. He really liked this a lot. Her fingernails brought exquisite goosebumps on his skin, under his thick, good shirt and cardigan. Middle aged Darcy, plagued by impossible decisions, seemed mercifully gone. She murmured as skillfully as she wormed her way into ever growing exposures of his flesh, a button here, being undone, and a tug of a shirt tail, fingers as persuasive as her words. “Darling, you can be whatever you want to be. That is the entire point.”

He nodded sadly and asked, “But why do you care about me, if you have all this power?”

She moaned softly, “Oh Darling, I don’t doubt you! Look at me. Do you see? I love you, you stupid fool? Don’t you get it? Because you love me. I know it, I can feel it. And that is worth more to me than anything else in the world! You met me as a whore and you still fell in love with me. And I fell in love with you.”

Darcy looked at her a bit hard and said, “Why would you be interested in me? I am an ordinary man. I can do a few card tricks, and I know how some of the tricks work. The kind you can buy at the joke shop.”

She told him, ‘I am not as great as Mr. Chang.”

He asked her seriously, “What can you do, give me an example?”

She blushed, “I can leave my body and go, oh, to so many places....”

He asked slowly, “Is that what...this is. Your magic trick?”

“No, Mr. Chang brought me. I came with him.”

He said quickly, “No no, I meant nothing like that. I am just confused.”

“Do you mean can I fly and walk through walls. Yes. I can.”

He sighed, “Then why do you want to know me? I can do none of these things on my own.”
She gave him a look that braced and made him feel like a man. In words of the same tone, she said, “Oh, I think you are a great man. You are. I know that. I knew it when you came into your Uncle’s body. Oh, I liked him. He was a great lover, your Uncle. But you, oh you were the ultimate and ever growing ultimate, my love.”

He insisted his point, “Yes. But I have no magical powers of my own.”

“You will,” she said seriously.

She looked at Mr. Chang and then back at Darcy. He gave Chang a quick look. Chang was sitting in the wing-back chair, by the south facing windows. He was staring out the window at the evening sky. Darcy came back to Azura’s beautiful face. He realized yet again that she looked like an angel of love and lust all mixed perfectly together. Her hands yielded to the delicious lingering touch, and oh how it seemed to sooth and transport overly middle-aged Sir Darcy. The world could go jump out the window or into the lake or go away somewhere else.

Azura asked him, almost pleadingly, “Come with me, back to Cairo. We will be safe there. We can make love. Mr. Chang will make sure the magician never knows. Oh, come with me, Darling! We have so much to talk about, and to you the truth: I do not like this modern age.”

Darcy realized he knew very little about being anything at all except being a spy. He asked, “Have you visited here....” and ran out of words to describe his question. Azura skillfully filled in the blanks for him. “Mr. Chang brought me here two years ago.”

She stopped for a moment and let that sink in.

Then, “I have been traveling the world.” She laughed, “First class. So I have been well behind the wall that separates the wealthy from the poor. But everywhere I go, the world is dying. I don’t like this place, and I do not like what is coming.”

He left unasked his question, from his heart, “You have been here that long and you only come tonight?” and from his head he said, “What is coming?”

She laughed, “Oh, come to Cairo! We can talk about all of this...and make love.”

He said quite seriously, “You want me as my Uncle, his body?”

“Yes, I do. And so do you.”

He realized that this was quite true and that to go on being sulky was astonishingly attractive. He felt petulant and full of emotion. He wanted to be loved even as a middle-aged, jowly-faced man. She had his belt unbuckled, and her fingers were as insistent as her voice, “Listen you fat-head, it is you I want. Can’t you see that? I can’t keep my hands off you. But we will be safer there than here. This way the magician will not know.”

Darcy hesitated. She read his expression. He said, “Do I have to come back? And deal with this lot?”

She nodded, “Yes, if you want to. You will have to want to, with your free-will.”

He saw it. He wanted confirmation. He asked her quietly, almost whispering, “Is that how it works?”

“Yes. Free-will. The way you want is the trick, Darling. That is the trick to the whole thing.”

He looked at her with respect and admiration and awe. Azura took in this sincerity and lowered her eyes in modesty, over come with emotion. She whispered in his ear, “Please, come to Cairo, now, please, Darling.” She was standing on her toes, and pressing up against his body. She kissed his neck gently, slowly. “Please...come.”

***

Chapter 19

CHANG TAKES THEM TO CAIRO

(Reality Continues to Ruin My Life Forms)

Chang was all done sitting and drinking and studiously ignoring the talk and thoughts of the two lovers. He lifted his head from his inspection of inspection. He’d been staring out the windows at the sylvan illusion of St. James Square and contemplating the human perspective of time. The happy former pirate continued to luxuriate in his very expensive clothing. As mentioned, he was a sensual man. In every respect, he was that, and he truly loved sensation. Chang was a connoisseur of the senses.

Even so, he sighed. It was time, and the humans had to play within this narrow frame, this splintered s;lice, and the shredded layers all tattered at their ends, with streamers of variations of the theme, and somehow this was all going to get sorted. Chang spoke up and told the two lovers, “Hello, Sir Darcy, mademoiselle, hello, hello, do you think you’re ready to go?”

Sir Darcy came back to the study and the frozen standstill on display through the big windows. There was noise, what they made of it, and no other sounds. “Mind you,” he thought, “this is a very quiet room, what with the thermolight windows and reinforced walls and the sheer weight of the place. Walls built to take the ages, I’d say.”

He was ready now. To chuck the whole false sense of responsibility to his family name. Azura looked at him with grave rapture. That was enough. He made up his mind. “Yes, yes, yes, by God! Yes. Let us by all means go to Cairo.”

Chang rose from the big, wing-back chair, and walked over to the bar and put his glass down. He was grinning a little bit, and had a mischievous look in his eyes. He looked at the empty glass and saw the fingerprints he’d left behind. Ignoring this fact, he turned and walked to the side of the two lovers, and they turned to him, and thus the age-old triangle of the priest and the man and the woman.

Chang said with great sincerity, “Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today to strike a blow for free-will. The magician seeks to introduce the removal of free-will by offering permanent solutions to problems. Crime, Adultery, all the commandments. Plus having fun. What human can resist such a solution? I tell you, he is a parasite. He manufactures his relationship with you and offers great power. You are in his box, that’s the problem. He had you fitted-up with Azura, and owned the only transport to her, and you have been played, and you know it. That’s where I come in, Sir Darcy. Magician shmahgician...he is one playing many and pretending to be many versions of the same approach. You, the Americans, the Russians, and a few others. He is a very busy little magician.”

Sir Darcy was fascinated. He was struck with one fact, this Chang seemed to be almost contemptuous of the magician’s general stock-in-trade. Sir Darcy thought that Chang was more powerful, smarter and of different stock than the magician.

He listened with great interest as Chang calmly told him, “I am glad you are seeing this. This magician came to your here, as I call it, and he was brought to this here by a purpose unknown even to him. Even I, Chang, was, ah, brought into this here. So you see, it is meaningless to debate the purpose as none of my contemporaries know what is going on, and I certainly don’t. Mr. Berkley seems to know something, but not very much. And that is saying something, in terms of perspective. You see, ah, this magician fellow, a third-rater, bit messy round the edges, and a hard-nosed nuisance. But, next to him, I’m about ten to the tenth powers greater and more wonderful. Then there is the case of Mr. Berkley. He is about the same distance in magnitude as I am from this whatever his name is, this so-called magician.”

Sir Darcy cleared his throat. Taking in the idea that this well-dressed big man was, what? Chang went on, a twinkle in his eye and voice, “You can’t underestimate God. He is truly great. I always bet on God to come out in the end. Anyway, all we are wrestling over is this place, this here, nothing more. After all, what is one planet? Do you know how many planets there are?”

Sir Darcy shook his head.

He didn’t.

Some meaningless number.

Chang said, “I do. For heavens sake...do you know how many versions of this reality there are? That are going on at this very moment? No. You don't. Not yet. Well then, a brief lecture: Streams of layers and what I call s;ices and s;lices, and other words you will learn...and remember from other associations of memory that you share with, ah, other similar forms of energy such as yourself.

“This here you live in, is a temporal hallucination created by you and other’s like you. What you call the past is perhaps better understood as the future. The future is constantly being changed by what is happening in the past. Some, ah, life-forms journey from what you think of as temporal future and purposely change the future by changing the past. They are a various bunch. Another bunch change the past by changing the future. The two methods, the bunches, do this with the very origin of this particular universe, and have created so many variations it is without counting...by any means.”

He stopped for a moment and waved his hand.

Then they were in Cairo.

Sir Darcy was now Robert Drake.

Azura remained Azura, and still dressed in Robert’s favourite neglige.

Chang had changed to a fashionable cut of the 1935 Savile Row and Jermyn Street version of the light-weight tropical suit. They were standing as before --- but now in Azura’s room in the brothel. Robert, er, Darcy, was overcome with emotion and sought the feel of Azura with his new hands. It WAS bloody well Cairo!

And here was this Mr. Chang, facing him, and bracing him with a good, long encouraging stare, stirring Darcy’s soul with vigour and by God! Freedom! Here was a man after his own heart. For Darcy realized he was himself set to run for no man, that this Chang was going to give him the keys to the kingdom.

Chang nodded and said, “Good, you see. That is good. Azura, you have chosen well, I think. I approve even more, now. Robert, er, Sir Darcy, you are among friends, at last. You are safe here. I have left a version of you to act out what needs to be done. A most convincing version, I rather think!” He laughed, and he seemed relieved.

Chang cried out, “Let’s have a drink to celebrate!”

***

After many hours of carousing with Chang, Robert Drake came away quite sober and much wiser. He had learned many things and facts from Chang. Over a few bottles, with Azura quietly nuzzling him. Torn between his desire to make love with Azura, privately, without Chang around, and yet, from the first drink of celebration, Chang mentioned a few things that riveted Robert’s attention.

Chang had started with, “All these variations I mentioned back in the here we came to this here from, well, a perfect example. See, there are so many potential variations, and they exist, you see, and sometimes they get a bit muddled in with each other and there are, ah, mix-ups, and what I call bumps. It is very complicated. So I keep it all very simple. Reason I am Chang, after all, and not some meddling magician. There are so many rather annoying creatures running round causing all kinds of mischief, and for no good reason. Kicks, thrills, chills and spills. That’s what they are after. Pure sensationalists. Not a problem for me, of course. But for you humans, well, what are you going to do? I mean, after all, you’re humans! Or so you’ve been led to believe.”

Little remarks like that kept Robert Drake (a.k.a. Sir Darcy) listening to Chang instead of asking him to leave the room. He watched with admiration and then awe as Chang downed several bottles of strong booze over the course of this little celebration. What with the grins of self-satisfied pleasure coming from Chang, for he seemed quite at his ease, and the encouraging tone of his words, and what his words actually meant, well, Robert Drake was absorbed.

He thought Chang had talked for hours, but in fact it was only a few minutes. Or so it seemed. Then Chang was excusing himself and leaving with a self-satisfied, slightly smuggy expression of a personal victory.

“Goodbye for now. I am off to an assignation. I dare say you two need to be alone...for awhile.”

He took Azura’s hand in his and bent to kiss the back of this beautiful hand. His lips smooched her flesh, lightly, delicately, and even though she was utterly Robert Drake’s, forever, she felt the truth of the situation: Here was the personification of the God of Love. This man kissing her hand made Cupid blush. His eyes sought hers as he came up from this kiss of her flesh, and she saw the same things that you would see but personalized, as it would be for you, too, if you were to look into the eyes of Chang.

“Ever humble,” he thought to himself, “that is what I am.”

And he was. Held back from the full release of Chang. She was another man’s true-love. Let her be, then. But for a moment, let her see a glimpse of Chang the Magnificent. As he looked away from her to give Robert’s hand a firm grip of friendship and respect, and really rather best wishes, actually. Chang liked a happy ending, or as he put to himself, “Rather like a happy beginning....”

***

DESMOND BRADLEY SEES IT THROUGH

Desmond Bradley was a trained security officer with many years experience. Before meeting Chang the Magnificent, Des had considered himself to be a realist, and not given to fanciful daydreams about silly new age guru types with their preposterous tales of the great masters being able to be in two places at once, and all that other rubbish about 'supernormal powers.'

Des had attended some public lectures given by the TM crowd about something called the siddhis. He'd listened politely enough to the ever deepening cockdoodle about brain wave synchrony, theta waves, and how when a specific critical number of something called 'siddhas' got together and performed the so-called 'flying sutra', all of them supposedly levitating at the same time...that this was responsible for changing social behaviour in surrounding populations.

The TM crowd claimed that this was a scientific fact. And how this utter bullshit was all due to something they called the 'Maharishi Effect'.

And that this would usher in a new age, an age of enlightenment!

So Des was dubious about the entire glumping groovy guru deal. He'd been assigned to spy on the TM movement in 1992. This was when the TM movement started up their Natural Law Party.

His boss at the time had told Des to 'fit in' and to pretend to be interested. He'd told Des, “Look here, I want you to make recordings, mind, and keep it all so they don't know what you're up to. You'll be taking down names and writing reports. They'll be some others in the crowd who will be doing 'summut the same sort of thing. But you don't need to be knowing who they be. Better if you don't know who it is, that way there's no chance these kooks are going to catch on.”

Des did his job.

And the kooks began to notice him. Well, of course they would. He was at so many of the meetings they put on. And it was a busy time for the kooks. In 1992, the Natural Law Party ran candidates in 310 seats in the UK general election.

Poor old Des ended up going to the centre of the conspiracy at a place called Mentmore Towers. It was a once fabulous mansion near the sleepy village of Mentmore in Buckinghamshire. When he arrived to attend a fundraiser for the Natural Law Party, the place was obviously no longer at the height of its former glory.

What a God awful bore the entire job had been for Des. But...ah, the little bits that fell off the plate of yawn --- made up a tiny bit for the interminable niceness of these silly kooks.

He'd been delighted to find out how close Mentmore Towers was to the famed Bridego Bridge. In 1963,this was the place where 16 criminals had held up the Royal Mail train and got away with 2.6 million pounds. To do the deed, the train was stopped by making the lineside signals near the bridge turn to from green to red.

Des made sure to go and do a bit of sight seeing. At the time, he was still married, with children, so he went to Bridego Bridge and took some pics with his spy camera, all with the intention of being able to show-off a tiny bit to his rather frosty wife. She'd always been quite keen on the famous heist of 1963.

The pics were quite a disappointment. The railway bridge was just another rather small affair with a narrow road running underneath it. His wife's comment?

In her annoyingly affected posh accent, she told Des, “Rather not much to it, is there? Considering all the fuss that's been made over the years. Really, what are you doing on this assignment, Des? I rather think you're getting something on the side.”

Des was absolutely sure that while he was away, his good wife was happily rogering the milkman every chance she could get. It wasn't like Des was rogering her. He couldn't remember the last time his wife had deigned to permit him access.

***

Des worked for MI5.

Also known as simply 'Box'.

So Des was bound by the strictures of the Official Secrets Act. This meant that (technically) he couldn't tell his wife anything about any of the assignments he worked on.

It was often not easy to resist her increasingly obnoxious interrogations about what he was up to. She would usually stick in something like this: “For God's sake, Des! It's not like you're James ____ing Bond! Not that I'd ever be that lucky! And I'm your wife, Des! How do I know what you're up to?!”

Des was happiest away from home.

When his boss told him that he was going to infiltrate the British TM movement, and become a siddha...Des was philosophical about it. At one of the recent TM lectures he'd suffered through, he heard a rather pithy bromide that the Maharishi had once said: “See the job, do the job; stay out of the misery.”

Des had chewed on that for the next few months of his life. So now he was a TM'er. And after the minimum time requirement of doing TM, he'd applied for the TM-Sidhi Programme.

This brought Des face-to-face with the ultimate levels of boredom he'd ever endured in his professional existence. He had to sit and fake meditating in the various group settings that allowed him to pass as a genuine TM'er.

And then he had to take the courses and listen to the lectures. The worst part was having to sit and watch the video tapes of the Maharishi going on and on about heaven on earth...and the age of enlightenment.

But Des was a skilled operative and knew how to blend in. He took his cues from the other really earnest TM'ers. And he adopted a blandness that was as bland as over boiled cabbage.

Des posed as just another boring civil servant who worked for some acutely boring Department of Intrinsically Infinite Boredom in the Ministry of Mind Numbing Boringness. When asked, Des said, “Oh, what I do? I am a paper pusher. I work for the government. Think of doing the same thing for the rest of your life. Something that when you think of doing it, you begin to immediately fall asleep. The most exciting part of my job is when one of my coworkers keels over from boredom.”

The worst moment came when he had to pretend to do the TM-Sidhi flying sutra. This had been sold to him by the TM'ers as being something super special. He was now a Sidha! Well, actually what they called a Citizen Sidha of the Age of Englightenment.

He came to learn that this was all part of him evolving into something they called Unity Consciousness (UC). And that UC was a hop-skip and a jump to the final perfection of Brahman Consciousness (BC).

WTF?

The TM'ers seemed to explode in ecstasy when they gave a definition of what BC was: “It is the totality of life. You will arrive at full enlightenment: 'I am totality.'”

Des didn't have a clue what they meant, except for the endless droning on of video lectures given by the Maharishi. The concept of UC (unity consciousness) gave Des a pain when he used common sense to take apart the words of the Maharishi: “In this supreme state of human experience, one perceives everything in terms of oneness the Self. In Cosmic Consciousness one lives in harmony with Natural Law, gaining support of Nature’s cosmic creativity. In Unity Consciousness, one experiences everything as a mode of functioning of one’s own intelligence and gains command over all the Laws of Nature. Now is the time to inquire about the Absolute Truth.”

Des just couldn't grasp the essential inner essence of it all. And so he pretended to 'get it', all the while inwardly rolling his eyes at what he perceived as the supreme pretension of the Infinite Field of Wanker-is-mish-ness being pandered by the Bearded One.

That's what Des began to call the Maharishi: The Bearded One. Des had worked several cases of devious types conning people with big sounding ideas. The worst of the lot were the ones who used good-natured people and mind-____ed them with made up stuff that had something too good to be true waiting for 'em inside the sucker's tent.

The Bearded One had an entire team of highly earnest educated boffin types who helped sell the con. The best part of the scam (as Des saw it to be) was that the boffins all believed it to be true.

There was a natural inclination, a predisposition, to take The Bearded One's words as pearls dispensed from an Enlightened Being: The Ultimate Guru.

Infallible.

Unsullied by worldly desires.

And here on earth to bring all of us The Answer.

When his assignment was finished, Des carefully wrote his final report, with the conclusion: “...and though I have found no exact conspiracy to undermine our government by way of any sedition or treason, it is clear that there are some elements of 'the movement' that regard their place in society as being more important than any other aspect of society.

“It is my opinion that it is possible that some members of this movement could be radicalized, trained and prepared to enact terrorism. Certainly there are some members of 'the movement' who are willing to commit crimes in aid of 'the movement'.

“However, it is my conclusion that 'the movement' does not pose a serious threat at this time, and is not actively engaged in any sedition or treason. There is no doubt that there is active manipulation of the general membership of 'the movement' and reason for concern that it is, in essence, a religion based in Hindu and quasi Hindu practices.”

Des encountered the idea of how a man could become able to command the laws of nature and thus literally perform miracles. He took all that silly nonsense in his stride, and put a notch in his belt, when all was said and done, he'd stayed free and clear of becoming even remotely sympathetic to 'the movement.'

***

Okay, fast forward to a few minutes after meeting Chang the Magnificent.

This time it was really too much for good old Des.

What seemed like days and hours and minutes and seconds, all lost in the standstill. He could see the frozen wonders of London, forever if he wanted, or so it seemed. Mystical stillness gripping what seemed to be solid. When he touched this world with his hands, it was of not temperature, and thick and unmovable. Yet he felt like he was pressing against a transparent surface keeping him from some other...something. That was the best he could come up with, when he thought about it.

Driving through London while the world was at a standstill. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. All caught in mid-stride or a long snore. He drove by city streets, jammed with people and traffic, and all the bustle and action, frozen in this weird dense aspic. Oh, they were all real. He could see that.

Now I don’t think Desmond was a pervert by nature, so what he did wasn’t perverted. You may not agree. We will see. He did park his car, quite often, when he saw a particularly pretty girl, and he went and did things to them, and to himself, too. It was a fine day, but, of course he felt neither cold nor warm from the surrounding air. Even when he drove his car with the windows down, there was no breeze. He had the top down in no time, and eventually, he had all his clothes off. Daring the odds that suddenly it would all stop standing still, and come roaring back to life.

Thing of it was, Desmond Bradley felt secure. After all, Chang had told him he would call him on the cell-phone, and he had that beside him, and his clothes were easy enough to put on, at least the important bits. Worst could happen is he gets charged with indecent assault and looses his job and does time in Strangeways Prison.

Coming up with the odds, Desmond bet with Chang, and became lost to reality and embraced the world of this standstill.

Yes, it was liberating for him, and also he came to feel alone in this world of people and creatures and objects and atmosphere, not moving, at all. Somehow he could move in this motionless aspic. The truth be told, I think Desmond Bradley went a bit koo-koo. Finer men have been laid low by the tempting subjugation of the helpless victim. It is a tantalizing power to enact, and he was, after all, a trained seal with all the pent-up bentness of being an agent of Mother Authority.

Desmond went a bit too far, that’s all.

He was touching a tallish, long-legged, high-breasted, tossled haired, slant-eyed and dark-skinned beauty of a young lady. He spotted her on Oxford Street near Piccadilly Circus. He was driving around the cars and buses and avoiding any scrapes or dings, and there she was, caught in mid-stride, and every exciting thing about life written all over her happy face. She looked like she had the world in her hand-bag, strung across one shoulder, and the strap pushing against her breast, and all of it in a line that was most pleasing to Desmond’s eyes.

He stopped the car and got out and went over to her, and as mentioned, began to do his very funky thing. There he was, stark naked except for his shoes. He wasn’t even wearing any socks. The practical footwear of a secret-service agent on security detail. Desmond was engrossed in his deviation when he heard the cell-phone bleeping.

It was in the car.

He had to stop and rush over to the car and get the cell-phone to his ear and answer, “Desmond Bradley, here.”

The voice of Mr. Chang said, “Hello, Des. Having some fun?”

“Yes, actually, I was.”

Chang’s voice was cheery and hearty, “Good for you, Des. I knew you had it in you. I had rather hoped you would have fun. And now it is time to come back, quick as you can, and we’ll kick-start the show. So, come back, Des, right?”

Desmond Bradley answered, “Yes, I am on my way,” and he was, driving the car and zipping round objects and people while starting to dress, and still talking on the cell-phone. Chang chuckled, “Well, hurry back, you scamp.”

The tone of this last remark made Desmond wonder if Chang could see him. “Well of course he could, you fool,” he thought to himself. Sees all, knows all, does Mr. Chang.

He went back to the special square, and the elite townhouse, and then parked the car. He finished dressing and got out and stuffed shirt ends into pants and straightened his tie and went to the front door and opened it with his key and walked through the vestibule and into the front hall, and there, along the hall to the dining room, in the doorway of the parlor was Sir Darcy, gesturing for him to come forward, and telling him, “Bradley, come here will you?”

***

Bradley did as he was told. At the open door to the parlor, Sir Darcy waited, and then gripped him by the arm and said, “Alright, come in here, we have to talk. Sit down. Right. Now listen to me. Mr. Chang has left already. I know what he told you. Well, we have a secret to share, Bradley. When the, ah, standstill is over, you will still remember what happened. Only you and I and Mr. Chang will ever know. Do you have any questions?”

Desmond was still infatuated with that last young lady. He had inspected her. Damn the cell-phone! Oh, well, he might be able to find her again. At least he knew her name. Amanda Percel, very tasty. He was forcing himself to avoid having to think clearly about what the Head of British Secret Intelligence was now telling him. Thinking about pretty young girls...was so much better.

Sir Darcy was saying, “...You are on a need-to-know basis, Bradley. All I can say is that you have witnessed something that falls under a very special act of secrecy. A special powers act, actually. A great battle is being prepared. You have seen some of the potential power. When we go back to normal you will be, ah, well, perhaps you’ll snap, Bradley. Who knows? Well, we must keep a sense of humour. I think the less you know, the better for everyone, including you. You aren’t married are you? No steady girlfriend? Shop the meat-markets, do we Bradley? A bit of this and that? I understand. A little kink here, a little kinky there, eh? Well, I don’t care what you do so long as you don’t get caught, Bradley. And what you did today was a damned bit of foolishness that could have put the entire service on the walk of shame. I’d be red-faced if I was your chief. Thank God he is frozen-up and won’t ever know. What would your Mother think, Bradley?”
Desmond stiffened and dreaded all this exposure of his odd lapse into sex with statues. He said, “Yes, I know, it was completely off-the-wall, I have no excuse, Sir, I know...I’ll resign if you want, Sir.”

Actually, he didn’t feel bad about what he’d done. Desmond knew the shame of being caught out, but not remorse, oh no. Still some shock about what he’d done, and how flagrant he’d been. He blushed when he thought that perhaps even Sir Darcy had seen what he’d done. He looked at Sir Darcy as best he could, though it was hard to meet the man’s eyes, he did.

Sir Darcy told him, “No, I don’t want your damn resignation. I want you to behave properly. Be discrete, Bradley. One more toss-up and you will wish you’d resign. Keep this firmly in mind. You are being watched. An eye is being kept on you, Bradley. You’ve marked your record-book. So keep that in mind. Yes, and you’ll jolly well never mention this incident, even in your sleep. Life is a fragile and a tender and all too brief affair. We are all expendable, Bradley. Even you. Perhaps even especially you.”

Sir Darcy stopped and inspected Bradley’s reaction. There were bright red spots burning at the man’s cheekbones, and his eyes were tight and his mouth was pressed tight and his throat seemed ready to strangle somebody. Good, let him burst a vessel. This lad better have some spunk or he’d never make it. Did he want to say something?

Too bad, thought Sir Darcy.

He said sternly and felt it, too, “Listen here you young fool, do you think this is some prank? Some bank holiday? A special festival for you to run around starkers, oh for God’s sake, I can see I am wasting my time. Bradley, you won’t ever not be watched, for the rest of your life, however long that is. If you slip up over this incident, or if you become an embarrassment --- poof! --- you’ll be made to go away, as if you never existed. You won’t even know you were ever who you are. You won’t exist anymore. If you stray, it will be as if you never were, ever. Even your soul will be made to not exist anymore, and not even God will know that it has been done. That is the situation.”

Sir Darcy let this sink in.

Bradley was sitting in a over-stuffed chair and looking somewhat dazed. After a suitable pause, Sir Darcy softened his tone and said, “So much for the stick. Now, how about the carrot? If you are a good boy and stay out of any serious trouble, you get to live...”

Sir Darcy stopped talking. He took in the continuing deteriorating expression on Bradley’s face.

Desmond looked at Sir Darcy who raised his eyebrows and waited. Desmond said in a moaning voice, “Ah, Sir, I swear, it won’t happen again! I don’t know what got into me, and that’s a fact. I want to be honest with you, Sir.”

Sir Darcy looked down his nose at Bradley and waited. Desmond turned his head to look at Sir Darcy. He cleared his throat and said, “I figured no one would ever know. That it didn’t matter. All those people, like statues, oh it got to me. I went mad. I really didn’t know whether I was in a dream, most of the time, then it would hit me. And I'd say, 'This is real, Des.' I thought I had gone insane when I started thinking that it was real. Have you gone out there, Sir? Oh, it’s no excuse, no excuse for what I did....”

Sir Darcy said in a cold voice, “I am not impressed with any of this, Bradley. At the very least you must remain silent about this incident. There is no allowance for stress on this job. Can you be trusted? Not to crack? You can’t go and get help for this, can you? Best thing is for you to stay on the job, Bradley. Stick to a routine. I’ve checked the shift rotation and you come off this evening, four days off...so you’ll have some time to pull yourself together. Come to terms with it. What? Do you think it is easy? Is it ever EASY, Bradley? Tell me, do you care anything about your Country?”

Desmond didn’t like the heavy-handed manner, never had. Bred to the breast of Authority, he knew the way he was supposed to act when this question was asked by the likes of Sir Darcy. He told the truth, anyway. “Yes, I do care. I was born here. This is my Country. Yeah, and I do care about my Country!”

A bit petulant, and the Tommy-Boy look from the Red-Brick Opportunities program of access to Oxford. That’s how this one got in. A dubious practice? Hard to judge. Some good proles added challenge and fresh blood to the polished class of the Secret Service. Bradley might yet prove to be worth keeping alive. He would be very useful as bait. Yes, he would do very well as a diversionary red-herring.

Desmond asserted, proudly, “I love this Land.”

“I am sure that I love MY Country,” said Sir Darcy with great conviction. It filled the parlor and left Desmond bereft and broken in his own pride of being a native, white, pure Briton. Sir Darcy leveled the vast distance between them and stared from the heights of the castle rampart, down at Bradley. If he had a forelock, Desmond would have been pulling it for the Lord of the Manor.

Desmond kept his mouth shut. He felt so out of sorts, near tears, and angry at the way he was being talked to. This grave, grave, grave tone, with the extreme edges of heaviness bordered on his tolerance levels. To put it simply, his fight-or-flight-or freeze response was working but he could neither flee, not yet. Nor start fighting. How would he fight a man like Sir Darcy?

Des thought quietly, “Maybe I can become frozen, like everyone else.”

***

THE FACTS OF LIFE

Having made this distinction about loving one's country, Sir Darcy told Desmond, “This standstill is going to be over very soon. When it happens, I want you to be where you were when the caller first came to the door. I will be in my study. When we go back to normal, it will happen instantaneously. Don’t underestimate the shock of that, or the way you will feel. You mentioned going insane. Be glad you know as little as you do, Bradley. From what I’ve seen of you, if you had to deal with the real facts of life, you’d snap into little pieces. Oh, don’t look like that. You can prove me wrong by not doing it again. That’s up to you, Bradley, not me. You have an opportunity here to do something heroic by keeping your mouth firmly shut about any of this irregularity. By the way, the carrot I mentioned? Yes, it is you continue to exist, keep your job, stay out of prison, and draw pay and build a nice pension. Just like me, Bradley.”

Sir Darcy sat down and crossed his legs and sighed expressively and pinned Desmond with a cruel look of surveying the expendable man. “You will be watched all the time. Oh, not by us, Bradley. By them. Like that Chang fellow. So act as you would normally act. If you are loyal, I will protect you. If not, I’ll throw you to the wolves and there won’t be a trace of you left on this merry old Earth. I can see you understand I am serious. Make yourself useful and you will be rewarded. To do that, keep silent and act normally. If you pull that off, for long enough, without a fuss, you will receive boons and benefits and hard cash. Keep that in mind IF temptation is offered to you...that, and staying alive.”

Desmond could feel the walls closing in on the rest of his life and he didn’t like it. Sir Darcy noted this and breezed over the feelings, casually, “Oh, for God’s sake, we don’t have time to be nice, do we? Bradley, you have about fifty-five seconds to get in that control room of yours. The start-up, yes, come on, right, you see this through, Bradley. Be normal.”
The two men had hurried from the parlor, down the hall to the front hall, and then along the other hall to the door of the surveillance room. Desmond went in to the room. His fellow security agent, Jim, was still sitting in front of the control panel. The happy, vacant face staring out at...what? Desmond wondered.

Sir Darcy snorted and said, “Think what you want, but keep your mouth shut. Right. Good luck, Bradley.”

Desmond answered, “Thanks, Sir,” but Sir Darcy was already on the move and out the door, heading for the stairs, and gone. A few more seconds passed and then the world started to move.

Desmond came back in as he heard Jim say, “Check out the bloke with the dog. You see the way he’s dressed? Now that’s what I call class. Sure, he spent lot’sa money, you can see that right away, but that’s not my point. It is the cut, the quality of the cut, Des. That’s what tells style from just spending a lot money and looking like every other bowler on a bowler.”

There was Chang and the dog, on the video screens, walking by the front of the town house, along the sidewalk, every inch of him to be seen by the whole world. Desmond came up with a drawling sound of appraisal and pretended to yawn. He said, “Sorry, Jimmy, what can I say? The guy has a nice suit? What about that dog? You know how much a dog like that must eat? And how much dog poop that means?”

Jim snorted in disgust and said, “You have no heart, Des, and that’s a fact. Dog will love you. That’s why you bother. For the love, Des. You can tell dog all your troubles and who is the dog going to tell? Dog will love you when no one else will ever love you. Your secret’s are safe with your dog. Did you ever wonder why Churchill had a dog?”

“Yes,” thought Des, “Everything is back to normal.”

***

THE NEW SIR DARCY

(It sounds more like psychic enslavement to me.)

Sir Darcy stood in the middle of his study. He was looking out the windows. The world was moving again. Lights were flickering, and he could hear remote sounds. The contrast between the standstill and the normal world had given Sir Darcy a big, happy smile.

Of course, this wasn’t actually Sir Darcy, at all. Chang had conjured up a sort-of new Sir Darcy. He had created a perfect version of Sir Darcy, every inch of him an Englishman, right down to the daunting sweep of brow and tonsured glory, all the way to his shivering relations of 100 generations past, oh yeah, all the way to the first few who bred on this cold, damp island.

Chang had nailed Sir Darcy perfectly. You’d be hard pressed to say whether it was Chang being Sir Darcy, or a creation of Chang’s --- pop! --- out of thin air, another Sir Darcy inside the body that was left behind by the real Sir Darcy. For it wasn’t his Uncle inside Sir Darcy’s body.

Not this time.

The dog was gone.

Chang was gone.

This Sir Darcy remained behind...or forward. Perhaps sideways?

“Any port in a storm,” thought Sir Darcy. He liked the way the lights twinkled in the moving mass of trees. The summer night was finally full and dark. Sir Darcy loved the night. So quiet and serene and hushed. Oh, sometimes he would hear noises of drunken louts out back, behind the fences and the wall, out in the park, always muffled by the Armolite windows. Price one had to pay to live securely in these precarious times. Wouldn’t do to take a chance with a sniper or a round from a grenade launcher.

The IRA were not that distant a memory.

On his study desk lay the work of the ages. A big giant chain of lies and deceptions set out in a flow chart of precise clarity. This almost completed work should have burned a hole right through the top of the priceless wood, and burn through the exquisite Persian rug, through to the oak floor and beyond, right to the centre of the Earth and there to stay until the Earth was no more.

Sir Darcy sighed out loud for the benefit of the inevitable invisible observers. Then he turned to his desk like a prisoner facing the gallows. “Oh,” he said out loud, “I am the last man on Earth to know what to do...we must stop the Americans. But how? Announce to the world, ‘Britain Has the Magic-Bomb?’ ‘Blair Tells World: We Have the M-Bomb?’ with a suitable demonstration...or should we strike them now. One man with the wings and the bracelet could remove all the major American players. Fly in at top speed...and....”

Sir Darcy laughed at this idea, and he went over to his bar and mixed himself a drink in the glass Chang had used. That made him laugh more. Done laughing he sighed and took a sip and said to himself, “Man would arrive like that...no warning...and then he could kill anyone he wanted...man can fly away, ha, top-speed, wouldn’t even see him leave. Untrackable, and untraceable. Could be done. Now if we had two men, fully equipped...”

He considered the idea of a fully equipped air and land force being deployed in waves, attacking the United States. British men could fly up and take out any American missiles or bombs, jets or helicopter. Simply by flying at top speed they would obliterate any object they touched. Simply by flying at a much lesser speed, say 500,000 miles each hour, obliteration was guaranteed. A fully equipped man wouldn’t feel a thing as he hit a B-52 bomber. Keep right on going, not a hair out of place, and right on target for the next Yankee victim.

Rule Britannia!

On his desk lay the plans for implementing training for an entire division of fighting men, all to be kitted out with the bracelet, wings and the new addition, the ring of obedience and allegiance.

The General had put a considerable body of work together, and it lay on the desk.

Sir Darcy thought of Ben Prophet and wished he could be sure about anything, anymore.

To his very thoughts, this Sir Darcy was a perfect copy of the now dearly departed Sir Darcy AKA Robert Drake. And so he thought of Azura and with longing and about being able to chuck his life in this place and go somewhere else. Out of all this, there must be a way to escape. He didn’t like the world that was going to be.

The phone bleeped and Sir Darcy frowned at it. His private, secured line. He went to it and answered, “Yes?”

***

Chapter 20

ONLY THE DEAD HAVE SEEN THE END OF WAR

The General’s braying voice called out, “I say, old boy, don’t you know it is damn late to be calling me? Ha! Yes, I know...I called you, Darcy. This is important, Darcy. The Americans have it, too. That’s a fact. I’ve been to see our man, and he knows all about it. Told me everything. Said not to worry and gave me something that will really fix ‘em. Ha! And it will. I want to see you. Once you hear what I have to tell you, I can’t say more now, and we have to decide...I am going to get the PM and the other two, I suppose, though what use they are, I don’t know...going to be at the planning room, Darcy, so if you get a move on...”

Sir Darcy sighed. He was tired. A long day. The General laughed harshly and said without any sympathy, “This is past important, old boy, strictly life or death...It’s only gone twelve o’clock, see you in fifteen minutes.”

Click and the buzz of the dial tone.

Sir Darcy looked at his desk and the papers. He gathered up the precious documents and put them all in his bag. He used the intercom on his desk to call his security team.

“Yes Sir?’

“On the move, get my car at the door, you’ve got two-minutes. Going to Lopsiders.”

“Yes Sir!”

***

On the way out, Sir Darcy bumped into his wife coming home. She was taking off her shoes with a satisfied grunt and cheerfully calling out to him, “Darcy, it was dreadful...Pasconi was hoarse and Felix got pissed at the bar BEFORE the start and to make a long story short, I decided to ditch the lot of ‘em and come home...are you off?”

He greeted her with a detached kiss and a polite, “You’re home early. And I am on my way...a little fuss has arisen and I have to go make the free-world safe from the madmen.”

She looked at him with a faint concern and something of the habit of being married to him and his penchant for secrets and power, she knew his tone well enough by now, and this version of the man was pitch-perfect, after all.

She was an attractive, full-figured woman, though decidedly middle-aged, she was fit, and generous of proportions and carried it well. “Still a damn fine looking woman,” he thought.

Within the confines of his role he reached out to her and touched her and moved close and pulled her to him and kissed her rather startled lips and then softly, softly, he kissed her and she realized this meeting he was off to WAS important, somehow. The two kissed, and then he pulled away, and went to the door and the car was waiting at the curb, and it was goodbye, goodbye. She called-out cheerfully, “Good luck with your madmen!”

The door to the house closed and locked, and the security team inside began to do a routine check. Sir Darcy got into the car and was driven off to his meeting. London was no longer at a standstill. Movement and noise, back again, the midnight City, with people, people everywhere, and then a quiet street, deserted. Another street, and more humans. He looked at the people and the quiet streets and more people, and he thought about what was in his bag.

The meeting loomed in his mind.

“I am going insane,” he thought. “I want no more to do with this. What’s the General have for this show and tell?” The car came to a stop at an intersection and he watched several people cross the street. Ordinary people, ignorant of who he was and what he knew. Some of them bound to be British citizens and unaware of the situation. Not for the first time he wondered what the average person would think of bracelets of invincibility and wooden wings.

The light changed and the car started moving. A few more streets and then some quick turns and doubling back and then another quick turn and through the open gate, and into the courtyard, pulling up alongside the back entrance to one of many big, anonymous buildings, made of stone and built like a layer cake, with the deep casements for each window, and the blank face of propriety and every street door firmly locked and monitored.

The rear door to the building was open, and a security officer waited. Sir Darcy got out of the car, shut the door, and the car drove away. He walked over to the open door and ignored the security officer’s nod of deference.

“Everyone here?”

“No Sir. One more still on the list...the PM. He’s on his way.”

Sir Darcy went in the building and by way of several halls and elevators and security posts came to the conference room. Guaranteed bug free. The General was in the room, prowling, and glad to see Darcy.

“Ah, here you are. I don’t want to drag all this out but until the PM comes, I don’t want to say anything. All in the same boat.” He leaned close to Darcy and said quietly, “Those two, they were here already. Have to talk with you privately, old boy. Bit of a problem with those two, but as I was saying, do you want a drink, anything at all? No? Well, the PM will be here any moment, yes, here he is now...”

Tony Blair walked into the room. The usual entourage was left behind, this was true of each man in the room. In the early morning hours they sat in the same room that Winston had used. The old war room. Now that the PM had come, the General got down to business. Just as Mr. Blair began to say, “Now what is it, General?” the General strode to the front of the room and answered, “Thank you, Prime Minister. No beating about the bush...the Yanks have a man called Joe Future. He is a rival of our own man. Perhaps as skilled, but our man says not. Now, I am going to give this in bite-size pieces.”

He didn’t pause and kept right on. After all, he had complete command of their attention. “They have a device they are testing that will make every person within an eleven mile radius behave according to the ten commandments.” He paused and wrinkled his nose in distaste and said, “And a so-called eleventh commandment, ‘thou shalt have fun’, no, I am perfectly serious. As ludicrous as it sounds, this is what the Americans are already testing...on their own people. In Los Angeles, California, if you can imagine. Ha! Swimming pools, movie stars...”

He let that settle and gave each of the four men a hard stare, as if measuring them for what was coming next. He smiled and said, “They are planning a public relations campaign to sell this to the American people. Solve all the social problems. They have an ambitious program of social reforms. They are the President, the Director of the CIA, and the really bad ‘un, Bertle McPhee. Ran into him out East, back in that Yank mess. Chap was cutting his teeth on the Vietcong. Vicious bastard and very clever. They are all in on it. Papa Bush knows some of it, and so does Junior’s wife. But not very much. I’d say the Americans have their hands full. Same problems we’re having. Helps to know that.”

The General patted his leg and said in a different tone of voice, “They have another device, set it up round an object, instantaneous transport to any location of almost any sized object. Can this device be used to transport people? Yes. They are testing this, even as we are speaking.

“Now brace yourselves...the Americans are preparing to mobilize a force of men armed with these Eleven Commandment devices, and distribute them where they want to and turn the devices on and instant behaviour change. They are planning to deploy these devices as a strategic weapon. Oh, but there is more. They have a device that will allow the owner to go anywhere in America, instantaneously. Comes in convenient denominations of ten, twenty, forty and eighty return trips. They are planning to sell these things! They are going to make money off it.”

The General paused to drink some fizzy-pop. He cleared his throat and glared at the four men and barked, “I can tell you that our man doesn’t see it the American way, at all. Fellow is a sensible Brit. Can’t have the Americans doing this. Exporting the Eleven Commandments, my God! It will be like Disney Land, everywhere. Intolerable.”
He lagged enough for Blair to bounce in and proclaim, “I can’t say I am shocked, somehow, it is almost to be expected. I wonder if they all got letters. In the air. Now, we must get our facts straight about this.”

The General said smoothly, “Oh, facts we have a plenty. It’s what we do with ‘em, Prime Minister. And I have saved the best fact for the last. They have behaviour control AND another device that they are considering using.” He paused ever so dramatically. Then, “...A device that makes objects appear, instantaneously. It comes with a catalog and in convenient denominations of numbers of types of objects: Cars, televisions, cutlery, tennis rackets, salt, yes, over seventy-nine thousand items, and over three hundred and eighty five thousand types of those items. They even have a whole item for sex, and of course, guns.”

There was some deep silence in the room.

***

WHAT TO DO WITH THE DRUNKEN SAILOR

Sir Darcy listened to the the General describe the American version of magic. How nice to use words like ‘devices’. How sensible and civilized. How British the General was. Everything good and bad about the race bristled and glowered in his body and facial expression. He needed a monocle to complete his portrait. He actually had a swagger stick with him. It was lying in front of him, on top of the conference table. It struck Sir Darcy that this man was quite mad AND could read the mind of every man in the room.

“So,” thought Sir Darcy, “He has been taking private instruction. A little tutoring. Hmmmm...what to do? What to do? What trinkets does he wear? What does he have in his pockets? A necklace of wooden beads round his neck?” He went into spy-mode and sifted all the variables. After all, he was a perfect version of the original Sir Darcy, and he had a role to play. The best con truly believes and so takes in everyone else.

The General gave him a sharp look. Their eyes locked, and the General was talking directly at him, having shifted from barking to braying. The little pause of silence was broken.

“I say, old boy, do you think the Americans are going to come and ask our permission? They have chips of wood, like dog tags, the soldiers will wear ‘em and go into battle...like the bloody Boxer Rebellion, for God’s sake. Only difference? Their talismans will actually work. Bunch of invincible Yanks storming round the world.”

The PM broke in, his voice like a nervous rabbit facing the stewing pot, “But General how do we know that the Americans would export any of these, ah, devices, to Britain? What facts do we have?”

To this, the General leveled his martial gaze of hard pity at Mr. Blair. He told the PM, “You cannot know, of course, Sir. If you will permit me, I will explain. Yes? They are already planning to do this and much more. They are going to take over the entire world. That is in fact their plan. I have here copies of the original documents...copied from the desk of the President, the Director of the CIA, and Mr. McPhee...” (NOTE: BERTLE KNEW THEY WE’RE BEING SPIED ON BY THE GENERAL AND SO SET UP A STING OPERATION AND PUSHED MISLEADING INFORMATION THROUGH THE GENERAL’S BLUNDERING OR?)

He began to hand out the copies from a bag. Thick, bound by Surlox, and three volumes for each of the four men. They began to examine the contents, and the sound of reading, and a few grunts and shiftings, and the General going on, leading them all by being in the know. Knowledge WAS power, in this case, at least. He proved that by saying, “Hundreds of pages, and I’d say only the tip of the iceberg. No, how can we five do everything that is needed to make any decisions? Well, they have a plan, and they are implementing! They have began trial training of select, elite personnel. Yes, they have the jump on us. Not large numbers, not to begin with.” He barked out laughter and his face looked like it was going to crack into a million pieces. Then, “We are involved in another weapons race. When you have finished reading, and talking, and wasting precious time, you’ll see I am right.

“A weapons race like no other. These devices change the nature of warfare and power. With all of this going on, what nation can be safe? And if this fell into the hands of a madman, well, we have all thought of these things. The Americans are not waiting for us to approve or even know. The President and his family are planning to create a family dynasty of Presidents. A permanent Bush Administration. Yes, it sounds incredible but it is true. I say you will see I am right. We are in a new arms race, entirely unthought of, and we are lost as a nation IF we permit these baboons to run the world. For that is what they will do, IF we don’t stop ‘em, and stop ‘em now.”

The General stopped talking.

There was a bit of hubbub.

The hubbub was small and didn’t last long. The General waited out the comments and assertions of ego and point-of-view. He said nothing and stared at each man like they were an open book to his eyes. Was nothing sacred? No. He said as much. “IF we are bold and go to the centre of their power, and remove that power, neutralize that power, their devices will malfunction. While we remain fully operational. After that, we impose our own version on the damn Yanks and see how they like that for a change!”

The four men were suitably astonished. Sir Darcy was pleased, actually, and though he disliked the General to the very core, he admired the idea of taking away the American’s new toys.

But could it be done?

And by us?

He remained silent while the other three men said words and made important statements to each other. The General remained silent during this outburst. His eyes sought Sir Darcy’s. In a glance, Darcy clearly received the telepathic message, “So you know I can read your mind, eh? Good. Saves mucking ‘bout. These other three are a bunch of bloody fools. Listen to ‘em go on. You’re the only one who really sees the sense in what I am saying. Hate your bloody guts and you mine but there we are, old boy. Strange sort of Allies, eh? Well, Rule Britannia, that’s what I say. Plenty of room in the world for us, after we straighten out the kinks.”

Say what you will, the General was a direct man. A junta, headed up by him and Sir Darcy? With Blair & Co along for the window dressing? For these same three men were yammering for attention. The PM’s voice rose out over top and with it, his questions. “Can we do it? Well, General? What other surprises do you have? Can we do it?”

The General smiled and nodded his head, and said in a tone of slight approval, “Yes, Prime Minister, we do have the capability. Just before this meeting I was given a new device that when installed will nullify the source of the American’s power. The device is to be installed in Lincoln’s Tomb. When activated, the device will neutralize all the, ah, magic made by this Joe Future. We are facing more than a new arms-race. We have evidence of the existence of two men who can make devices out of seemingly organic material. I can vouch for one of these men. Our OWN man, Ben Prophet. I am not unaware of the dangers presented by embracing this man as our true ally. The question of where these men really came from is begging to be answered. I think we know very little about what is really going on, here. So we may well be pawns in a larger game. Why would men of such ability piffle round with us bunch of educated chimps, eh?”

This struck Sir Darcy as most singularly effective oration. The other three men were impressed. Of course, who could deal seriously with such new powers? Everything had a gleam of madness about it. In the old days, it was the madness of talk about total thermonuclear war, and the preparations and mutterings behind closed doors as men planned, implemented and deployed their imaginings into Corps and Divisions and Squadrons and Flights, and the warheads with A and H bombs. Oh those war-heads, growing in number, so many, and where to aim them all? That had seemed the height of madness.

“Surpassed now,” he thought to himself.

The General had continued. He had the floor. Defacto Chairman of the Very Select Committee on Magic. He said, “...We can waffle ‘bout and squander everything. Or grasp the moment and put the Americans right out of business. Pull the plug in ‘em. And what then? What do we do? We take over America. We have no choice. With the new devices I have been given, Britain can make a bold move, and turn off their magic, and let us influence every decision they make.”

He cackled, and coughed and and went, “Humph! It sounds mad, I know, but that’s what we have to do. Just have to get the devices in place and say the magic words, and ---hey! presto! --- fully operational. Have to take Ben’s word on it all working, and I for one do. I want you all to be perfectly clear on where I stand. I think that we MUST act, and not to do so will be enough reason for this committee to be dissolved, and I will take action in my own hands.”

***

With that said he stopped talking and remained silent while the three men began talking and gesturing and protesting and proclaiming. Words like ‘democracy’ and ‘coup-d’etat’ and ‘court martial’, and more, too. A veritable hornet’s nest with Sir Darcy mildly amused by the antics and a cold, grudging admiration for the way the General was playing the suckers.

The man was without mercy or redemption.

“See here,” brayed the General over the others, “If any of you lot think you can stop the Americans by shilly-shallying ‘bout and wading in your tears, you’ve got another thing coming, and that’ll be the bloody Americans running the whole show and we’ll have the bloody eleven commandments shoved down our throats, like it or not. I tell you, once you start playing with free-will at it’s most basic level you are 'frigging round with God. I for one will do it to them before I will let them do it to us.”

The three men rose to this and for a few minutes the tumult was too much by far, and Sir Darcy covered his ears to keep the din down. The General remained silent during this little fracas. Then, as if he’d been counting down to do it, he raised his voice and cut through the noise of hurt egos. ‘Right! You lot! Shut up! Did you read the plan they have!? Did you? No! So read it and shut up! Right on page one...can you read it? ‘Plan for deployment in Britain, with or without permission, to begin immediately, upon receipt of asset...’, yes, well keep reading. It’s all there, their own damn plan to take over the entire world. You keep reading and you’ll see the secret plans they have to assimilate every country in the world, these damned eleven commandments, and transport chips, the Americans will be everywhere...and we will have to grin and have fun. Do any of you know the ten commandments, as in Exodus Twenty of the Old Testament? No graven images of anything of heaven or below it and inbetween. I ask you, how is that going to fit in with free-will? To say nothing of national art treasures...no, no, no, we cannot permit this to happen.”

The pause he gave was greeted with silence, the men were reading the further details of the American plan to take over the entire world. Copies of American documents, and the eagerly, horrified eyes of the three British men, taking in the facts. Blair piped up and said, “Any chance the Americans set this up? That they knew you were coming, or even that they detected your presence after you’d been?”

The General grinned his death’s head rictus and said genially, “No, none, Sir. Then again, we have no way of knowing who is watching us, right now, that we don’t know about. It bares thinking about, which I have done, and my conclusion in general and specific is I don’t give a damn and I’ll think and say what I want and they can go sod off. If they are watching, whomever they might turn out to be.”

One of the two men bleated, “What are you talking about?”

The General turned on him, oh dear little lamb, and snarled, “Weakness, that’s what I’m talking about. Weakness. And that comes with fear. If you start to fear these men, then you’re going to fold and run. And if you know you’re being watched and you’re mind is being listened to, just like a radio broadcast, now the cold sweats start. Fear. Weakness. That’s what I’m talking about. Like Dr. Shmirnif. Can’t molly coddle the weak, not when the stakes are who gets to write the history books for the next hundred generations. My God, they’ll have a ten-thousand year reign of the Bush Administration.

“We have a monarchy, and a damn fine Queen. With the right public relations we can put over the Rule Majestria by creating mutually beneficial relationships. We are going to take over America, and do it without firing a single shot. We are going to buy America. Yes, with real money and real corporations. Purchase the entire ruling ownership in every business in America...big or small...yes, if you’ll turn to the back of the third book...yes the one with the red cover, yes, page 509, yes, under ‘Acquisitions Unlimited’ we have very deep pockets, gentlemen, enough to fund all our endeavors. Even now, as I speak, the services of one Monsieur Henri LeGrande and his enterprise prepares to begin the greatest war ever fought. The taking over of America.”

***

There was more questioning and turmoil and long discussion and reading and men getting up and down and sitting and shifting, trying to relieve aching bodies, past tired, and the light of day coming on, soon. Only the General was fresh and snappy, bright and alert, sipping from his glass of fizzy-pop, waiting for longer and longer periods to say anything, and when he did, only to steer the men into the inevitable closing corral, and the sale, oh yes, there was a sale made.

Sir Darcy watched the con being played with cold admiration. He did not think to blow the whistle on this preposterous black is white and black again. It all smacked of the irregular to him, and the idea of turning on the Americans, though appealing, was also appalling. It would mean more contact with that wasteland of bumpkins.

When he thought of America, he was thinking of New York City, or Washington, or San Francisco, and a few discrete other places.The remainder of the entire country was inhabited by few of any distinction, and most were the great unwashed. He knew Britain was filled with the few and the many. The many also the great unwashed. But they were our great unwashed. The Americans would be another load on his desk. The very idea of ruling America made him break out laughing.

The General looked at him ironically and asked, “Alright? Yes, I suppose it is amusing. Well, it is almost 05:00 hours and we’ve given it the once over and made the decision. I am going to follow my instructions and start Operation Upstart. Excellent name, Sir Darcy. Gentlemen, we will make history or it will make us!”

***

Chapter 21

MEANWHILE, DEEP IN THE HEART OF TEXAS

(It Will Take Time to Restore Chaos)

George Bush Junior was on a brief stop-over to meet with a certain immediate member of his family. The two men were out in the back and far away from the Secret Service poltroons. George Junior had told ‘em, “You stay back so me and my Daddy can have a little privacy, alright?”

Oh, if that conversation could have been spied on.

It went like this:

“Dad, it’s a fact, the Russians have a man, they call him ‘the maestro’ a-la-french, just like that. Something like our guy the way he can do, uh, stuff, but he’s doing it for them. Now we just found out about this, and I am right out of ideas other than we got to stop them before they can start any serious shit-storms that we won’t be able to get out of...”

Dad asked, “Tell me more about what you know about this 'la maestro'...what can he do?”

“Not good news. He has given them some serious, uh, stuff...”

Dad chuckled at his son and then said, “The word is magic, George. Magic. Fricking magic. I told you it would be dangerous. Now the Russians are in on it. Do they know we have it? Holy Doodle, Georgie, this is one big mess. What do they have already?”

George Junior sighed and said, “You got to keep your mouth shut, Daddy, or we’ll get burned. I can tell you this once, so listen, after that, I can’t tell who might be listening in, and not to just what we say, but what we think, too.”

“I don’t like the sound of that, Son.”

The President of the United States had a stick in his hand and was worrying at the bark, tearing little strips and generally playing with the stick. It was a quaint sight, from a distance, the two men walking close to each other, deep in conversation, the bond between them was evident. Yet one was a one term has-been and the other was the current Big Kahuna.

George Junior patted his father on the back and said, “Well, we’ll just have to go and take out this La Maestro and the whole entire magic network. We can do that, Daddy. We’ve got to do that...take ‘em out. Just think of the Russians back in business, this time with a magic wand.”

George Bush Senior kind of liked the pat on his back. It meant a lot to him that this son of his loved him. He felt very, very lucky and blessed. There was no other boy on Earth who could have surprised him more than his Georgie. The Presidency had made a man out of him. With the keen regret of a time never to be repeated, George the Elder forgave the American people their silly love affair with Bill Clinton. Losing to Bill had hurt.

The younger man syndrome, the fresh idea, and the voice of that damn generation, the one Bush the Elder never could get in touch with. Perhaps he'd jumped the shark the time he had puked all over the dinner table in Japan, while in the Far East, and so sick with the flu but still campaigning ‘till he dropped. That’s why he’d puked. Didn’t know when to stop and rest up, get over the bug.

Did he have any substance? Who was this former president and father of a president? He lived, he breathed, he mated. And he was the Big Kahuna over at the CIA, back in the day. Got in to the presidency through the Vice-Presidency. Beat out the Democrat nobody remembers, in 1988, brutal victory for the Right. Then it’s Mr. President. Meanwhile, George Junior is doing time in Texas.

Buddy, I can’t write fiction like this. Yet it is all true. We lived in strange times.

Papa Bush said tenderly, “We live in strange times, don’t we? It’ll make or break us, fooling with the Russians, so it better be us breaking them, and when could that be, Son?”

His son grinned like a caveman drinking warm blood. “We’re gonna be ready maybe just in time, if we’re lucky. Our boy figures he can lick this Maestro character. So there is a plan, and we’re ready to go...but once we start this up, I won’t back down. I figured this out and it’s the only way we can go. Joe says we gotta trust him that we can turn-off this La Maestro, and make the bad men go away.”

His Dad put his hand on his son’s back and for a few steps they went along like that. Papa said, “Joe’s gotta have a plan, and I bet it’s a good one. Those Russians would be an unholy terror if they, you know. Say, where did this Maestro come from, anyway?”

The two men stopped and sat down on a bench under a very nice oak tree.

“Well, we don’t rightly know that, at all, really. He is a mystery. Our boy says he is very dangerous, and treacherous. Proof of that in the fact that this maestro guy approached them. He is, apparently, a Russian. He is giving the Russians stuff that will give them the power to take over the world. They are testing and planning, right now, as we speak. That’s why we don’t have too much time to talk. Listen, Papa, I know you don’t want to use one, but please, for secrecy sake, use the chip. Without it, I can’t guarantee your mind won’t be read, and so just...please, for me?”

His Dad looked away, deeply moved, and then put his hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezed gently and said, “Alright, I see what you mean, Son. This is a sort of new warfare, and, alright...”

His Son said fondly, “You won’t regret this, you’ll be able to talk to me anytime you want, but it’s all in your mind, completely private, and with this you get complete security, no interference or scanning or tracing, just pure transmission, sorta like you’re in a sound room, kinda...”

“How do I make the thing work? What do I say?”

“Hold the chip in your left hand and say your name, and ask to link-up. That’s it, that’s all.” .

His father hesitated for a moment and asked one more question, “How do you...I mean, how do you get a call or make a call?”

The President said softly, “You get the link-up going, and you’ll know how. Anything you want to know about how to make it work, you’ll hear the answer in your mind. Not your ears, inside your mind. Mine works by me thinking about who I want to talk to, and then I ask, in my mind, to make the link-up, and there I am, making a call, and the mental phone is ringing, and you decide to answer, so you ask to receive my link-up and we start talking to each other inside our minds.”

George Senior came as close to a guffaw as he ever would. “Sounds like a telephone,” he said. Then, quickly, “Jeb’s got one too, and does it ever seem crazy...well, what ever it is, it is here and it is real.” He laughed and then said, “Junior, if the American people ever find out what we are up to, ‘what’s really going on’,” and he made the hand and finger gesture for ‘quotations’, “Before they’ve been softened up and eased into the whole, ah, thing...”

“Who would believe any of it? Tell me that. Part of our greatest strength is the believe-ability factor. And that we can kinda keep an eye on the folks, listen in and monitor so if a plot is brewing, we can settle it at the table instead of when our back is turned.”

Pappa Bush said mystically, “That’s right, you got to shoot the sunna-of-a-you-know-what at the table BEFORE he makes his move. Shoot to kill. Get the draw on him and shoot him dead, that’s the way to settle a killer and a traitor. Now you can keep watch on America and protect Her from the bad people.”

His Son took out a chip from his casual shirt pocket. He gave the polished wood chip to his father. George Senior took in the craftsmanship and the exquisite carving of the strange characters. When he was alone, with a magnifying glass, he would examine the characters. For now, he held the chip of wood in his left hand and said, “This is George Bush and I want to link-up.”

***

THE MAN BURNING THE PAPERS

Don't you hate it when someone answers their own questions? I do.

So how did the man burning the papers start this story? Oh, he was the servant of the magician. Yes, the same servant on the run and tracked by the spies of three nations. In the room with nothing left of the documents except the smoke. He sat on the floor, grinning. Why not? He had done what he was supposed to do. The magician had told him what to do. The plot to take over the world almost complete. The humans desperate to get the documents.

“Oh,” he said to himself, “I wonder why they would want these documents?”

Yes, why?

Oh, the pages of the document had the correct translation into plain English.

Clear instructions, no-nonsense, ezee pee-zee Japa-nee-zee.

Clear instructions.

How to do what the magician did.

***

What amused the servant most? The fact that even if the humans could have captured the document, they would not be able to do much. He said out loud, “Because they are so stoo-pid!”

Yes, he could hear them coming in the front door of the building. The big one, the Jesus Freak, yes, he was leading the way. Come on, come on, bring me The Lord! And his back-up, coming along, all decked out in the take-down gear. Yes, here came the ropes and the rappelling super-agents, and the beautiful Russian agent, trying to get the bomb to work. Ha! I want them all to be weeping soon. All this for some little trinkets that are nothing more than little toys. Compared to the wonders of my master’s real work, these humans have seen little, little, little...so now, here comes the big one, the American. Ooohhh, how he reeks of self-importance. He thinks ice-cream will solve all the world’s problems. Ice-cream and microwaves and sports utility vehicles. And King Cotton! Oh, save us darkies from the boss man.

***

Bertle McPhee walked quickly along the corridor to the room where the servant sat. Close behind Bertle, a group of ten men, each one linked-up with good, old-fashioned human technology, thank you very much. What was going on inside Bertle’s thick skull? He wanted to get his hands round the neck of the servant and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until the man’s eyes popped-out and the top of his head exploded.

Bertle could smell the aroma of burned papers.

Bertle was kicking himself mentally for being played by these creatures of deception. Who? What? When? Why? The bait dangled in the room, in the smoke, and the servant held his breath while he waited the few more moments left to him in this (that) here.

A few more strides and Bertle was at the door. The ten men fanned out on either side of the door. They looked like extras on a movie-set, storm-troopers done up in black and gray, replete with flack-jackets and utility-belts and laser-sighted guns and smash-helmets with the visors going down, now, as Bertle motioned for the ram to take down the door.

Boom, down went the door.

Smoke and more smoke, and the sounds of ten men and Bertle, coughing, and from inside the room, laughter. Laughter!

Bertle went in the room followed by his posse. The helmet flashlights probed the thick smoke. Yes, the smoke was leaving the room through the open doorway. The door, broken and done, on the floor of the room. And the damned laughter continued. Coming from the middle of the room. The flashlights found the servant, sitting on the floor, laughing and rearing back with it, and really letting go into a pagan display of wild, unholy mirth.

The ten men aimed their weapons at the laughing man. Bertle went over to him, and knelt down and grabbed hold of the laughing man’s shoulder and shook him vigorously. “Snap out of it, slime! Give me what is rightfully mine, and give it to me, now!”

The servant somehow wriggled out of Bertle's powerful grip and fell over to the floor and rolled with more laughter.

The coughing ten men watched Bertle find the metal trash can. It was still hot to the touch from the heat of the burning papers. He said, “Open the windows, and guard ‘em, and guard the door, if he tries to get out, shoot him.”

Bertle put the can down and gave it a gentle prod with his foot. Over the servant’s laughter he said, “You burned the papers. Burned them. Well, well, well, the Lord works in mysterious ways. You know, Slime, it may be for the best.”

At this the servant was reborn into a fresh wave of hysteria, and amid his gasping laughter he managed to say, “You need magic to save your species, you fool, oh you enormous dumb and stoo-pid bigot. This isn’t the Lord being mysterious!”

Bertle wanted to shoot the laughing man. Dead simple and a quick solution to being played.

The servant went on, “...Oh, go on, shoot me then...ha ha ha...see what that will do...ha ha ha...go on, I dare you, stoo-pid dum-dum shoot me with your gun-gun...ha ha ha...”

Bertle clenched his teeth and resisted the urge to purge this laughing faker. Emptying his clip into him would sure feel good. “Yeah? You want me to shoot you?” asked Bertle. The servant hissed out, “Ah, you don’t have what it takes, you don’t have the skill to kill, you are so luh-aim!” The servant burst out laughing. He pointed his finger at Bertle and giggled, “Lightweight, do you really think, still think, the Jesus in your head is the REAL Jesus?”

***

Bertle didn’t like having this said out loud so that the ten super-agents could hear this kind of talk. Keep the personal out of it. He said, “Buckle this slime-pile up, and put him in ‘cuffs and put a hood over his head and the whole nine yards...you can put him on a stretcher and wheel him out of here, all buckled up, in the restraints, and lock them restraints up tight, all of them. Take him out of here, and we roll to Jefferson’s...you got that, Ned?”

The voice in his ear was crisp and clear and even, “Yes, Boss, got it. The transport is waiting. And, Boss, it is confirmed, the entire M-net is down. L.A. Homicide just reported their first murder...so it looks like we’re back to normal...”

Bertle stared at the servant who was lying on his back, up on his elbows, and with his knees bent and feet flat to the floor, still giggling, and staring back at Bertle, quite defiant and unafraid. Mocking him, actually, or so Bertle felt.

He told Bertle in a phony Caribbean accent , “Mr. Future gone ‘way in a bossa nova big-big hufffff. Don’t want to be seein’ yah sorree azzzhh no more. ‘An’ all de majeek is gone bye-bye. Jus’ like yah gunna do ta me.” He stopped and sought the eyes of each of the ten agents. In a normal voice, and no more giggling going on, “Now each of you is expendable. You will all have to silenced. Each one of you is going to be terminated. Isn’t that so, Bertle, baby? They all know too much. Right, B Meister?”

There was an awkward silence. Perhaps even a bit tense. Bertle McPhee snorted disgust and proclaimed, “You are the servant of the father of lies, and you’ll twist and turn every good until it is spoiled. Gag him, and put the cuffs on him, let’s get moving!”

An ugly moment spread out into several more. None of the ten men moved to do his bidding. The servant said seriously, “You didn’t answer my question. Are these ten men going to be killed because they now know too much?”

Bertle wanted to start blasting the ugly slime pocket. He gritted his teeth and hissed, “You stop that bullshit, I can see what you’re doing, pulling a little trick, okay, sure, you men, play right into his hands! He is the wanted man, do your duty, you do what I already told you to do with him or I will have you all killed, how do you like that? Is that some clarity for you? Ned! Send me some back-up, I’ve got a rebellion on my hands.”

Ned hissed in his ear, “I’ve been listening...a squad is on it’s way. Just hang tough...”

Bertle announced to the ten men, “Come on, what are you waiting for?”

The servant told him, “They want to hear your answer to my question.”

Bertle laughed in frustration, looking at his ten men, and meeting each man’s eyes, and with a hard stare for each man, he said, “Listen you prize chumps, you’re being played by a professional. Do you know of anyone on my team I’ve ever had aced for what they’ve known UNLESS they went traitor. The answer is no. The same terms apply now. Same rules. This misleader will get you in his box, if you let him, so don’t. Don’t listen to him. And snap to it, put him in the gear and let’s get out of here!”
The servant sneered at Bertle and said contemptuously, “You are lying. I bet if I put the spell of truth on you, these men would hear a different fate awaits each one of them. For they will see me leave, at the time of my choosing, not yours. And not in chains. Yes, the truth-gun for you, Jesus Freak.”

He pointed a long middle finger on his left hand.

At Bertle McPhee.

He chanted, “Higgle dee fliggle dee miggle dee doo tell the truth oh please oh do!”

Then he asked in a serious voice, “Tell me, Jesus Freak the answer to my question. Will the men in this room be killed for what they now know?”

Bertle heard his own voice answer, “Yes, that is quite true, you slime.” But he hadn’t said the words with his own intention. And it wasn’t true, either. And as soon as he said it, he could move his own tongue, again, restored! He blurted out, “No! No! No! He made me say that! It isn’t true don’t believe it! What I said before is the truth! You guys are not going to be killed! No way!”

The servant interrupted him with a voice of cold disbelief and a scorching tone, “Oh? I give you fair warning, you men. He will have you ALL killed. Where as I am leaving in a few moments. And where I go is very beautiful and very generous and very free and joyous and as you humans say, laden with ‘growth opportunities’.”

“Don’t listen to him!”

“Ha! I am going, and each of you men can come with me...see, this is where I am going.”

And just like that, the outside wall, from floor to ceiling, and from wall to wall, gone, and on the other side of this, where the wall should have been was a big opening, starting where the floor and the walls and the ceiling met this new opening. I do hope you get the image in your mind.

On the other side, a mass of tropical green and a path passing near by, and down the way, past the first set of hills that they could see, the ocean. The servant said, “This is my land. You can come and live here. You will each be rich and powerful and free. I give you my word on it. Well, Bertle, I won’t invite you. I have never liked you, Jesus Freak. To the last.”

With that said, he got up from the floor, and began to walk for freedom. The men in the room did nothing to stop him.

Bertle yelled, “You guys better stop him!”

The men did nothing.

“Ned! Where are those guys?”

“The elevators broken, they’re on the stairs, any second, hang tough...”

The servant was stepping over the threshold.

Bertle aimed his weapon at the man.

The servant turned and laughed, then he ran his hands through a tuft of jungle grass and sighed deeply. The wind blew and it came into the room, with all the smells of a far distant land. The sounds of happy children and then, coming into view along the path, a group of kids with women and men, all holding hands, and all very beautiful.

The servant said invitingly, “Come on! You’ll be killed if you stay there, come on, the lot of you. You have the word of the real Jesus. I ought to know, I am his servant. Come on guys...”
“Don’t listen to him!” cried Bertle. He began to move on the servant.

One of the ten men moved on Bertle.

As Bertle brought the weapon round, he was wiped out from behind. Back-of-the-neck stun wham, and down went Bertle McPhee. His weapon was picked up. He felt cuffs biting his wrists, and the wrench of his arms being trussed. Then, quick as a wink, his legs were hog-tied, and he was left for slaughter.

He cried out, “He is the servant of a magician...he has cast a spell on you...that’s what he did to me...to get me to say...”

The men had stepped into the little clearing, and could now see for miles. When they looked back, they saw the office room, with Bertle on the floor, trussed up, and the open doorway to the corridor, now filling with men, the back-up squad, come to rescue Bertle. They spilled into the room and faced the open wall to another land. They could see the ten men, and the servant, for it was a big wall. (The room was forty-feet long on the outside wall.)

The deserters could see the room through the opening, which was surrounded by the sky and the bit of jungle on the top of this flattened hill they all now stood on. The opening to the room was like a big billboard space, surrounded by the reality of this other land.

Oh what a sight.

The new squad was five strong in the room, and ten more, strung out along both sides of the open doorway. Bertle cried out, “They are deserting! Get them! Stop them! Don’t shoot them! Whatever you do! They are under a spell! Get me out of this! Do something!”

The deserters had started to leave the little open area. They walked down from this high point, along a path that went in and out of the jungle, heading down towards the ocean. The new men raced forward to stop them and, to a man, slammed into something hard at the junction point between the room on the ninth floor of the building and this opening to another land.

Bertle yelled, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! The bullets will ricochet!”

The new men who had charged at the opening got up from the floor. Two of them suffered broken noses and split lips. All had bruises and bad head-spinnings, and the hard shock of being well and truly cold-cocked by an invisible wall. Bertle cried out, “You see! You see! A spell! Like a friggin’ fairy tale...now get me out of this! Ned! Ned!”

“Yes, I’m here.”
“I’m freaking!”

“Stay cool, stay on top of it, hang tough.”

The new men tried to find a way past the invisible barrier. The deserters had gone from view. The wind was gone, and with it, so to the smells and sounds. They could see the servant. He had remained to taunt Bertle. He waved at the new men and mouthed kisses. He waved goodbye. Then he turned to face the vista of the other land.

The servant walked away.

Bertle heard him say, “Too bad you never got The Book of Instruction, eh Bertie? Well, keep a weather eye out for the breaking news --- film at eleven!”

The last Bertle heard from the servant was the sound of delighted laughter.

More new men had come and released Bertle. While they freed him, they tried hard to not look at the opening. The men in the corridor started to come in. Bertle got up and was giving orders for everyone to get out of the room.

The wall came back, the same, with windows open and the gritty hind-leg of New York City could be seen, and it was all normal again. Bertle said, “Ned, we’ve got a problem.”

***

Chapter 22

EXACTLY HOW THE SERVANT PLAYED THE SUCKERS

(The Cautionary Tale of the Three Wishes)

Bertle McPhee finally got back to his own home after that very long day at work. That day when the servant of the magician had seduced some of Bertle's best men with a lie out of Bertle's own mouth.

Now that is the way to sell a lie: Get the person they truly trust to tell the lie for you to the people you want to trick. Bertle found himself grudgingly wincing at the way he'd been played.

But now the day was done.

He was home. In his private and secure little world.

Locked up tight.

Alone. Safe.

And he could take off his work clothes, have a shower. Pour himself a much deserved recreational beverage. Sit down in front of his giant TV, and maybe watch a ____ing game. Right?

See some other bozos get beaten up trying to win.

The shower soothed him. The water beating on his tired body began to work its magic. He could feel some of the pent-up fury transforming into something else. And that something else came to him in his mind. A quiet thought floated in. Bertle wasn't quite sure that it was his own thought.

“When a man comes at you with a stick, go get a bigger stick.”

The weight of the thought hit his mind hard. Bertle gasped. Then he started to laugh. He really understood the thought. And it made complete sense to him.

He stood in the shower and let the water pound on his flesh. He laughed some more and then stopped laughing only to laugh some more.

He turned the water off and the water gurgled down the drain. He could hear the drip, drip, drip of water from the shower head. He could hear the bathroom fan working.

He felt safe. Secure.

He knew his home was basically a fortress.

Nobody could get in unless he let them in.

Plus, he had the place set up with so many different alarms and security gadgets, backed up with a fool-proof power supply...yeah, nobody could ever get in unless they had lots of time and the right equipment.

Which is why Bertle jumped about one foot into the air when he heard a voice with a strong Russian-English accent say, “Well, that's what you think!”

***

Bertle's brain did about a thousand back flips before it kicked into full-on survival mode. All that took place in less than a second.

He couldn't see because of all the steam condensed on the shower stall glass door.

The voice said to him, “Come on! Don't worry...I'm not here to hurt you. Come out of there. Hey! I'm no fag, so don't worry. And I'll turn my back, too. Here's a nice towel so you can dry off. Okay?”

There wasn't anything 'okay' about any of it. Not for Bertle. His heart had taken part in the thousand back flips of his mind. He'd felt the squirt of stress juice send sharp, electric shots of intense, sudden fear, right through his chest.

“Oh, don't worry. You aren't going to have a heart attack. Ha, ha, ha. You aren't that lucky!”

Bertle's brain continued to feed him survival mode instructions. His amygdala was moving a lot faster than his frontal cortex. Bertle was getting very fast coaching from the reptile part of his brain. Should he try and flee? Maybe freeze? Yeah, he was doing that. But what about the other, missing edict? Yeah, that one: what about fight?

The gun he had hidden inside the shower.

Waterproof. Loaded.

What about fight?

Maybe that was the right choice. It usually had worked out okay for him in the past. So why not...fight?

“Oh no, Bertie. Don't do that! Not with me. No guns. Just open the shower door, and take this towel. Here. I'll open the door for you and we can get this party started!”

The shower stall door opened.

Bertle stood still, his body dripping water. A big towel was handed to him. He couldn't see who was behind the big towel...only caught sight of a hand. Bertle grabbed hold of the towel and wrapped it around his body. All the while concocting sudden attack plans.

“No, no, no...Bertie! Don't do it! It won't...be nice for you. Besides, you must have started to figure out that I am, ah, one of them. You have, haven't you, Bertie?”

Bertle decided to step out of the shower stall. Slowly. Carefully. Cautiously.

“Ah, good. That's much better,” said the intruder. His voice was thick with the obvious Russian-English accent.

Bertle could plainly see a man standing in front of him. The man stood, staring at Bertle with an unpleasant sly look. He gave every appearance of being a human looking rat, right down to his slightly protruding yellowish teeth.

The man asked in a voice of great superiority, “Yes? Perhaps you are wondering who I am? My name? It is Verchinski.”

***

Bertle was not a small man. No. He was one of those big Americans. Sure, he had a paunch. But you'd be unhappily surprised if you assumed he was ALWAYS slow moving and lumpish. He wasn't. Bertle could move suddenly, with precision, and ultra-fast...if need be.

Bertle had impressively muscled arms...with hairy, thick forearms, big mangle hands, and the upper arms of a long-time muscle freak. One thing Bertle liked to do was intimidate with the appearance of being a big, tough, strong man. And having big arms and a thick, powerful looking chest helped to impress the other chimps in his version of the human jungle.

Bertle was the quintessential alpha male.

But now he was faced with this obvious Russian sourced emissary of Pure Evil. This, this...Verchinski. So Bertle said slowly and carefully in his carbonized American accented English, “I think you are one of them. Right? One of those guys. But you are more like that guy I had to deal with, the guy who called himself Hubert Franks...nothing but a servant of The Devil who called himself...Joe Future.”

Bertle was starting to get control of his primitive brain stem. The sudden smack of panic was understandable to him. He'd been taken by surprise. No wonder he'd...freaked out. But he hadn't been unmanned by this, this, this...freak!

Bertle watched this creature called Verchinski to see if he'd hit some meat with his words. Not a flicker. The freak looked at him. His eyes were...very strange. Bertle felt a shiver of fear stroke his body. The eyes. They were empty. Not even dead. Just...empty.

“Ah, Bertie. I call you Bertie, okay? Yeah, Bertie. Nice sound to it. Bertie, Bertie, Bertie. You better come with me and come watch some TV, okay?”

The freak Verchinski's eyebrows moved expressively, but his eyes remained empty and uninhabited. He said, “Breaking news, film at eleven. This you gotta see. I promise you, no disappointment.”

This odd creature posing as a human being turned his back to Bertle, opened the door to the bathroom, walked out. He stopped and turned to face Bertle. He said calmly, “I'll be waiting for you downstairs, Bertie. Oh, by the way...I took the liberty of, ah, disabling your alarms...and all your various weapons. Including that waterproof hand gun. The one hidden in your shower. In that clever little secret compartment. But, not to brag too much, but even with all that not much success killing me. I am sure you know that would be a futile effort.”

Then he winked at Bertle.

He walked away, out of view.

Bertle was left alone in his own bathroom.

***

Bertle hit the panic button in his bathroom. It was ready and waiting for him...a silent alarm. If it was working, the alarm would alert a cracker-jack security detail, and they would come and deal with whatever emergency was unfolding.

IF the system was working.

He knew from experience with Real Magic that this was a very BIG if. He'd noticed that when it came to claims of what had seemed to be impossible claims...well, he'd learned that when one of these freaks said something, it was usually a fact.

Bertle finished drying off. He went to his bedroom to get dressed. Along the way, he pushed each panic button.

***

When Bertle went downstairs, he discovered Verchinski sitting in Bertle's favorite chair. The giant screen television was on. Verchinski had a nasty little smile flirting with his cruel looking face. He did not bother to look at Bertle.

“Come and sit. Better pour yourself a drink. You will need it. I promise you that. Ah! Good, you are just in time....”

Bertle heard the television blaring some ominous sounds. He didn't pour himself a drink. But he did sit down. Not because he wanted to. No. It was because he couldn't stay standing. His body gave way.

He was struck hard by a premonition.

“Oh, Holy Mother of God. They aren't really going to do this. Insanity. Magic for everyone. Press conference. Insanity.”

Over the next few minutes what he saw on the TV screen made his flesh crawl.

He read the headline screen crawler, “Breaking News Alert!”

Then he heard the dramatic intro music fade, and the voice of a much respected reporter come on air, saying, “We interrupt our regularly scheduled program to bring you this official broadcast from the White House. This is a very fast breaking story. We are going to be joining the special, emergency press conference any moment....”

Bertle watched as the TV screen switched to a scene inside the famous White House press briefing room. The camera was trained on the podium. The voice of the famous news reporter continued speaking.

“...the press secretary should be here any moment. We are awaiting this fast breaking story, and I have to tell you, the details are frankly completely incredible, actually beyond belief...oh, okay, here we go, here is the press secretary, Scott McClellan....”

Bertle watched as the spokesperson for the White House opened his mouth and said something never, ever said in the history of the USA.

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, this isn't about the war. Please wait to ask questions, when I ask you to ask me...thank you.

“What I am about to tell you is definitely going to sound, ah, incredible. Please do not consider any of what I am about to tell you as some sort of prank or joke. It is not. This is deadly serious. And shocking. Okay, here we go: for some months now, the most secret part of our government's military has been testing specific miniature carefully made objects of wood, yes --- made of wood --- that are capable of performing specific tasks. These tasks include a variety of functions that when you are told the details will sound frankly impossible. However, I assure you, these details are real and verified by our team of research scientists.

“Here is a small list of what these small, wooden artifacts are capable of doing: transport large and small objects to any location within less than one second with no damage whatsoever, including living human beings; defend military and law enforcement personnel from any harm whatsoever, including attacks by nuclear weapons; turn any object or person or persons completely invisible to any type of detection; compel any person to tell the complete and utter truth about any subject that they have knowledge of; make any object larger or smaller to an infinite degree....”

As the press secretary continued reading from a list of attributes of all the stuff that Bertle knew was supposed to be ultra top secret, there was the sound of (at first) utter, stunned silence. Then came the sound of people making incomprehensible sounds, with words starting up, trying to ask questions. The press secretary continued talking in a matter of fact tone of voice.

This was obviously so perfectly abnormal. However, the way the press secretary carried on reciting this list of utterly ridiculously impossible nonsense seemed to make it all sound as if this was just another slightly less boring day in the White House press briefing room.

Then Press Secretary Scott McClellan was about done. He said quickly, “...I now hand this briefing over to the Secretary of Defense...Secretary Rumsfeld....”

And now Bertle watched as that supreme ass of pomposity and verbal speciousness, Donald Rumsfeld, got up behind the podium. Bertle despised Rumsfeld as being a political hack. Nothing more than a Power Addict.

Life and death was one such power Donald Rumsfeld handled with grave and manly resolution.

Rumsfeld said firmly:

“Ah, right. Thank you, Scott. Ah-hem. Okay, I won't be taking any questions at this time. Please. Have some decorum. This is serious! What? Alright, settle down. No, seriously, everyone! I won't tell you anything until you are all...yeah, quiet down! Helen, can you get 'em to stop?”

Donald Rumsfeld was having a heck of a time being the adult in the room. His pomposity sickened Bertle. It was that grand air of being oh-so smart...like he knew he was always going to be the smartest, toughest, wisest man in the room...in every room.

“Okay? Listen up. This is serious. We are serious. The President is...deadly...serious. These devices work. Yes. And they are made of wood. Also true. And they...perform. As described, each and every time.”

He had to hold up his hands to summon the quiet, to still the agitated freak-out swelling up in the briefing room. Bertle thought to himself, “Well? What'd you expect? Going public with this. Hmmmm. They haven't mentioned the wooden socket plug thing that delivers infinite energy. Now, I wonder why? Ha, ha, ha.”

The enigmatic mask of Verchinski's face was turned towards Bertle. Without saying a word, Bertle's unwanted intruder thought directly into his mind, “I know you can 'hear' me inside your mind, Bertie. I want you to know how much I am enjoying your cynical reaction to this, ah, press briefing. I enjoy having you simmer in negative thought juices. It gives me something I love to ingest...and consume. That is why it is such a delight to tamper with your little species emotions. Yes. You are the wind beneath my wings. Ha, ha, ha.”

Bertle was a man divided. The truth-smacking on the TV was...never-ever stuff. Historic. But the thought intrusion with related content also was...revelatory. Bertle realized that his worst suspicions about Joe Prophet and his gang were real and true: they were agents of Satan.

At this realization, he heard Verchinski's scoffing laughter both inside his mind and with his ears, too. It was unnerving. Then the voice, brittle, cold, hard, mean, digging in with sharp, nasty barbs, cutting through the air of the room, carried on a quiet whisper but drowning out the noise of the television.

“Of course they are never going to reveal the no-cost, infinite supply of energy to their so-called citizens. Ha, ha, ha. And you knew that all along, too. If you are honest with yourself.” There was the slightest pause, and then, “I am glad you hate me. It feeds me, Bertie.”

With this, Bertle watched the lifeless eyes of Verchiski begin to fill with something that matched the creature's voice. It was inhuman. Not of this world. Alien. Definitely not warm and cuddly. Bertle felt genuine fear ripple throughout his body. His feet felt it, and his guts...it almost made him swoon.

Along with this fear, no, it was dread, yes, and joined with this horrorizing dread, Bertle had a clear flash of intuition. He knew. Just like that. This creature was not separate from Joe Prophet or Joe's servant. Bertle knew, just like that, they were all the same entity.

He could see it all clearly.

There were at least six of these characters, all played by one actor. His head was woozy with it. How could this be done? The complexity of it made him feel ill. The devious danger of it made him feel like he was going to puke.

Bertle broke out in a cold sweat.

He leaned forward and began to vomit onto the carpet.

“Ah. Yes. So you do have your wits about you, eh Bertie? Seeing part of the plot, a hint of the reveal about to be revealed? Just a hint, mind. Not the entire, ah, enterprise. But this obsession you have with Satan? Silly, silly, silly. We are so much more than that charlatan. Besides, your so-called Satan is merely a pawn used by another famous hack, your so-called Jehova God. Ha, ha, ha. Oh, gosh and golly gee. What? Do you expect me to be struck down by Holy Lightning?”

Bertle felt like he was rolfing out his guts onto the carpet. The spasms of barfing seemed to be purging him of all his own illusions. He was trying to ignore the hateful words of Verchiski or whatever his real name was. But the words were also echoing in his mind, not just his ears.

“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” he cried. His voice sounded pathetic and scared. Bertle was ashamed of himself.

“That is disgusting. Oh-my! You are so...mortal. Ah, but your emotions! Ah, they are lovely. So delicious. Yummy. I suck on you, Bertie. The more you, ah, emote, the yummier you become. And I grow stronger and stronger. And I can do more and more impossible things. It is...wonderful.”

The manipulation was being pushed into Bertle's face. It was rancid. He could hear in his mind and his ears the sound of this creature's wicked laughter. It was like a snippet of a scene from a very bad movie.

Bertle flashed on a new realization: the fact that he had figured out that this...thing...was actually playing the part of at least six creatures, at the same time, this insight did not come to him from his own power of deduction.

No.

It was given to him by this ugly entity sitting next to him.

Why?

“Because I relish the games, Bertie. They bring me nourishment. Each little shock spikes your emissions of my most favorite sustenance. The big shocks are very yummy, true. But it is the little ones that are oh-so juicy. Big and small, both savored. Do you...see?”

And with that said, Bertle began to see.

Strange blobby things.

He'd absolutely NEVER noticed these...things...before.

And they were all coming at him.

Running into him and then bouncing off him.

And then the blobby things went right into Verchinski. Bertle could see something that looked gross about where the top of Verchinski's head should have been. It wasn't a normal looking top of the head. Bertle could see the f'd up hole opening up where the top of the freak's freak-head used to be. It reminded him of the pictures he'd seen of the mouths of tapeworms. The hole was set in a protrusion in the center of the top of Verchiski's head.

The protrusion moved and squirmed, suddenly pushing out, and then pulling itself back. It pulsed and then bloated, becoming thicker. Then it sucked itself smaller. It was pale and looked like it was puckered with something akin to rotting flesh. It glistened like it was leaking necrotic ooze.

The blobby things went right into the maw of this...thing. And Bertle heard a self-satisfied “Ah...so tasty! So...good! Yes. More! I want more!”

***

Chapter 23

THE BOOK OF INSTRUCTION

OF

REAL MAGIC

“FEED YOURSELF ON HUMAN ASTRAL ENERGY”

“'...go for quantity and the entity is wise, for it will be sure to feed on human astral emissions whatever the quality,and any is better than none, but a lot more than a little is even better; so thus being thus, you and your race of entities can control human life as long as the system of things ---the spl;ce --- remains intact.'”

(From The Book of Instruction of Real Magic/TBOIORM/page 9/limited immortality/changing everything/unlimited power/invincibility/23 god powers/sub-atomic transformation/spl;ce/s;l;ce/telepathic warfare/cosmic defender/cosmic avenger/how to control a real god/god warfare/how to kill a god/how to take over a god/ultimate magic/instant magic/big magic/)

***

And then Bertle's telephone rang.

Just like that, he couldn't see the blobby things or the disgusting wormy bulging mouth coming from the top of Verchinski's head.

Bertle would never be back to normal, true. But at least he couldn't see some of the truth.

The phone continued to ring.

“Why don't you answer it? Go on. I won't stop you. You can cry for help. That's what you want to do, isn't it? Cry for help? Eh, Bertie-Woortie? Poor little man. Are you going to pee-pee yourself, Bertie? Ha, ha, ha.”

So Bertle picked up the phone and said, “Yeah?”

“Bertle, thank God! You're there. Good. ____ man! Are you seeing this shit? Yeah? Me too. I've been on the phone with Langley. The White House just went ahead and did this...shit. No warning. Nothing. What the ____, Bertle? Did anyone tell you? No? Me neither. Blindsided. Obviously. And Tenet? He didn't know squat. Pretended like he knew, but he didn't. ____! Bertle. What is going on?”

Bertle said softly, “Jukes, you better shut the ____ up. You know your line is tapped, right? Unless you like the idea of being off-shipped to Syria for a nice feel-good vaykay. Do you like the idea, Jukes? A few weeks at the spa in Damascus, how'd you like that? A nice long stay as a guest of Syrian ____ing military intelligence, at Hotel ____ing the Palestine Branch, Jukes...okay? Yeah?”

Jukes answered with a sincere, open voice, “Yeah, Bertle. I know it pretty well. You do too. We had some righteous retribution thanks to your willingness to do whatever it takes to make a man...or woman...to talk. And really get the truth. You didn't fool around. Whatever it took, we did it. And it was kinda nice to go the extra distance. For something we believed in: Freedom. But it's like you always say, Bertle. The trick is to make sure you are never the guy being questioned. To be the one who gets the answers, whatever it takes. That's always been our motto, right? 'Whatever it takes?'”

Bertle was kinda moved by all this from Jukes. A bit of surprise. But welcome normal. Contrasted nicely with the freak show Bertle was sitting next to.

The television had kept on the pompous ass talking like he was oh-so smart, like always. He just knew he was never wrong even when he was wrong. That kind of guy. Smug-faced with the power of the moment that he had. With the march of carnage that was to soon be the Iraq war, and all that...sad to say how easy it was for whatever the entity calling itself Vinchinski to be completely playing the mortal chumps like Donald Rumsfeld, father and son Bush presidents, and a bunch of scientists and military elite.

And not everyone knew as much as some of the others, and some knew a lot more, but no one ever knew all of it, and they didn't necessarily know that there was more to know.

So the television was going with all that Donald Rumsfeld switching over to President Bush. At the Resolute Desk. The flags behind him. His earnest face defending the American Way.

“My fellow Americans. Tonight I am coming into your homes by way of television cameras sending my image and voice to you. We take that to be normal and think nothing of it. And so you see me on your television screen. But one hundred years ago, people would have been astonished at the world we live in now. The technology would seem magical to those who lived two hundred years ago.

“And tonight it is my duty to change all our lives forever. My government can not keep you in the dark. But to tell you what I am going to tell you will cause shock. First of all, what I am about to tell you is not about some disaster or disease or a war. No. Take a big deep breath.

“But it is very unusual, and potentially upsetting news. You've heard about the little carvings of wood. I have one here. It is little. But the craftsmanship is first rate. Now comes the hard part. This is a little wooden carving of wings. And with it, if I hold it in my hand, I can be anywhere I want to be. I will suddenly vanish from where I am, right now. And then I will reappear, somewhere else --- of my choosing.

“Each one of you will be given one of these wooden carvings. Each one will give you any number of what are called 'manifestations' but most folk call them 'results.' And each carving will be made just for you. You all get your own. And your wooden carving only for you. Nobody else can use it. It only works with you.

“Let me address the large elephant in the room. All this is being made to happen by what is called Real Magic. Yes. It sounds much nicer than it really is. I won't pretend to like any of this. But Real Magic is here, and it is happening, right now. All over the USA people are going to be getting their own wooden carving, made just for them.

“Whatever you do, don't try and deface the wooden carving. Or in any way damage or destroy the wooden carving. It is yours. Whatever you do, do not throw away the wooden carving. That would not be a good idea. People who have done that have died within minutes. Some survived only to be greatly changed, and not for the good. Most have gone completely insane.

“So take great care. Follow the instructions you'll receive when the wooden carving gets close to you. There will be counseling for stress included. But to be honest with you, the communication system built in to your, ah, wooden device, will answer all your questions surprisingly quickly. By now, some of you will already be connecting with your own, personal device.

“Now, I know some of you will be seeing some people getting their personal device. And then, by now, some of you have seen incredible things happen. Suddenly happen, just like that. Remember, you will get your own. Even children age 10 are to get a device. It will be yours for a lifetime.

“Each and everyone of us, all Americans, together, no matter what end of the political spectrum you might be in, our maybe you are plumb right in the center. You might be. But I just want you to know that the right people have the favor of the means of production of the wooden devices. Your Decider In Chief decided the chance of this being revealed by someone else before we could tell you, well this forced me to rush the announcement of the existence of Real Magic.”

Bertle was barely listening to the television because Jukes was talking. But he sure perked up when he heard the President saying in a pompously serious voice, “And that is why this is a declaration of a National Emergency...”

And Jukes kept on gushing about some really fun stuff he and Bertle had done together over the years. Like a nice memory lane from Honduras and Nicaragua and Columbia and a few places like that. And how they did 'whatever it takes.'

============================================================================================

US, CIA Reportedly Utilized Syrian Torture Methods

BEIRUT — Secretary of State John Kerry expressed shock and condemnation over recent revelations regarding the brutal tactics employed by President Bashar Assad's regime at the Syria peace talks in Switzerland. The release of a report based on the testimony of a defector, known as Caesar, shed light on the systematic torture of thousands of detainees in Assad's prisons. The evidence included approximately 55,000 images showing the bodies of dead prisoners bearing signs of strangulation, beatings, and starvation. The report further revealed that the Assad regime meticulously photographed the victims and kept records to demonstrate the executions to senior officials.

The report claimed that the Assad regime's enforcers systematically documented their brutal acts by photographing the victims and assigning them reference numbers. These photographs served as evidence to senior officials that the executions had taken place. Maher Arar, a Syrian-born Canadian telecommunications engineer, has refrained from looking at such images as well as other visual materials depicting the situation in his homeland for the past three years. These visuals triggered painful memories for Arar, who himself experienced torture in Syrian military intelligence's Palestine Branch in Damascus between 2002 and 2003. During his captivity, he endured relentless beatings and whippings with two-inch thick electrical cables until he succumbed to his interrogators' demands and falsely confessed to receiving training at a terrorist camp in Afghanistan.

Maher Arar, a Syrian-born Canadian telecommunications engineer who experienced torture in Syria, expressed surprise at the Western reaction to the reports. Arar, who was detained and sent to Syrian prisons by the United States in 2002, stated that the State Department had issued blunt reports about Syria's use of torture since the early 1990s. He argued that the US government, in its fight against al-Qaida, had exploited the Assad regime's brutality and engaged in what is now referred to as "torture by proxy."

Arar, along with other detainees, was handed over to Assad's prisons by the CIA. The United States requested the arrest of Mohammad Haydr Zammar, a German citizen suspected of aiding the al-Qaida Hamburg cell, who was subsequently interrogated by CIA officers in Morocco and later flown to Damascus. The cooperation between American and Syrian intelligence agencies was significant enough that German intelligence officers were given the opportunity to question Zammar while he was held in Assad's prisons.

A report published by the Open Society Justice Initiative titled "Globalizing Torture" identified 136 detainees subjected to extraordinary rendition or secret detention, eight of whom were sent by the CIA to Assad's jails. The detainees ranged from individuals with minimal or no connection to terrorism to high-profile figures like Abu Musab al-Suri, who later became a prominent jihadist ideologue.

Despite their disagreements, the US and Syrian governments had a degree of intelligence cooperation in pursuing al-Qaida, which diminished in 2006. However, the Syrian regime has recently sought to repair its relationship with the US and Europe by emphasizing their shared goals in combating terrorism.

Although the practice of rendering detainees to Syria is no longer feasible, the Obama administration continued certain aspects of the Bush-era practice of rendition. While promising not to condone torture, the administration announced its intention to continue rendition operations. According to reports, the CIA still funds a prison in Mogadishu, Somalia, where suspected members of al-Qaida-affiliated al-Shabab captured in Somalia or rendered from Kenya can be interrogated by US intelligence officers.

The US government has never apologized to Arar for his rendition to Syria or acknowledged his torture in Assad's prisons. This lack of accountability has led Arar to view the US officials' surprise at the recent revelations as hypocritical, believing that the assurances against torture are hollow and ineffective once a person is transferred to such facilities.

============================================================================================

Then Jukes stopped talking. His voice revealed how much he missed a simpler time. There was a significant pause.

Then Bertle said, “That's real nice of you, Jukes. To say all that. So don't come over here.”

Then, “Yeah. Right. Okay. Well, I'm coming over with my team. We got to do something, Bertle.”

“Yeah? Like what? My cape is out being dry-cleaned, Jukes. I'm tired. After today? 'fer ____'s sake? Colossal biggest ____ up. Bar none.”

“Can't take no for an answer, Bertle. Got to do something. What I don't know. That's why I'm coming over.”

Bertle sighed ever so gently. He said, with feeling, “No. You can't. I have company. So, no.”

Another significant pause.

“Who is she?”

Bertle made a sharp sound, similar to a single 'ha!', and said carefully, “This is definitely not that kind of company, Jukes. So...just don't come over. Okay? Capiche? We clear? Don't. Do not. And I'm hanging up now. Bye-bye.”

And he did.

He could hear the heart-felt sound of Jukes going, “Wait! Wait! That doesn't sound good....”

And then the phone was hung up and Bertle was alone with the creepy Verchinski looking at him. A smirking slime faced non-human entity. It was all too much.

***

So Bertle asked Verchinski, “You really six whatever the ____ you are? In six different places at once? Right? How the ____ do you do all this? The wooden black magic graven images? What the ____? How do you do that? The human mind can only take so much before something terrible will start happening. Brains frying at sub-atomic levels. You know that, don't you? Yeah, you do. Counting on it, aren't you?

“You know the effect this will have on the average ____ing idiot? Just the way it ____s heads up to actually see this stuff do what it does. That part messes with my head. Your plot to take over the world. And every ____ing person who is a real human person gets weirded out by your little fun wooden tools of really bad demon mojo. But you yourself, you don't look like something special, except when you look in your eyes. Nobody home. Nothing there.

“Creepiest feeling ever made, looking in your not-eyes. So evil you even spin the tale of how Jehova is a hack, and Satan is just a joke, nothing on whatever you are. I get it. You big, you bad. Well, you're just a ____ing thug to me. A bully. Anti Freedom. Just another psycho only with evil god powers.

“But here's how you're gonna win. You give the people Real Magic gizmos. But you get it handled by a must-have very separate super government agency. With secret rules. Ultra Top Secret stuff. And everybody gets hooked on the convenience of Real Magic. The common tom, dick, and harry --- they are enchanted with the small wooden carving of a bird. The degree of creative fuss obvious in the ultra fine carving of each feather in the bird's wings and body.

“And Tom, Dick, and Harry all decide to take the weekend off, maybe with the wives, maybe not, and do some serious Location Tripping. Yeah. Instant TransReLocating (TLR). But there is a small hitch. You can have a bad trip IF you give the wooden bird a mixed message...maybe some sort of back and forth, and that's part of your sneakiest hook, ever. The illusion of new found choice power. And how you are needed, even wanted. People look to you, probably as this Joe Prophet version.

“And people need you. This Real Magic is so...sudden arrival. Not like the rise of the industrial age, into the time just before you showed up. Now they will get bound to you, harder, because of the security you offer. And the rumor of the book will be the bait that feeds some of your most sought after delicacies --- astral poetry power surges --- made by a natural human tendency.

“The primitive stuff. Cosmic Envy. All this quest for enlightenment. And losing the ego, dropping the self. With all the bells and whistles of full on, Cosmic Completeness, unhooked from the Wheel of Karma, liberated from space and time. The cycle of birth and rebirth grinds to a halt. Which begs the question, you know...what happens after the grinding to a halt?

“Your doing old tricks. Make people believe you are all-powerful. Show them a bit of your bad side against their perceived enemies. And defend the average fool from the inevitable misuse of Real Magic. And you made it especially devious, you are the dee-vee-ost-dee-vee-ost devious, so you make them dependent on you for primal survival, existential stuff. That makes the ties that bind.

“You plan to transfer the praying to you. To your presence. And all the feelings created about you. By anyone, anywhere. All of it, and there was a lot, If someone hated you and had thought storms and ranting binges, all about the evil graven images made of Satan Tree wood.

“But you lying when you say the Jehova God is a hack. That is clearly NOT true. You are the one who is a hack compared to Jehova God. I know that.”

Upon Bertle stopping talking, Vinchinski laughed.

Like he'd/it'd been waiting to land this laugh.

More special, magic laughter that made PTSD victims out of the hardiest, meanest, psychopathic maniacs. The laugh of a laugh that you could not control your own laughter. The laughter was real. And it was good to laugh like that. Fall down on the floor funny made all the more rich and nourishing by the way the laughter, when heard came with the feeling you'd feel when you heard ittle children being put on the bar-be-que. A bunch of 'em. One after the other. Once that laugh was over, the entity called Verchinski took the bait about Jehova God being the pent-ultimate, and asked in a naughty-haughty affectation,. “Are you so sure, mortal?”

There was a significant pause.

***

Vinchinski broke into the significant pause, saying,”If I did what I said I did, and can do what I am doing right now, in so many places, you should be down on your knees, worshiping my glory. How could you begin to grasp the complexity? Ha! You don't even know about The Cube. Beginner stuff. And you don't know any of it. Even when it is in plain view.

In my church, We need a contest, a chase, something to the death, strict rules of a duel to the death. No exceptions. And the invincibility miniature dingus really gets super in demand. People will do anything to get one.

“Enter all the trappings of a vast network of cartels. Not fueled by anything but Real Magic. The black market variants. And some of these knock-off wooden trinkets didn't always work reliably or accurately. A potentially deadly combination.

“Okay, I'll play. If you are so great, did you make the entire universe, all of it, and space and time, and whatever else there is that I don't know about, but you do, and did you make all the others like you or worse than you, that's what I want to know. I don't think you did.”

There was a respectful silence. Then came the answer. “You're wrong. I created your Jehova God. And what you don't know is so unexplainable to you. IF you could ever know, mortal, your brain would explode well before you knew the merest hint of my little hair on my second toe, third from the left. You would literally have an aneurysm in three parts of your brain. Just like that. Nothing you could do about it, either. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. But know this, I created your Jehova God, and all the cast of characters, including Satan. The trick is so good, and my spl;ce will last long enough for me to make a sp;l;ce, and once I do that, I will do something not even I have ever done. There are no mortal words that can explain. You just don't have whatever it takes to actually grasp what I am divulging could be of such imagination-power.”

Bertle said plainly, “Well, I wish upon a star you'd get to whatever comes next because I just want to go to bed and get a good nights sleep.”

Verchinski laughed in a new way. This time it reminded of the sound of pregnant women being killed by their husbands. That's the image that went along with hearing his laughter of the moment.

Bertle was quite disturbed.

It made Verchinski's words almost boring.

It could have said anything incredible.

But the feeling that came with hearing the laugh overpowered the words. “Bertie, I want some company while I reminisce. And I like us getting to know each other like this. What I like about you, Bertie, is that I know I've scared you silly. But even so, here you are. Knowing full well that I could turn you into a frog if I wanted to. Blink. One and done. Ah! I love you Americans. You know, you'll never know, you can't appreciate what it is like to be a Russian. And how good it feels to ____ up America.”

Bertle groaned, “I just want to sleep. Can't you let me do that? Or can't you just do it all in way I can sleep and maybe you can just do it in a dream that I have but I know it is you even though I'm dreaming. You know, like a lucid dream deal. You could do it that way, and reminisce away. And I can sleep. I'd like that. Come on. I've done a lot for you. You have to admit. Even though I think you are Satan, and all that. I've come through, doing my duty. Obeying orders.”

More laughter. From Verchinski. Different this time. But following the same basic similar theme of strong feelings implanted inside the sound of the laugh. Impossible to not be strongly affected. This laugh made the sound of babies dying slowly from abject neglect of the worst sores imaginable.

And the words! These words came with brass knuckles beating. Words that were said pleasantly. But the feeling in each word heard by the ears carried a feeling that the hardest mortal couldn't help but feel.

“Obeying orders. Oh that is so funny. But you came after me, didn't you? To get that elusive book. Eh? Bertie? And IF you could kill me, you wouldn't hesitate for a moment? Eh? Look at your face. Like a prune trying to eat itself. With a pointed forehead. Why. You are so...moral. Aren't you. But not when it came to getting that book, eh, Bertie? Remember?”

And Bertle couldn't help himself, he was suddenly thrown into that first moment when he'd learned about the existence of a secret book. The so-called Book of Instruction. And being so taken in...fooled, and being foolish. Bertle wondered if being fooled required being foolish. He might have been hidebound when it came to his personal religious beliefs...true, but he was ready to start tinkering with anyone else's religious beliefs.

But he was realizing he had been uber foolish.

And he had done whatever it took to get that book.

After all, he'd had a taste by way of a test drive of the book. He'd been given a few lines to read from the book, and then he'd been able to do some shit that disturbed the shit out of him. It was like doing the crack of Real Magic. You immediately wanted another hit. It was such a rush-buzz to do it once. You did it, and you just wanted to, again. So, he did. And once he got going, he only wanted to be able to do it again.

Even though he felt it was of Satan.

It was sooooo bad it was sooooooo good.

“Remember, Bertie? How good it felt? I couldn't interest you in another little peak, could I Bertie? Want to feel that way...again?”

Verchinski looked like a human male who was playing with some sort of inner-transvestite shtick. And then turned around and denounced homosexuality. Bertle was acutely aware of the mobile facial expressiveness of the weirdo ____ing entity tool of Satan. The freak's face-games, when seen or not, gave off strong feelings that it was impossible for Bertle not to feel.

This was feeling a whole like lot the feelings of every young child that's ever been abandoned in the most excruciating circumstances.

And with that, Bertle fell into the near past, just like he was there again...for the first time. But this time with a difference. He knew. This time, he knew exactly what was going to happen. Because he'd already done it.

And this is what he remembered...or had remembered for him, by the servant of Satan. Yeah, a.k.a. Verchinski.

WHAT BERTLE REMEMBERED

The Book of Instruction of Real Magic.

Always be sincere, even if you don't mean it.

Bertle was well into the madness of that first full year of Real Magic becoming more and more real. And by the end of that first full year, it was clear to Bertle that Real Magic was becoming more and more almost-normal. There was a lot less of the hysteria among some of the top secret scientists, and frankly, if Bertle had to reveal it, some of the so-called tough guys, too. Hysteria was a polite word Bertle used to describe the melt-downs people like Rumsfeld had when it came to some new feature of some new wooden graven image --- another fetish made of Devil's wood.

But they all came round fast enough.

Some hissy-fit about it all being too weird, and too out of control. How could such as this be? It was so far out, that sensible people wondered out loud, “This is not of nature.”

And this led to some saying, bluntly, “This is wrong. There is no way this can be normal. It is, dare I say it, the work of the devil.”

Bertle thought that nuclear weapons were the work of the devil. Real Magic, to him, well...just another step in the same basic direction. And all that 'science' that made up thermonuclear weapons, to Bertle it was real magic, and he'd thought that way long before he'd run into Real Magic.

Bertle had been in on some of the discussions about the source of all this magic. Was it benevolent? He'd been blunt. “You want to be the only one who has this. Just like you're wanting to be the only one with the thermonuclear weapons. That was a good moment, when the USA was the only one who had the H-bomb. Yeah, Ivy Mike, October 31, 1952. First H-bomb test. We had that nuke until Ivan tested their H-bomb...we called it Joe 4. That was 1953, sometime in August, maybe the 12^th or so. And we had the A-bomb about four years before Ivan got it. From our first test in Alamogordo, New Mexico --- the Trinity Test, 1945, July 16 --- until Ivan caught up in 1949. August? Yeah. The 27^th? No...not right. August 19, 1949. We called their test Joe 1. Point being we had a definite advantage and should have used it to reduce Ivan to the stone age.

Precious little slice of our history. Now an H-bomb is definitely magical. And we made that magic ourselves. But now our H-bomb's can't even dent this little piece of wood shaped like an medieval shield.

“A human being can wear this little wooden shield, or have it in their pocket. Doesn't matter, long as it's close to their person. And you can make 'em sit on an H-bomb, and then you can blow that bomb up. And when the dust settles, you gonna find them, sitting where the bomb blew up. Not a hair out of place. Alive and well. Oh, with quite a story to tell. They remained exactly where they were sitting at the moment of the explosion. They didn't move. And they didn't feel a thing, either. It was silent, too. Oh, sure, they saw everything that happened. The bright light was pure white. But the flash didn't last a very long time. And all the energy was released in a very short period of time.

“Point being this, my fine feathered friends, just like the H-bomb, we want to be the only ones on the block who's got it. Even if this comes from the devil, we want to be having it first, and to keep it that way. An exclusive deal. We have the exclusive rights of use. And better we have it and make the deal with pure evil then somebody else does.”

So that was the way Bertle rolled with the slaughter house of moral integrity. The magician's wooden shapes worked. There were no foul ups. And it was in this top secret culture of the few who knew something of one or more of the wooden shapes that a great temptation was used as a great seduction.

And that seduction? A book of instruction when used as instructed turned ordinary mortal into a magician. With powers to command, best called God-powers, manifested by simple invocation of an incantation.

Seduced by a hunger for...ultimate power.

For Bertle, it happened casually enough.

He was at a working lunch cooking up policy for a new little wooden thing. This one was able to manifest any kind of food you could think of. The more precise you made your order, the fancier the manifestation.

And the food was pretty good.

The big boast for this gizmo was that all the ingredients were organic, non-gmo, and all the meat and eggs were raised naturally, free range, in the pasture, in the meadow, in the farm yard...like that.

All the food was bursting with flavor and nutrition. It was Mr. Natural Real Pure Hippy food from the chemical free farm.

Bertle and his small group were sampling some of the food. They had an agenda of a menu to try out. They were testing the wooden thing to see how it was supposed to be used, and what was the food like.

“Okay,” read Bertle, “Now we order New York strip loin steak, on the bar-bee-cue. You can choose how much fat, if any, you want on your steak, and how thick you want your steak, and how big...the weight of your steak. Make sure you name your steak, like, my steak is called 'Bertle's steak.'”

So they placed their orders.

Then there was a brief message coming from thin air: “Your order will arrive any moment. Here is the restaurant appearing right now. Enjoy your meal!”

And yes, just like that, the wall of the room swirled up and around, and then unswirled, revealing the inside of a restaurant. A wall, with several doors. Those types of doors that swing open and closed. And the busy sounds of a kitchen just beyond those doors.

And just like that, the maitre'd appeared coming from the swinging out door of the busy kitchen. And behind him came well dressed minions of silent, discrete service, each one carrying one order for each person. Each minion of service carried a tray with a big enough lid over some sort of big, round plate-tray thing. The kind of lid that has the fancy-Nancy little handle at the top of the dome.

With deft, swift, and a little bit of dash, the minions did a slick reveal of New York strip loin, bar-bee-cued to perfection. And a nice set of all the necessary accouterments, and some of those sides each person had ordered, from a fairly vast cross section of so-called 'Traditional American Food' top one hundred dishes served each year in all the USA.

Bertle's working group was famed for the no-mercy strategy of food warfare. To have a little wooden device that could be used by the average American, to order food, and have it brought by the maitre'd, and the minions, okay. Now what? How could this be bent to serve the purpose of the new reality?

They talked about this while they ate the food manifested from the power of a little piece of wood.

It was while the minions were putting away the dinner service, Bertle was watching the minions carefully working, putting the dirty cutlery into this very clever looking device masquerading as a typical dish rack basket for cutlery. Bertle was seeing the cutlery going in, and then...gone.

No more cutlery.

Same thing with the plates.

The minions carried the plates away on trays to the swinging doors of the kitchen. The glasses and empty bottles. And Bertle and his working group could all see the hectic kitchen for a few brief moments, as the swinging doors opened and closed a few times, about five times, five minions. Yeah, that was about right.

It was right about then that it happened.

Bertle was approached by one of the members of the working group, a woman. She wasn't young.

Or pretty.

Or nice.

But she was smart. And deadly. Not like Jane Bond, though she could have been her mentoress.

Deadly as in she had the ear of the power that can get you killed if need be. She knew people who could get things done, if need be. And now she was in the Real Magic Business.

She walked right up to Bertle. He was on break. Just staring at minions. Tasting the best dang steak he'd ever had. And those sides? Oh My God. Sooooo good. That was maybe Bertle's true Achilles heel. The food thing. And he wasn't into chi chi food, the weird high end chef, the most fancy-Nancy haute cuisine. But the New York strip loin steak he'd just finished?

Done to perfection.

There was no denying that.

So she said so, too.

And Bertle agreed with her, whole-heartedly.

(His divorce had come through, and he was lonely in his own way for something he felt best called 'true love.')

Unfortunately for Bertle, it left him vulnerable to his idiotic questioning of each woman he passed by, if she could be the one? Bertle had a little wooden magic thing that was supposed to signal him when there was genuine attraction, of a woman, to Bertle.

And he'd had this wooden thing for months, and no real hits. Not the epic kind he was looking for. Just hadn't happened. Until this woman came up to him and asked him a question.

And then, boom! Yeah. Home run. The wooden thing began a direct, private, very personal, telepathic, two-way communication with Bertle.

“Okay, her she is. Pay attention to everything that happens from here on in, okay Bertie?”

“Don't call me Bertie.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, oh. It'd be best if you just called me Master Bertle. That'd suit me most. Try that on for size: Master Bertle.”

“Oh Lord. Master Bertle, this is the woman.”

All this was going on while Bertle warmed up to this not young woman who was not nice but who clearly was attracted to him. She wasn't some twinky twat collecting ____s in some endless ____ quest, more always being better. She didn't reek of stupidity. She began by fondling his intellect. And from there she got to first base.

It was after she'd got to first base with Bertle, and he was aroused, for sure, she whispered in his ear, “I know you know about it.”

But Bertle didn't know which 'it' it could be.

“No I don't know. First of all, I'd need to know which 'it' it is that is the it you are talking about. So, which 'it'? Can you provide me with some details?”

She made sure she was looking him square in the face. She said emphatically, “Well then, I suppose I'm to tell you. Gosh. Gee, Commander Bond, hang on. We need to talk freely. So we need to use the vault. Okay, done.” And Bertle saw her flash him a wooden shield.

She smiled at him. Nice smile.

Thing of it was, Bertle thought there were only three people who had one of those wooden shields. And he was one of the three. And he knew the other two. And she wasn't one of them.

His eyes did their job. One look, and he could immediately see the full-on Devil's wood.

The wooden shield was made to fit easily in the palm of the hand. Or slipped in to a pocket. Only its owner could make it work. On command, a treasure trove of useful Real Magic manifestations, and one he liked a lot called 'The Vault'.

Once commanded, the selected space around you became an impenetrable vault, with touches of cosmic design flirting with luxury and comfort.

The entrance to The Vault was visible only to you, the owner of the little wooden shield. Once you entered, the door closed. Now you were inside The Vault. Now you had stepped out of your here.

Untraceable.

The time spent in the vault could last as long as you wanted. When you exited the vault, you seamlessly joined the exact same moment you entered The Vault.

Bertle told her, “Look, sister...I seen what you just flashed at me. Your little wooden shield thingy. That there is a power move. Why you doing that? Giving yourself up to me like this. Why? You must know that you are not supposed to be having one of those. That's just not okay. So, hand it over, and that'll be the end of that.”

She laughed in a way that betrayed her seduction to believe she was a ravishing beauty, and not some no-longer young looking woman of a certain age, besotted with her own persona, being an uber bitch and deadly.

“You know I'm a lot like you, Bertie. I believe in doing what ever it takes to stay on mission. If a little baby must be sacrificed to Mojo, I'll gladly do it for Uncle Sam. I'm all in, Bertie. But you don't tell me to do nothing, not ever, Bertie. Uh, uh, uh...stop right there. Forget using your Real Magic wooden toy on me. None of your little wooden toys are gonna work on me. Not one.”

Bertle watched the smugginess reveal this not-nice aging former beauty loss of the battle of aging. Gravity was winning. And not-niceness had been waging a war on her face. Some of those lines were settling in. Even with the cosmetic knife work she'd had done, twice now.

“You can't do anything about it. So that's that when it comes to all that. Nice vault, eh? I like it. My sanctuary. I come here a lot. I started coming the first moment I got my hands on my shield. I stayed the first time for over a year. And then I went back, right when I entered. It was seamless.

“How about you, Bertie? You ever go and just not come back for, ah, extended periods of inner reflection?”

But Bertle had never gone beyond the first room of his vault. He didn't want to know. His first room was utilitarian with only one nod to comfort, being the quality of the seats, and the presence of a kitchenette (well stocked), and a meeting table, some sofas big enough that you could lie down in comfort, if you wanted to. And one desk, for Bertle, with a killer chair, super ergonomic, custom made, just for Bertle.

____ing Real Magic.

“Yeah, you spent some time in your vault. I can see it clear as can be. Oh, gee-gosh-golly, yeah, I've got one of those, too. Yeah, I can hear what you're thinking even just a little bit before you do. ____ing can you believe it? The insanity of what I just said to you?”

She winked at him.

And in his mind, he heard her thinking right inside his brain, clear as in zero-hum, just her words, talking directly in his mind...to him. A real conversation.

“Yeah, so don't show any expression at all. I am going to talk to you this way. Just you and me. Completely private. Nobody and no-thing is gonna be in on any part of what we say to each other, here, in your mind.”

Bertle thought, “Okay, I'm impressed. You have inventory that I didn't know existed. Why am I not surprised? So...why let me in on any of this?”

She didn't exactly ignore his question as much as just answered one she wished she'd been asked. “Here's the deal. There's a book. A very special book. And it is so special that when you have it, you can read what's in the book, and it will happen. It is a book of instruction. Maybe you can guess the discipline this book teaches. Real Magic. Each page clearly reveals the exact incantation that creates immediate results.”

She made a gesture of --- hey! presto! --- and said, “Voila! Real Magic. Who knows what bunny you will pull out of what hat, eh Bertle?”

He was just barely keeping up.

The fact that he could see she was deadly serious was making an impression on him. He could feel his body revving up, the powerful threat assessment forecasting and scenario scanning, linked to his already overly heightened sense of knowing that his every ____ing thought was probably being read by some sort of wooden spy thing, made of Devil's wood that would transmit all his own thoughts, as he was having them.

It was a very paranoid time.

And he wasn't alone.

All the senior staff in on this Real Magic knew of the existence of wooden objects that read your mind, and transmitted what you are thinking, in real time. Some fewer knew about the wooden thing that allowed the thought reader to rewind the thoughts to whatever part of the thought stream they wanted.

And some of the senior staff had some version or another of the wooden doohickey that recorded the target's thoughts.

And each wooden little carving had to be stored somewhere. And there were so many now, and each one was, ah, special, and some potentially existentially powerful.

All the inventory and all the intrigues was mental clutter inside Bertle's mind. It bugged Bertle. He didn't like being in his own head, worrying about so many things he'd never had to worry about.

So when she told him about the book and the bunny rabbits he might pull out of the hat, she held his interest. And began to give him a road map out of the trap of not knowing how to do what is being done for you.

She said earnestly, “This is going to save humanity, Bertie. This is the edge we need, going forward. I am going to give you my copy, Bertie. And then you can use it. Then, when you are ready, you have to give it to another person. That's the deal. Take it or leave it. If you don't hand on the book when it is time, and you will know when it is time, then all the lessons of the book will fall away from you, and turn on you. So, don't make that mistake. Whatever you do.”

She winked one more time.

It was weird, actually.

Maybe she had a twitch.

“Oh,” she said, suddenly remembering something, “Once it is time to hand over the book, you will remember all the spells you used. But the ones you did not use, they will be lost to you for all eternity. That is the rule of the book. Nothing to do with me. I tried to compel the book to give me all the spells, as pure memory. But I got the memory but with no juice, no effect, no nothing! If I hadn't actually said the spell as directed, and induced the spell, done it, cast it, --- hey! Presto! --- if I hadn't done it myself, sure, my spell got me the full library, I can remember each and every incantation, word for word...but no juice, except for the spells I'd done when I had the book, before it was time for me to hand it over.”

Bertle said something polite, “I see. And how did that make you feel?”

She snorted at him. Yes. Snorted.

“What kind of bullshit question is that, Bertie?”

And the look she gave him made it clear to him.

“What I can do is so far beyond what you can do.”

And with that came the topper.

“And I can do it without the wooden trinkets of your Great Magician.”

***

Oh, those glorious days of pursuing the book, and finally, getting his hands on the book. The not-young, not-nice woman of a certain age was going to give him the book. But only after he proved he could select one incantation out of all, and then read the incantation...right through to the end.

And oh! How to see all the book, all at once, and know all the contents and the contents of the contents, and so on, for quite some distance in ever more incantations for ever more exotic manifestations, and, of course, ever more potent spells for toxic evil, defense and offense. The deeper you went, the book was ever more purpose driven.

To Bertle, it was clear that the book had its own agenda. And when he had his turn to see all of the entire book, his chance to see how much he'd take in of the all. When he said this that way, in his own mind, hopefully privately, but who ever knew anymore? So, ____ it, my thoughts, listen or don't. I am gonna get all of the all. I think it should be called, The All.”

A loud chorus greeted his private thoughts. Bursting into the privacy of his own mind. Uninvited. “The All, The All, oh the power of The All. Oh the greatness of the power of The All! The All is All There Is, Was, and Ever Can Be.”

No human ear would have heard a sound of this. No lips were moving or tongues. Nothing being whispered ultra quietly. Just this new, uninvited thing, come along and forced it's way into his head.

No.

Not on his watch.

He remembered the Einstein Tip that had changed his life when he began to use it: “Weak people revenge, strong people forgive, intelligent people ignore.”

Bertle had a mental revolution when he first read this quote by one of his hero science guys: The Albert...Einstein.

At first contact with such a simple quote, he'd been a brash young officer, bullying and conning his crew of white trash and colored folk into fighting pointless skirmishes and a few full-on battles, plus lots of juicy slaughter.

Guess where Bertle had served Freedom and Democracy, so full on and with enthusiasm?

Vietnam.

The year was 1969 when he first landed in Vietnam.

Some two years later when he collided with the idea of “...intelligent people ignore...”

About almost two years in to his first tour.

It was 1971, and he'd just read the quote. “...intelligent people ignore...”

Bertle had come to pride himself on his ability to ignore. What does it mean to ignore?

Refuse to take notice or acknowledge; disregard intentionally. Fail to consider (something significant).

All this meant, he was being intelligent by deliberately refusing to acknowledge or notice anything that was ignorable. The unignorable presented a problem to the average fanatic.

But not to Bertle of then or now.

He felt liked he'd been felt up by the choir of the chorus, jumping in on his riff of The All.

Invaded. Suddenly.

The cry of the uninvited astral juice sucking gang-bangers, busting in on his private mind, jumping in with some sort of cosmic spin on a Broadway musical intro.

The All of The All.

Jamming up his mind.

Another new personality, demanding acknowledgment.

Seemed to him, it was desperate for recognition.

High on drama.

Another ____ing semi-conductor, one of those demi-gods to go, on a ____ing stick.

And Bertle had to feign sufficient interest in the vast implications of welcoming this thing or group of things into the world. It was all clutter in his head.

Alien clumps of needs. Cravings. Hungers. Energy suckers clamping on to the feast of various emotions, astral energies, flavoured by the nuances of suffering possible among humans.

To ignore all this was intelligent.

The act of using intelligence being intelligent.

Intelligent intelligence.

Be unwonderstruck by The All of The All.

Ignore the chorus. You have one goal.

Ignore the distractions.

He ignored the clamor. The ignored clutter.

He mentally grimaced and frowned. Ignoring was hard. But he could do it.

He said, inside his own mind, “This is my turn. I will see all there is of The All to see. And I will know all of The All there is to know. And I will say all the incantations of the book, and I will know all the incantations, for I will cast each one, and know the nature of its manifestation.”

And so Bertle came to know the book.

And it was as he had said to himself in his mind. He'd get it all. And keep it. And he did. And that was it. Wasn't it?

***

Too bad about the Russians and the British.

There was room for one super power.

USA. Obvious. No question. Had to be.

Had to be because.

Because of the recent collapse of the USSR. The dwindling sunset of the once great Britain. Two powers dealt with their own reduced circumstances. Both had the dreaded nukes. Russia had about 19,000 and Britain had 281 nuclear weapons.

The race to the bottom was well underway in both nations when Real Magic showed up. And as Bertle learned the book inside-out, he came to a moment, a painful moment, when he did an incantation, and the manifestation was The Inner Eye, and tuned in to what your friends and enemies are plotting.

And in a snippet series, Bertle was plugged in. He received the telepathy snippets. The seeing what they're seeing snippets. And a bunch of other input that gave him a full throttled snippetization of the Brits and Ivan knee deep in Real Magic, with their own version of Joe Future. And all the wooden graven images. The fiendishly well made little wooden objects.

Bertle could recognize the basic shape of the different Real Magic objects. Though more the same than not, the objects were a little bit different from each other, but a shield was still shaped like a shield, whether it had the carved icons of the USA, Great Britain, or the Glorious Russian Federation.

And he noticed the unpleasant looking secretary fellow that lurked around each of the different magicians. Each secretary fellow looked a bit different, but more the same than not the same. Each one had a weasle-rodent face. Not the same, but close enough. And the thin, tallish, creepy posture, mixed in with a gross helping of slithering, sneering superiority and cringing obsequiousness.

Oh yeah, Bertle recognized each of the crew, in each location. Locked on. Solid contact. Best part, none of them knew he was staring right 'em. That was the power of the book. He was invisible.

Undetectable.

Bertle laughed. The wooden Devil's wood little objects were no longer needed on the voyage. After all, he easily had used over two hundred incantations since starting in on the book.

The more he learned how to do, the more it helped him to speed up learning all there was in the book to learn. The All. One way he figured out to learning all was to use his vault.

He went in there for as long as it took for him to learn the entire book, inside-out. All of it. All of The All. And he did. He learned all of The All.

When he was done, Bertle left the vault at the exact moment he entered the vault. It was flawless. Not a bump. Exact sl;ce. When he entered his vault, he was a mere mortal with little wooden carvings.

This time when he left his vault --- he was immortal. All powerful. He had God Powers. His mind had grown in concert with all the juice and the jazz. Bertle wasn't Bertle anymore.

He'd traded up.

And so, he looked to Great Britain and saw Un-great Britain. And beyond, Russia. Broken. Not working very well. He decided to visit Britain.

Incognito.

***

Bertle went to London, just like that. Speed of thought. Forget light speed. This was like this: think of where you want to be, and you are there. No whoosh. No sudden arrival with head spinning. No. Zero side effects. You were just there. Like that. Nothing to it. When you, ah, departed, there was no vacuum intake rush of air. No.

Zero signs.

That's how slick this deal was.

So Bertle has to be invisible. And not get bumped into. So he went as an incorporeal Bertle. So he could float through walls, and hang out without being detected. And he attended some of the same types of meetings he'd been having in the USA, with the same sort of experts and super-smart science types he'd been meeting with in the USA.

And nobody noticed him floating around, listening in. Hearing the same sort of blah-blah-blah that he'd put up with in the USA. Only this blither-blather came with cups of strong tea. The maniacal edge to the overall vibe also struck him as similar, too.

Everyone seemed to be in such a hurry.

Like a mad clock was ticking.

And Bertle snooped on Sir Darcy and The General.

But not a hint about the book.

IF they knew of the book, Bertle could not tell.

Bertle used some parts of the book to see if anyone else besides that woman and him had the book. In doing so, Bertle was hit by the realization that when it was time for him to pass the book on, he'd have to do that. Or lose what he had. All the secret sauces he could dip immortality into.

Intolerable idea.

He'd have to hand the book over.

And maybe he could make sure the next person learned very little of the book. And what if someone died before they passed the book to the next person? Died while they had the book? What then?

The book was up for grabs.

Finders keepers.

***

Bertle sat through some planning meetings led by Sir Darcy, hosted by The General, and a few senior science types looking tired and stunned. There were two political hacks, one of them the Prime Minister Tony Blair, and the other, one Alastair Campbell.

It sounded a lot like parts of kingdoms were being carved up and suborned to the ambition of their new chieftains, newly appointed by themselves, in a greedy little display of dividing the spoils of territories, and debating what Real Magic power would be shared with the common folk.

And what power would not be shared.

And who would not be sharing what with whom.

Bertle simmered in Sir Darcy's consciousness. It was easy for Bertle to absorb Sir Darcy's thoughts as Sir Darcy thought them: “I do wish this music hall hallucination of a mad General would stop barking like a mad dog. And this frenzy of a man, Tony Blair. Oh my God, man. Get a grip. Why does he fizzle so? He is quite mad, isn't he? They all are. And I suppose that means that I am quite sane, eh? Probably, I am the sanest in this room. Which is exactly my point, isn't it? And those science types? Oh, they've had their slide rulers buggered-nutted, haven't they? All those laws of physics, tossed in the bin. No longer in effect. Madness. Utter madness. And now...this, this, this greatest madness, ever.”

Tony Blair was speaking out loud, his voice trembling with pent-up emotion, “We'll hand out the wooden spoons, and get them in the hands of every Briton. And they will have whatever they want to eat, come to them, on the plate where they lay their wooden spoon. Enough food for one delicious, nutritious meal. With all the extras you could ever want. Imagine the change this will make to the life of every Briton!”

The General brayed and barked, “Come on, man! Absolute madness. Give 'em free food? Think, man. Society tipped on its head. Free lunch? Commercial people won't be your friend. No bloody good, at all. Has to be regulated. Rationed. Only way. No other way. Surely even you can see that.”

Tony Blair didn't like the dressing down he was being given by this popped up puff-out of a tin soldier. Even had the bloody riding crop perched under his arm. Blair had come to deeply hate The General.

“That's as may be, General Blank, and I can agree with you that it will set the nation on its ear. But in a good way. The way I see it, this will act as a diversion, ah, to keep the people busy. Out of mischief. Preoccupied with pies and pints. You do see that, don't you? Why, even you can see the sense in that, can't you?”

The General looked irritated by the existence of the Prime Minister. The pretense of Tony Blair being the real head of state remained a necessary fiction. The military wing of government was not quite ready to execute certain, very secret, plans.

Including the sudden departure of Tony Blair.

Where to?

A fast trip to no where. That's where.

The General was naked to Bertle. The future was going to be not very democratic. It was going to be a mad mans transitioning to being god-like. His will applied, a rubber stamp, fit to fit the entire world. The sharp reliefs of the mold would bite in to the gooey mass, forcing the change into place.

Nice and neat.

All the right sorts in all the right places.

Loyal to one man.

The General.

And a place at the table.

The War Council.

To govern the New British Empire. Once again, the sun would never set on The Empire of Great Britain.

For this particular New Great Britain would always be at war. And if the war was a contrived affair, so much the better. And with Real Magic, the royalty of the military could rise up and give organized planning to serve the mission.

The mission?

Control All. Real Magic especially.

Use Real Magic to eliminate unauthorized use of Real Magic.

Any and all unauthorized use.

The General's wooden inventory had to cover all the necessities. And the ultimate power, well, he'd naturally be the one with the FINAL wooden thingy, the one that could shut it all down, selectively or in one, big, beautiful purge.

His get out of jail free card.

Yeah, of course he had it.

Invisible Bertle stayed up late with The General as plans were made, and the countdown started getting closer and closer, and then it was on, and The General gave the order, crisply and cleanly, with little drama, “Let's get on with it, chaps. Commence Operation Freedom.”

As soon as said, the wheels bit in, and the several different events at once took place. The Prime Minister and his lot were all put in a room in Number Ten. The PM was searched. His shield was taken from him. All bits of wood exquisitely carved taken away.

Then the door was closed and locked.

The door was sealed with tape. And the gas canisters in the room were opened up by remote control. No magic was used. The people in the room were all gassed to death. They didn't have a chance.

Including the Prime Minister.

It was a nasty, gasping death.

At the same time, the television and radio stations were being switched from their regular programming to carrying a message from The General's New Great Britain Peace Department.

The message had a serious looking middle aged officer type sitting behind a simple desk. The background was all one white color. Except for the insignia of the Peace Department. And rows of flags, the Union Jack, and some battle flags, too.

“Good evening. This is an emergency broadcast. This is the Peace Department. Please pay strict attention. Today, at noon hour, Greenwich Mean Time, the United Officers of the New Royal British Armed Forces accepted an offer by Their Majesties to form a organized governing council to oversee the ongoing operations and all future endeavors of all aspects of governance of the British Isles and Northern Ireland. This has been done. The council is being duly accredited. The former government has graciously cooperated and now has removed itself.

“What does all this mean for you? The Peace Department brings peace to every Briton. And with this peace comes prosperity. We give you what you need to have to be grateful. It is your gratitude and loyalty that is most precious to your country. That you would even die to protect your country against those who would dare tempt their well-deserved fate!”

The camera shifted to show the best side of the man's stern features. He gave a significant pause, and looking to the horizon, not directly at the camera. Then a deliberate turning to face the camera, waiting for the close up, okay, now:

“Listen carefully to the following instructions. Each citizen of the British Isles will receive a very special gift from the Peace Department. A wooden token you can use anytime you want within a 30 day period. The wooden token is very valuable, and can supply up to 30 times, once a day, for up to 30 days.

“Your wooden token will supply you food. And you have your choice. The menu is varied, with over one thousand menu items. Each order is served as an optional choice of including as many guests as you want. Each guest served comes from your personal allotment of 30 every 30 day period.

“As the Head of Special Operations for the Peace Department, I can safely advise all citizens of the British Isles that Briton has entered, as of midnight, 00:01 A.M., as of one second after midnight, the legal powers of the state have been unified under one entity. The courts and all related endeavors, both civil and criminal, are all being referred to this Ultimate Tribunal System. This is all being overseen by the highest levels of your Peace Department.

“My Special Operations was formed with one simple task in mind. How to give you, the good citizen, the proof that what we are giving you is what we say it is. Now comes the part that experts tried really hard to figure out how to tell you the next part.

“Finally, a little child overheard some of the experts, and piped up and said, “You should just tell everybody that there really is magic.

“But what we've done is leaked some stories, with some demonstrations, to certain corners of the media. And we let that fester, didn't we?”

There were millions and millions of people watching all this. Listening to it on radio. All around the world. The world was lit up. This was big news. The best you can get, a breaking story of such history making unbelievableness. Well, what if it was a hoax? Some clever technical hacking, and some great risk taking, too.

“All around you, even as I continue speaking with you, by the alphabet, starting with last names, and then by given names, you will each one of you receive a wooden token. It will only work for you. So you can't trade it or sell it. Though with something like this, we here at Special Operations are if anything, pragmatic realists. If there is a way for a good, honest citizen of The British Isles to profit further from a gift, well, how can that be the business of the state?

“You will receive the wooden token in a most unusual way. It will appear, as if by magic, right in front of you, at about eye level, if you are sighted, and awake, and if you are unsighted, the wooden token will bump up against your forehead. It will move around doing that until you put it in your hand.

“No one else will be able to use your little gift. You will know immediately how to order food. Once you hold the little gift in your hand. Or in your pocket. Or you can hang it round your neck. You will immediately know how to use the gift. Remember, you will get one meal 30 times over a 30 day period. Then the little gift will reload.”

The Head of Special Operations stopped his monologue. And the camera switched to the side angle. He kept looking to his front, not shifting his body to follow the camera. Then he turned dramatically, coming to face the camera, and then the zoom in to closeup. The serious drama, over-hyped and obvious, the sudden new normal.

Like bad send-up comedy, the skit went crazily on: “And now the part where you should probably sit down if you can, and if you're driving, I think you should probably pull over, if you can, okay. I am perfectly serious. Stop what you're doing, if you can do so safely. This next part will be proven out over the coming few hours. Standby, message from The General, Ultra Commander, Peace Department.

“'As of one second past midnight, the permanent state of military dictatorship supported by the use of Real Magic came into effect. This multi-legal new constitution invests all rights and privileges of being above the law to the loyal servants of the Council of Unity.

“The ruling member of the Council of Unity is The General. He is our Great Leader. It is from his courage that Britons now have Real Peace. But now, you must be wondering, what is meant by the term Real Magic?

“Well, by now, many thousands of you will have received your little wooden token. It looks like a very well made wooden plate with a bowl and a spoon, knife, fork. All of it quite small, and very well made, too. And many of you have already learned how to use your gift from Special Operations.

“And so, many of you have first hand experience of Real Magic. The way you can hear the wooden token speak to you, ask you if you want anything to eat? And some of you placed an order, didn't you? And then what happened?”

The man laughed. He seemed genuinely amused.

“The food came to you, didn't it? Served right to you. Real food. And quite good, too. Nothing stingy about the servings. All quite impressive. And it should be. Now that Special Operations has made the unbelievable believable, you are all learning of how millions of citizens of Briton are receiving their gift.

“Special Operations is now inaugurating the Age or Real Magic, as administered by the Unity Council of the Peace Department. Over the coming days, you will receive further tokens of proof. All good and loyal citizens will receive preferential benefits. All negative and disloyal citizens will receive swift and stern justice. Our new Royal Governance gives special freedoms to The Leader, our glorious Ultra Commander, and any duly empowered servant of Special Operations.

“These special freedoms include being outside and above the law. Freedom from future prosecution and charges. Legal right to detain anyone, anywhere, anytime, with no exceptions. Given extraordinary powers to prosecute and interrogate anyone, anywhere, at any time. Use any means possible to extract reliable information.

“It is our intention that you feel a sense of fear. It is appropriate for you to feel fear. We want you to be scared of Special Operations. It is crucial to your future well-being that you quickly adapt to this new reality. Your new reality. A world with magic. Real Magic.

“Do you need your teeth taken care of? Well, stand by, good and loyal citizen. If you are means tested, and have made your application, you can get painless treatment, done perfectly, just like that. Snap of the finger, and, as we say around here --- hey! Presto!--- just like that, teeth painlessly fixed, perfectly. You will receive your wooden dental token by special delivery. Yes.

“Here are some terms for you to learn: manifestation, manifest, manifesting. Right, you are going to start hearing Officials of Special Operations using the term 'manifestation' and here's an example: 'There will a mass manifestation of the wooden dental tokens in precisely 60 seconds. Stand by. The wooden dental token will appear as a small wooden toothbrush. This will manifest in T-minus ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one...we have manifestation, we have it, the manifestation just happened.'”

***

About the same time as the global media was leading with the breaking news story in Great Britain, the Russians decided they had no choice but to activate their own New Federation. This was firmly under the active control of (who else?) Vladmir Putin.

This was the moment of the high tide of Real Magic being outed in the UK, Russia, and the USA. There was such a mess of magic going on. And hey, hello! The surprise of each to learn that each of the others had their own magician.

And how to charm the citizens, and what to do about the magic wooden thingies? The leaking of the existence of Real Magic before the official take over...that was clever. Those who could know, knew that it wasn't something they had done. It was something done by Mister ____ing X.

Maybe suspect number one was The Magician. Or his creepy servant. Or both.

***

Some weeks before The General went on television, there had been the demonstrations of so-called Real Magic done in front of experts. The strangest shit you've ever seen. Small stuff to start. But enough zero evidence of fakery to make the experts test again. Eliminate anomalies.

Nobody official taking any notice or responsibility. Hadn't really hit their radar. Not yet. About to change.

The mainstream media began to report on it. They began to have live demonstrations of Real Magic, and showing close ups of the little wooden tokens. And when used, the immediate results, manifestation, ---poof!--- there it was. Whatever it was supposed to be, there it was.

Just like that.

It got to be ridiculous about the time the cars started manifesting. TV stations all over the place were having these real-time demonstrations. Experts going mental. Show hosts not always just rolling with it, either.

The general public began to become aware.

Yeah, at first it seemed like fancy camera work. Simple trick, really. If you knew how. And even in front of an audience. A good magician can make a car seem to appear out of thin air. But not just out of thin air. In front of you. One moment, there is no car, and the next moment, there is a real car, right there. Instantaneous manifestation.

And it is a real, working, car.

A very sweet ride.

And comes with a special warranty, too.

It all was happening too fast for a normal government to cope. Perfect for a much needed regime change. Solid Order for the good of the nation. When backed up by the substantial resources of Real Magic.

***

Bertle went to Russia and took in, first hand, the early days of The New Russian Soviet Empire. He did so in his handy, dandy invisible manifestation.

Hanging out around Vlad and the henchmen, all of 'em Vlad's boot licking grovel warts. Their raw cunning amped up, much needed to stay in that inner-circle. During the course of his career, Bertle had been mixed in with a full roster of evil doers. He was no virgin. But Vlad's crew made Bertle feel fear. Even though he was invisible and undetectable.

He listened in near hysterical terror to V. Putin describe the plan to take over the world. And he was serious.

“The plan is in place. There is no going back. We will launch a complete takeover of the entire world. All systems will be under our control. Everything. All mechanical devices, big and small. Cars, trains, buses, airplanes, elevators, farm machinery, boats, submarines, rockets, everything, everywhere. Telephones, radios, televisions, all of it. Any sort of electrical device, battery powered or not. All if it, under our control.

“Anything with a switch will be under our control. And we will demonstrate our power by shutting down all of the USA and the UK. Everything will be shut down. Including any military assets. They can all be in the dark. Nothing working. How about it? As a demonstration? Well?”

And so, Bertle spied on this little gang of men dreaming up the take-over of the world.

Vlad said, “We don't really have the time to be thoughtful. No. We have time to take action, immediate action. I will address the nation, right now, and make the announcement. Right now, you must use every magic trick we have to control Russia, right now. We can't wait to risk controlling the entire world. Not right now. We have to act. “

And the television cameras were ready for Vlad. And he spoke. Hunched over his resolute desk, flags lined up behind him, his straightforward way he had to make very lying word sound sincere and completely believable.

“My fellow citizens. I have something very important to tell you. There is something called Real Magic. News of this Real Magic has been the subject of global speculation. Now, we can absolutely verify that there is Real Magic. It is true. It is real.

“My government has put in place special task forces to regulate the appropriate use of Real Magic. And also, to distribute to loyal and good citizens the practical applications of Real Magic.

“As you have seen in the many videos taken of what are called manifestations, Real Magic works instantaneously. And you've probably seen the manifestation of food, animals, cars, shoes, even water.

“My government is, even now, implementing an international treaty unilaterally enforced by the Supreme Council of the New Russian Empire.”

Vlad let his face betray the enormous pleasure he was getting from making this declaration. That smirky, smuggy face that only Vlad had. Custom designed for denigrating. Mobile and dexterous. A face made for your squeals of delight while you punch it with brass knuckles.

Bertle went from meeting to meeting, witnessing Vlad on magic, able to keep going without any sleep, clear minded, sharp, and tuned in to what everyone was thinking and feeling.

Vlad had the advantages of using Real Magic.

All the really good stuff.

He was going to rewrite history, and --- poof! --- people would believe it. There was so much he could do, on his own, right at his command. He only had to think about what he wanted, and the Real Magic would amass, responding to his summons. Then he could think what he wanted, and whisper, “Presto!”

Manifestation.

Just like that.

***

Of course it had to come crashing down.

All of it.

Bertle kind of saw what was coming about the time he was given a copy of the book of instruction. He could see that having god-powers needed durable maturity. He wasn't sure that a bunch of formally mortal, frail, flawed, fallible human beings could be suddenly minted as God Like Super Beings.

He could see the inevitable showdowns between the newly empowered Super Beings. The first world war starring Real Magic. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, they all found out.

The lowest blow probably came when Vlad turned all the people of the USA into pigs. But there were plenty of precedents before that happened. And what comes after turning every person in the USA into swine? This was crazy-town magic being concocted by a man, Vlad, once a mere mortal. Deviously clever, true. He came to power with deep seated grievances.

Now, he was endowed with God Like powers. Able to command Real Magic manifestations --- just like that. Vlad was now a very dangerous, no longer human, God like being, in a formerly human body, yes, true. You'd have never known it wasn't Vlad Putin. He looked...normal.

Bertle could see how far the entire silly fiasco of Real Magic had gone. How each of the three nations had been lured, the same way, more or less, with some effective adaptations to each culture. USA = Joe Future; UK = Ben Prophet; RUS = The Master, Мастер;

Each one with a loathsome secretary creepy guy.

And Bertle remembered both the American version and most particularly the Russian, Verchinski. Unforgetable. And now, it was all spinning out of control. Bertle couldn't float around while Vlad Putin was turning entire populations into piggy.

Bertle used some of this hefty God Powers to watch the entire population of the USA in the bodies of pigs. There was instant catastrophe as cars and trucks and buses and trains and airplanes and construction equipment and ships at sea and every normal activity performed in a typical work day, normally overseen by humans, became overseen by frantic pigs. Pigs who were actually, moments ago, normal human beings.

Now all of that came to a sudden stop.

Worse yet, you have people in pigs bodies trying to sort out what just happened to them.

Even as the car they were driving is now heading into oncoming traffic. Or airplane landing. Or how about that atomic submarine. All of a sudden, the entire crew, --- poof! --- all pigs.

Bertle watched the entire pig show, in all places of the USA. Including the submarines.

Seeing with God Power had its advantages.

The porcine panic spilled out into the streets. Strange spectacles of pigs dragging around articles of clothing they'd been wearing when they became pigs. Like underwear and necklaces and ear rings and lipstick and so on. Where ever there were crowds of people, now, all of a sudden, each one instantly changed into a...pig. You'd see little piles of clothing.

The madness of the noise of astonished and frightened former humans, now squealing in terror. Added to by the sound of the voice they made when they tried to speak. That sound was strangled by pig throat and tongue, and squealing and oink, oink, oink cried out, adding to the raving madness now underway as thousands and thousands of ex-humans ran about, on all fours, some in small groups, some all alone. Imagine that.

Turning into a pig while you are alone. Or while you are driving your car. Not a happy ending. Catastrophe. And Bertle thought that it had all gone too far.

He knew that the USA wouldn't take this lying down. He knew that Vlad was going to pay. How? When? Well, when Bertle considered the relative difference in God Powers of him and Vlad, he had to be fatally realistic.

He was way better than Vlad would ever be.

Just the fact he could hang around and not be detected, that was God Gangster Dope with a Halo on Top. The cynic might be tempted to assume Vlad wanted Bertle to think he was invisible, undetected, unnoticed...but in reality, no. And that Vlad knew all along.

But Bertle knew he'd fooled Vlad and that he was way better than Vlad would ever be. Bertle had the book of instruction. Vlad did not. Simple. Vlad had the trinkets of Devil's wood.

But it was the high tide of Real Magic. The high water mark almost reached. Since Bertle and all the others were caught up in the rising tide, with one ever more magical wooden doo-dah after another, and the intrigues, oh those intrigues --- powered by the misuse of a few bits and pieces made of Devil's wood --- made an effective smoke screen to hide the existential threat of Real Magic.

The question he avoided until the very last: How long before the magic turns on us? Bertle could see how people became as bad as they could be, and Real Magic made that especially extra bad. And then what?

If you can turn someone you don't like into a slow moving lawn slug, you can take great pleasure in stomping on the lawn slug. Ah! What a nice gooey mess it made.

You will never get caught, by the way.

After all, it was just a lawn slug. No crime there.

Now how do you feel about it?

How about being in more than one place at the same time, in the flesh. Convincingly in the flesh. Imagine the fun you could have with that little wooden effigy. Even better if you used the incantation from the book of instruction.

Bertle knew so much from the book, that if he wanted to, he could reverse the Vlad swine transformation. “If I want, I can reset the entire montage to the moment just before Putin throws the switch for 'The Swinal Solution.' IF I want to.”

He didn't feel normal anymore.

The loss of normal vulnerability and the loss of normal senses, the loss of normal physical stamina and normal sheer, raw physical strength and prowess...all these losses added up.

Now he was endowed with invulnerability, super-normal senses, God Stamina and the raw physical strength to go with it.

He had lost his sore back.

All the aches and pains...lost.

The looks of deep fatigue etched in his faces, all lost. The loss of the ability to be killed. All normal stuff about Bertle. Lost in the super-normal.

He laughed as he thought about all this stuff.

“____, I can ____ing fly IF I want to. Just like ____ing Super Dooper ____ing Man.”

Bertle gloated at the power he now controlled.

IF he wanted to, he could take over the world of humans. By now, he had reached that near ultimate temptation, to rule the world. The means to do so his to bend as he wished. At that moment, he knew himself to be the only one who had completed almost all the incantations found in the book of instruction.

He would remember each one. Thousands of incantations. Only a few more to complete. He would have enough time. Especially if he used The Vault.

***

When Bertle emerged from his vault, it was a perfect sl;ce. Seamless. Like he'd never been away for ten years. He'd really taken his time. And now he knew all the incantations. He knew all of The All.

And he had a plan.

To take control of the world.

And to rule the world.

The last moment he'd been in that here, Vlad had just done his USA Swine Transformation. Bertle gave the world a quick glance, just to see IF he was getting gamed somewhere, somehow.

No. All clear.

Being God had gone to his head.

He wished for a suitable woman to be at his side. Someone he could trust absolutely. Loyal and true to the word. Yeah. That'd be nice. Add in some emotional maturity and achingly babe-a-lacious manifestation...and --- hey! Presto! --- a suitable woman. He used Real Magic to manifest a real human being, from scratch.

Imagine that.

His own personal Eve, custom made.

Did such a creature have a soul?

Did it know that it was a manifestation? The result of an incantation?

The sheer raw power of all this was quite the rush. Bertle cooly realized that he could make the suitable woman disappear --- poof! --- just like that.

He looked out from his magnanimous Tower of Powers of God. The fate of humanity pulsed in his hands. He could easily send millions to a well-deserved holiday in the eternal flames of Hell. He could watch as they arrived in Hell. Damnation had a nice twist to it.

Bertle wanted to have the punished given frequent reminders about when they went too wrong for Bertle. And that it was him judging them. He'd taken over from God. He wanted them to know all that.

All the mortals should know it was him.

And he could do anything he wanted.

So he decided to call a meeting. He had an itch he'd been wanting to scratch for a very long time. That was born from answering to moronic men, the ones who gave the orders to minions like he'd once been. Starting long ago, in the steaming humidor of Southeast Asia.

Now he wanted to gather in the top men who now were striving to rule the world. The ones at the very top of the pile of wooden little objects. Each little wooden carving often hosting a suite of Real Magic options, often integrated into a whole set of sub-sets. What this meant was IF you had two wooden objects, the result was the unlocking of a lot more options.

His guests were going to be the top tier. The very few. The tippy-top of the British: The General and some fag named Sir Darcy. USA had to be Junior Bush 'W', and Donald Rumsfeld. The Russians would be all in with one guy: Vlad, President Putin.

Bertle was at his craziest time, at the most absurd height of his powers. Proved as he manifested the meeting. Just like that. He manifested his guest list and himself to a special location for the meeting. He added some staff for his guests, and of course, some substantial quantities of supplies of the highest quality.

The meeting was materialized instantaneously in a remote location, high in the alps, somewhere. Europe? Maybe. Yeah, could be. But it was deep into winter, and the snow cap looked impressive. Deep, white powder.

But, oh my, you were hit by how high up you were.

And this all happened --- just like that. One moment, Vlad Putin was spouting off about something endlessly important, in his boring suit, shirt, tie, silly shoes, and his evil, shitty little soul, what was left of it to be shitty. And his minions and boot-lickers nodded knowingly, and ached from smiling.

And the next moment --- poof! --- Vlad was gone. And his minions rolled their tongues back into their mouths. No one said a word. Each one looking out the side of their eyes. Waiting for one to make the next move. The best they could do was act as if Vlad Putin was still there.

Even though they had some Real Magic little wooden carvings...they were all scared of him. He had them all in the palm of his hand, and they all knew it.

You see, Real Magic had made Vlad Putin go a bit mad. So he turned everyone in the USA into Porky Pig. His evil was hilariously cruel. Each person turned into a pig kept their awareness of being human, of being that person they used to be before the transformation. Now they were alive as a pig but with all the awareness of being a human being, of being whoever it was they'd been as a human.

So...it was a complete freak show.

These humans who were now pigs could not speak pig. So they just squealed and grunted. No one understood anyone else. Except by the emotional content of the squealing and grunting. That was all there was...at the beginning. The beginning of the Swinal Transformation.

A small number of the USA elite avoided being swined.

The elite of the USA Real Magic, Incorporated, carved out a presence in the Free Zone that had sprung up along the Mexican border. This was a place where caballeros set out into the USA, with guns. There was a bounty on the pigmans, plus the meat had real value.

These hunters would set out with several empty wagons, set for hauling meat. A man on a horse was good for flushing out the pigs. But after just a few weeks, this sport quickly died off as so many of the pigs had died from being humans inside the body of a pig. They didn't come with pig know how.

So most of them just died. Often in the most desperate of struggles. Screaming out in squeals that no one understood, not even the squealer understood their own squeals. Just the emotion.

Oh, the madness.

Oh, how Vlad Putin had savored the abrupt madness of so many millions; one moment living a completely normal human life, the next, you are suddenly in the body of a pig. It is you, but now you are in the body of a pig.

If you were driving a car at the moment of transformation, then you became a pig, inside the clothes you had on at the moment of transformation, but you are no longer driving the car, you are sitting in the car like a human, but you are a pig, so there is a moment when you try and steer the car, but you can't see where you are going, so now you try and figure out why you can't see over the steering wheel, and why do you seem to have really ____ed up feet and hands and what is that sound you are making? You notice that you sound like a pig. A squealing pig.

Now the walls close in.

Realization of utter madness.

And the car crashes, head on, into a big tractor trailer, driven by another fellow ex-human, now pigman, and this pigman was trying to drive the big truck safely to a stop, but the pigman just couldn't move the steering wheel.

Something like that.

Those two pigs met suddenly.

Then they were dead, just like that.

So many pigs died in one catastrophe after another.

Or slowly, of starvation.

And the dogs became wild. There were no more humans. No more humans, just pigs. Mostly dead pigs, and their bodies rotted. That is true.

Without humans, all the machinery began to fail. The power plants, the atomic reactors, the toxic chemical plants, the entire swinging dick of USA infrastructure, untended by human hands. Only pigs left to tend civilization's burden of machines.

Those first few hours immediately following the Vlad Swine transformation, the newly minted pigs were freaking the ____ out. Imagine being a little kid and living your fine little human life, and then, suddenly, --- poof! --- you are now a fine little piggy. Obviously a bit of a trauma, right?

So Bertle summoned the top tier of the human side of the world of Real Magic. He manifested a great place for the meeting. Laid in all the supplies and necessities. Placed a Super-Seal all around the location of the meeting. Nobody could get in or out without Bertle's say so. And no spies. There would be no more too many spies.

***

The moment of arrival of all his guests found Bertle sitting in a luxurious reception hall, on a raised, rather sumptuous looking chair, suspiciously like a throne. He was on display.

As each of his guests popped into existence in front of Bertle, the chaos of the moment overwhelmed the quiet dignity of the hall. They had all been extracted without warning from their various fool's paradise of being absolutely secure.

And as their minds dealt with reality, each one recognizing each other, a rapid round of mind-____ing consternation occupied the first minute of their arrival.

Worse yet was the terror in the eyes as they tried to use whatever Real Magic was in their pocket, or hanging round their neck, or pinned to a suit coat. But the wooden do-hickeys didn't do...anything.

And where were the people who guarded them? WTF? And this isn't where I was. Who is this guy? Sitting on a...throne?

President Bush, Junior, recognized Bertle. Not right away. It took Bush a few minutes to cautiously call out, “Hey...that you? That guy? What is your name? Buttle? Battle? Yeah. Something like that.”

Bush's face lit up. He came right up to the throne and exclaimed, “Well, ____ yeah! You work for me. Alright. Good. Now maybe you can tell me what the hell is going on!”

Bertle brought his right index finger to his lips and made a shushing sound. He waved that finger in the arc of 'no-no-no'. The other men all started to talk in loud voices. There was a lot of demanding going on. And threats. And then some pushing started, with one man after another loudly accusing the others of base treachery.

Bertle couldn't help but grin at the wheels coming off. It was a glorious collision. And then he clapped his hands together. And there was silence. The men couldn't utter a sound. Bertle's grin settled into a deep smile of contentment.

He said clearly and slowly, “I did that. I made you all stop. Can't make a sound now, can you? I did that. Just so you know.”

He gave it a significant pause.

Then he said, very calmly, “And I made you come here. To this place. I did it. No one else. And I didn't have to use any of your little wooden toys. No. And your little wooden toys don't work now, do they? No, they don't. And they won't unless I decide to let them work. Now what do you think about that? Oh. Yes. About your thoughts, yes. I can hear your thoughts even before you've finished thinking them. Nice touch. Before. I like that. Before. Ha!”

The men were finally standing still.

All of them lined up in front of Bertle.

Ah! At last. He didn't even have to speak. He could just think, right into their brains. Right where they had conscious thought going on. But he preferred good old fashioned human speech, talkie-talkie. And he preferred that they were seen and not heard. So...ears open, tongues stilled, lips sealed.

Perfect.

And Bertle was just getting going with his soon to be famous monologue of grievance and vengeance, self-promoted to Ruler Supreme of All The Earth, “Its peoples, flora and fauna, all property, lands, seas, oceans, rivers, lakes, creeks, streams, ponds, wetlands, and all of it underground, all the water, and the entire planet, from the outer reaches of the planet's annual pilgrimage, to the moon that circles Me. All of it, mine...and you too, are mine. I allow you to stay created and with a modicum of free will. Enough so you can get yourselves in trouble...on a regular basis.”

He let them have a nice significant pause.

Then he gathered himself up with a magnificent inhaling of air, and then when ready, he spoke on the exhale, slowly, with his Bert-el-lish deep voice, confidently, rich in commanding tones, a voice of such authority, assured of unquestioning loyalty...he used that voice.

“I can simply extinguish each one of you, make it like you were never really here all that much. You quickly become a blurred memory in the minds of the great masses, then forgotten. A few will have bright and clear memories. But they will all die off soon enough. Fall out of second story windows at mental hospitals. Suffer a heart attack while driving to work on Monday morning. Fall down the stairs. Murder-suicide of a family committed by the target male, husband, father. Oh, and just out and out assassination by polonium or nerve agent VX.

“And then you will be mentioned in some nicely whitewashed content about you, to be found in the files of newspapers and magazines, some journals, all of that mention depending on the person's noteworthiness.

“And so you just disappear.

“Lost forever, except by complete accident.

“Maybe somebody or other is going through an old newspaper story about something or other and that had a mention of you in it. Maybe you were mentioned in passing. Perhaps there was even a picture with the article that had you in it, probably to the side of the main subject of the article. Mentioned in passing.

“Somebody read your name, and maybe a few words about you. But they weren't looking for you. They never remembered what they read about you or even what your name was.

“And that's the last person to ever read about you.

“And everyone who ever knew you are now all dead.

“And that's it. It's like you were never here.

“And then the light goes off for ever.

“There are no more people reading these old articles.

“You are now no more.

“Gone.

“How does that feel, Vlad? Eh? Special, eh? You who wanted to live and rule FOREVER. Convinced yourself you could do it, too. Well, you did do something, ah, memorable. The Swine transformation was hilarious. I bet Mr. Bush and his side kicks are really eager to show you how much you mean to them. Would you like me to let them lose on you? Maybe keep you more or less helpless while they get on with it. Now, careful, remember, fists hit soft stuff, open hand and hammer fists hit hard stuff, fingers and thumbs jab eyes. Pace yourself. Give our good buddy here, Vlad Putin, a few seconds between each attack. I want you to pace yourselves.

“And be careful with your hands. Don't hurt your hands. Be careful. Yeah, there you go, take off your tie and wrap your fist with your tie. Good idea. Okay, good, take off your shoe. Nice, and the other one. Okay. Good. Hold the shoe so you can really hit our Russian friend. Now you have each a nice weapon with which to hit our buddy, Vlad Putin. Eh, Vladdy? Gonna be a whole heap of fun for you, eh?”

As the Americans and the British beat Vlad Putin, the dwindling cries of outraged pain, and Vlad was standing still, unable to fall, his body locked in Bertle's tiny little hint of a manifestation. One designed to keep Vlad upright and almost completely unmoving.

The beating continued even when Vlad was no longer making any noise. And the man's well beaten face and head didn't look very nice.

“I think you've probably beaten him to death.”

The four men stopped and all turned to look at Bertle.

“That leaves more for each of you.”

One of the four spoke up. It was Donald Rumsfeld.

“Hey, Bertle, can you give me some new shoes, please. These ones, well, they're...all busted up at the heels.”

Bertle smiled like a madman who had all the ice cream. “Sure. No problem. Just put your new shoes on. There, in your hands. New shoes.” And it was as he said, the new shoes appeared in Donald Rumsfeld's hands. Bertle continued, “Okay. Now, listen up. You enjoyed killing that guy, didn't you? Well, I sure enjoyed you doing it. In fact, I liked it sooooo much, I've decided to make it one of my greatest hits, and I am going to spl;ce that in and out, a lot. I can tell you.

“Okay, enough about my taste for vengeance. I really like the taste. It is sooooooo nourishing. Now I am beginning to really get my old Jehova God. And why so much Old Testament cleansing by Jehova God of the sinful people. Always wondered about the dark side of Jehova God. But now...I get it. Vengeance is mine, thus sayeth The Lord.”

He then tut-tutted.

“Yes, but, tutty-tut-tut, I have compared myself to Jehova God. No. I have done it the other way. Compare Jehova God to me. I am here to announce that I have taken over all of creation. I am in charge now. Sentient everywhere, in all space and time. Punto final. You exist at my pleasure. So keep me pleased. Think of what brings me pleasure, what helps me to feel pleasure, and do that. Simple.

“I like the simple things in life. Like ritual human sacrifice. The building of churches where I can appear and preach The Word of God. At the same time, around the world. The people will gather in the churches to hear the word given to them simultaneously by me, their God.”

And as Bertle told them this fantastic list of items on his checklist, the menu for dictatorship by an ex-mortal human, now taking over the universe, with one incantation left to speak, Bertle began to speak the first few words of the incantation, and that is when an unexpected event stole the moment.

Suddenly, all of God-Bertle's guests just disappeared. One moment they were there, in front of Bertle-God, and then, they weren't there anymore. Instead, standing in a roguish stance was someone Bertle God did not know, at all. Which was impossible because Bertle as God-Bertle had omniscience. So he should have known who this person was. Definitely a male person. Youngish guy. Neat, severe hair cut. Forest of eyebrows. Sharpish nose, nostrils looked mean, cruel. Lips were cut thin but wide. And a chin of noble proportions. It was his chin and jaw line that proclaimed the power breeding of this model of white-privileged superiority.

“Yeah, about that God Thing, Bert. That had to go. Somewhat above your pay grade. Yeah. So there's that. And then there is how your little brilliant idea of getting that crew together, yeah, that idea...wasn't yours. No. I put that in your little brain, Bert. That was...me. Just ____ing with you because I could, because I can, and there isn't anything you can do about it.”

Bertle wasn't sure about that.

He was pulling a big capacity inhale of God Stuff. Getting a big momentum going. Stuffing that God Stuff, concentrating that God Stuff. Building up the pressure. If he just let this clown keep monologing, maybe he could pull a sudden reversal, with a severe smack down on buddy boy.

The young ex-mortal ex-man gloated.

“I am in two places at once. Here, with you. And you are helpless. Completely in my power. Some God you turned out to be, eh Bert? And I am in my Room of Power, with those men you abducted, including Vladmir Putin. And by the way, he is in perfect health. I like Vlad. He made me laugh when he turned all those Americans into little piggies.”

He smiled, revealing very white and clean looking teeth. Sharp and useful. Ready to bite, rip, tear, and chew. He said happily, “These piggies are just right for being slow roasted over coals, ha, ha, ha, piggies on a spit. You must come on a hunt with me. We have a feast. The meat is delicious!”

He was going to keep going on and on. Bertle knew it. And for that reason as much as any other, Bertle let loose the God Stuff in one cataclysmic strike. He overpowered the gloating young man.

It was pure and raw.

The take down was completed by a jarring blow to the young man. A very physical smack down, hard, to the ground. So hard, he bounced. Yeah. He was out cold.

Bertle's grin was back.

He had all the men back. Including Vladmir Putin. Who was nicely alive and unmarked. And the two Americans had been turned into piggy-oinkers. The other two men, the British, unchanged, not pigs.

Bertle spoke with a gloat.

“Welcome back. Well, here we are. Pigs, eh? Okay, that gets reversed. There. Okay, now you are no longer pigs, I can see all of you need to catch up with what's going on. Me too. It would seem there are some wanna-be's out there. Turf challenge? Yeah. Well, I gave that last guy who tried it a nice beating. Now, where were we?”

Just as he was going to say, “Oh yeah...” and launch into his monologue, there was another sudden switch. Once again, his little audience was gone, just like that. Snap of the fingers. Gone.

And standing where they'd more or less been, was a youngish woman. Quite good looking. He thought maybe she was familiar somehow.

She interrupted his little thoughts.

“You don't recognize me? I am that woman. The one who gave you the book to read. Now...do you remember me?”

Yeah. Now he did.

Bertle couldn't stop himself from saying, “You're frigging gorgeous. Lost the old age. Look at you. Hey, if you want to, we can get bare naked and ____.”

She didn't stop smiling.

She said cheerfully, “My oh my...my one and only Prince Charming. Maybe later. Right now, you know. I just gotta tell you. You are not God material, Bertie. See, I just came in and took away all your God Shit. You are just another mere ex-immortal. All you can hope for is to get your hands on some wooden toys...that's IF I let them work. So I took your little gaggle of wanna-be Rulers of the World, and I am going to pass them through my special executive training solution. Then they will be oh-so nice and polite and, ah, pliant. Yes. Pliant.”

Bertle couldn't help but notice that he was no longer able to gather up any God Stuff. He tried an incantation but there was nothing. He looked around to see if someone had dropped a wooden thing-a-ma-jig, anything...but no, there wasn't anything he could see.

“Yes, pliant. And you will be, too. Bertie. And then maybe, just maybe, you can serve my pleasure, Bertie. Yes. I'll let you ____ me. Ha, ha ha. Doesn't that sound nice, Bertie?”

And this sort of torture would have gone on and on. But then, there was another sudden change-oh --- hey! Presto! --- and the young woman was gone, and now there were two people standing there. Each of them with a copy of the book of instruction.

One older man and one older woman.

They turned on each other and one said, faster than the other, “...so turn each one to my slave for now and forever, their powers mine, and all that they shall ever have is now mine...” And at the last words, the older man froze into place. He was just as fast, silent. The older woman gave a sound of victory. It was sincere. Dipped in survival.

Bertle kept quiet. He couldn't wait to find out who this was. He thought, “I don't recognize either of them.”

The older woman waved absently in the air, and just like that a very nice divan appeared behind her, perfectly poised for her to sit down. This was done with one, deft motion of the divan.

It floated up into the air and then down on the floor, quite close to Bertle. “Ah, here you are. No doubt you are enjoying the show. One after the other. And this one!” she gestured at the older man. Still frozen.

“Tried to end my existence. Yes. Kill me. But that can't be done. I am immortal, invincible, and all powerful. I am God Almighty. But me. Little old me. And I really like me. I do. And I liked you, Bertle. I did. I enjoyed your stint as what you thought was you being God.

“But that can't be, Bertle. Because I am God. I read the book. All of it. And I did ALL the incantations, Bertle. And there are just a few more, like you, kicking around. And I am going to sort all that out. And I will do whatever it takes. That sound familiar, Bertle? Sort of your little train that could motto, right? What ever it takes. Yeah. Underline that.”

The madness of the sudden switching from one power-crazed ex-human, well, it happened again. But this time there were six men. And this time, Bertle recognized each one of them.

The three magicians.

Joe Future.

Ben Prophet.

The Maestro.

The three servants of the three magicians.

Verchinski.

Hubert Franks.

Blank Blank.

Appearing suddenly, sitting in a clump on the floor, all the previous usurpers. Each one now bound in chains and manacles.

The three magicians each had a suitable expression of having all the cream. Oh-so smug. And the phony sounding voice, with each speaking one word, in turn, each one speaking one word, after the other, in a perfect round of speech.

It was quite the neatest thing Bertle had ever seen performed. There was no awkward fumbling. No. It was all perfect symmetry, one word at a time.

'Well, this really is enough. We thought we could let you go on. Well, I thought we could. And so did I. Me too! Yes, and I did, as well. But, then. Ah yes! Then. Always with that then. Then, then, then. You all got so big for your britches. Went to your heads. Too much of a good thing ruins your, ah, appetite. For the simple servings of humble folks. But then, not you lot. Fancied yourselves as the Next Big Thing. Well, now, that is all done, over with, never to be, ever. And so, back to normal.

“We, or rather me, I take over the civilization. I don't need to be seen or thought of as God. That really is taking it all a bit too far. But, well, as the man in charge, ahem, the men in charge, we'll have everything back to where it was about the time we first met all of you. And this time, we won't have any book of instruction floating about. That we can, ah, omit.”

The six men all made little movements as they spoke in turn. One word to the next. A different sounding voice with each word. It was...odd. Bertle figured it was meant to be odd.

“Yes. Perfect. We will slip it all back in, a nice slice of a s;l;ce. A spl;cy meatball. Nobody but us will ever know.”

And that would have been that, except for the next little bend in the road. A doorway appeared. One moment it wasn't there, and the next moment, yeah, there was a doorway...in the middle of the room.

It was a door in a frame. And the frame was sturdy. The door was big. It looked strong. One look at that door and you knew that was a door that would be opened when it wanted to be opened. Not unless.

There was a definite knocking sound. A convincing knocking sound, deep, even a little bit booming.

“Someone is knocking on the door. Are we expecting anyone?”

No. Bertle could see that the six magic men didn't know who it was on the other side of the door. He could tell they were trying to see. But all their Real Magic wasn't helping them see who it was.

A big voice called out, through the door, or so it seemed, “Do you mind if I let myself in?”

One of the six men hissed, “That depends on who you are.”

The door swung open slowly, and on the other side, all was in deep shadow. They could barely make out the figure of some sort of man.

“Well, we all know each other, if that makes a difference.”

One of the six men groaned in real pain. He muttered, “Chang!” as he fell over, clutching his guts.

The others looked very afraid.

Out from the shadow of the open doorway, a man stepped in to the light. He was a good looking man. Tall, and well built, with darkish brown skin, and black hair, thick and well combed in a stylish whip. He had slightly oriental facial features. He looked very fit, indeed.

He called out in his big, friendly voice, “Yes. It is me. Chang. I am Chang. Ah. Good. We are all here, together. Well, first things first, I don't need you six to be here. You need to be in this other here. So...off you go --- here! ---”

And with that, the six men were gone. Now you see 'em, now you don't. Chang stood with his hands being affectionate with each other. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Like he knew the punchline to the joke, and was just busting with it. But timing is everything, especially with a punch line.

Chang wanted to say the punchline.

Ah, but...timing.

***

Chang cheerfully said , “Let's all have a drink.”

And --- blink! --- the very comfortable chairs appeared.

“Sit, sit...make yourself comfortable. Yes, and have a drink. I insist.”

Chang continued standing, like a game show host, and said, “And now, my next guests are from three select secret service agencies. They all know of each other. Here they are, Dmitri Blank, Sir Darcy, and Bertle McPhee.”

Chang beamed with pleasure as the three men manifested, each man right by a comfortable chair.

“Have a seat, please. I insist.”

His good humour was not infectious.

“I think you all know each other, at least by reputation. I am going to bring in all the minions who worked with you to bring about your various versions of complete world domination. By the way...Vladmir Putin, your swine transformation was well received. You may be one of the most evil humans to manifest as a real human, well, that's debatable. After all, you haven't even started your war in Ukraine. All to come. Future headlines. But now, oh my! What a mess. You've all made it, together. You know. So, about those rascals, the six I just removed. Know this, they are clearly all one and the same persona. One person playing six at the same time, and to do it with such flare. Really. Quite the achievement. To release Real Magic into your very human world, and to wreak such havoc among your top people, and play spy games, oh, so many games, and far too many spies running about, trying to get their hands on that book.

“Being jerked this way and that, always a few minutes behind the lead. Getting there just after the man with the book took off. Too many times, the book eluded you. And each one of you didn't know that you were all running after the book. That was incredible. How? You were all so very good at keeping it secret from each other. And you used those little wooden graven images, loaded with incantations, pretty solid stuff. It worked. As advertised. And you were all getting a bit of the big head, eh?

“Starting to feel a big dick swinging between your legs. After all, one of the wooden graven images was a phallus. Right? Sure. You all got one. And you all know what that little wooden object could do. Yeah? Libido and, ah, ability. I bet you still have that wooden, ah, object...okay. You were all getting a bit cocky. Ha, ha, ha.”

Chang sat down.

He snapped a finger and a drink in a glass with ice in it appeared ---snap!--- like that. Right in his waiting hand. Bertle could see the little dribbles of condensation built up on the glass.

“Ah, yes. There. Dicks. Yes. Big swinging dicks. Lovely. Well you had your time, didn't you? And you would all take up where you left off, given the chance...wouldn't you? I thought as much. Look how you all perked up at the mere mention.”

He moved a finger idly into the tiny trails of water coming to rest on his chairs arm rest. The water came from the condensation on his glass. He sighed ever so lightly.

“You were all being played like a ukulele with one string. The entire concept of this entity that played magician, this entity one and only plan was to feed off your species for an indefinite period of time. And to grow stronger. And to become more powerful. Ever more powerful. So that, eventually, It could come at the likes of me. Me! Can you imagine such a...thing?”

Chang laughed like it wasn't actually all that funny.

Then he said quietly, “Now some of you don't know who I am and will never know who I am and won't remember any of this, ah, intervention. You will just be slipped back into a more convenient version of here than this here is right now. But a few of you will remember EVERYTHING. I want that. I need that.

“So...prepare! Good. Now it's going to be exactly at that moment when you first were introduced to Real Magic. For you lot, the senior secret service, you will NOT be receiving any magic, floating letters. That will not happen. Instead, you will go off on another version of that particular here. And all this will no longer exist...for you. Gone. Wiped clean because it never happened. Best way to remove a memory, don't you think? Well, I do.”

Chang paused. He gazed at the fingernails of one hand. Inspecting. For any flaws? Impossible. Chang had no flaws. Perhaps that was his only flaw...no flaws.

“And the rest of you lot. Well. I don't need you in this here right now. So you can go. Back to what you were doing the moment before you learned of the existence of Real Magic. Let's remove the entire s;l;ce of The Magician. Gone. Plucked. Removed. Excised. Like he never darkened our door, ever.”

Chang made an elaborate gesture with one hand. His eyes crinkled as he smiled happily. Another slight sigh. And he said, “Now it is just the three of us, eh? Sir Darcy, Dmitri, and Bertle. All of you, three men, not getting younger. But each with a small secret worth keeping...secret. Eh? Well, not Bertle. He doesn't really fit in this. So...goodbye, Bertle. I will come to you in a bit.”

Chang waved a hand and Bertle wasn't there anymore. Gone. Vanished. Poof.

Chang's voice became thoughtful. “I suppose you two know each other professionally. But...the deeper elements of each other, perhaps not so well known. You do have secrets you are keeping, deep secrets, important secrets...not just for you, but could be secrets your government should know about. Could be used, maybe somehow, to further the purpose of your glorious leaders. Well, Dmitri, obviously you have just one glorious leader: Mr. Putin.

“I am splurging on the words. I know. So, you both need to know, Dmitri has a secret double life, buried in time and space, a perfect spl;ce. He is actually living another identity, fool-proof, as Veepo Mosst. Don't let the name fool you: He is an American. Native born. USA all the way. And then there is Sir Darcy. Ah, yes. To the manor born. Silver spoon. Ha. Gold spoon, eh, Sir Darcy?”

Chang looked at the two men to see how it was going. Gave them a bit of a gaze. From under his eyebrows. Just checking. Like that. Bit stern, actually. But...hey.

“Guess what. He's in love. Well, not exactly him, but more or less him. As his daring do uncle. Robert Drake. But not his uncle really. But him. Sir Darcy. Not as he looks here. No. But as he is when he is, ah, borrowing his uncle. Now, is there a woman? Well, he's in love. So it'll be a woman or a man. It is a woman! Name? Bit exotic: Azura. I love that name: Azura.”

Darcy looked like a study in placidity.

But inside he was distraught.

He'd been with Azura. Many years away from this here. And definitely NOT being the Sir Darcy he'd left behind that last time this Chang fellow came waltzing into his life.

Darcy wondered what sort of hold Chang had on the Russian. In his own case, Darcy would not want to come back to his life as Sir Darcy.

Dmitri did not look placid.

He was shifting position in his comfortable chair.

Sweat stained his face.

“What's the difference between ignorance and apathy?” asked Chang brightly. “It is not something either one of you suffer lightly, is it?”

Dmitri muttered coarsely, “I don't know...”

And Darcy said quietly, “...and I don't care.”

“Yes! Exactly! And that's why you two have gained the vaunted heights celebrated in the anguish that is known as your entertainment industry. Particularly that fellow 007. And Q and M. All of that. The Russians get that funny lady with the poisoned knife in her shoe. And that chap with the cat. And Number One and Number Two. All that. Spectre! Yes.

“IF people only knew the truth about being a spy. Yes. A real spy. The kind who lives far away from home. Embedded. Yes. Perhaps the spy who lives among you. Born in your country...a fellow countryman. But twisted. Somehow. And now is a spy for the enemy. A spy who is a spy for his own country but is also a spy for the enemy. Sometimes you can feel like that when you are a mortal, living as they do. As if you are living a life of two faces. And you don't know your own face. It is gone. Long gone.”

Chang sighed meaningfully. He said, “How do you make a spy? It is like holy water. How do you make holy water?”

Dmitri growled, “You boil the hell out of it.”

Darcy groaned.

Chang said calmly, “You two will continue living your lives. I won't change any of that. And you will stay loyal. Won't you? To me. To what I...represent. Balance. Stability. Freedom of choice, ah, within reasonable limits. As Veepo. And Darcy as Robert Drake. Now you both know of the other. This may come in, ah, handy in future, ha, ha, ha, when your paths have chance to cross.

“If you listen, you will learn of a secret door. Both men are attracted to each other across time. The women, too. All are linked by strange coincidences of previous tragedies. The men are destined to be pulled together. By the presence of strong magic, if not for a better little phrase, but it is the truth, so --- there is that.”

Chang chucked it. Not puke. No.

He shrugged his shoulders? No.

But something like that.

Gave it up. Quit.

This is what Chang did.

***

Chapter 24

IS THERE LIFE AFTER DEATH? IS THERE DEATH AFTER LIFE?

Have you heard about the new restaurant called ‘Karma?’ There’s no menu—you get what you deserve.

The odd thing was that even though Bertle seemed to have been just removed, --- pop! --- and gone, he wasn't. At least to Chang. But Bertle didn't even know that. The other two, the Russian and Brit? No. They didn't know he was there for the whole sickening exchange of...what? Their souls, for one thing. Putting themselves into another body --- a completely different body, with identity and property, and to say nothing of the family, friends, wives, lovers, enemies --- how to know any of this when just dropped into the body of the person.

How the ---bleep!--- does that work?

<>The Answer<>

by

Chang

“Unless there is some fundamental coaching in how to take over by strong magic. Gives you full and instant go-go to all of the memory banks of the person you are replacing. Your consciousness knows all the shit you need to know, in a strong magic way, to the most trifling of details. You suddenly just know things. Remember when you first arrived into being Veepo? Yeah? Hard to forget. And you, with this woman, in Cairo, yeah? Cairo. I have a few Cairo stories of my own.”

***

Bertle was the one man who did not have a woman. It didn't break that way for him. And Chang wondered why? It would have been such a good play for the magician...what's his name? Charamoose? Yeah. The honey trap. Give Bertle true love in a babe-a-lacious yum-yum True Believer, just like him, but better.

Why didn't the magician give Bertle the letter to a time less now, and with the woman. Like he did with the Brit and the Russian. And enough gold to satisfy. Surely that would make Bertle want to stay in that new here, and let's call that the second here.

And because Bertle wanted to stay in that new here, there would be no way he'd go back to the here he started out from. His first here. It'd be fair to call this the first here, the one Bertle started from. That'd be the first here.

While Chang was talking with the Russian and Brit, Bertle was learning about how Chang was just going to change everything back to the way it was. No more of this crazy mortals turning into God with full on God Powers.

The madness fed this magician creature entity thing.

The magician has been removed. Hooray.

Chang was tripping. He was giving Bertle a hard core timeshare sales job. His voice throbbed with sincere concern. He said, “But are you safe forever from the magician and his like? Thus you need strong magic, and some extra special strong magic. Mustn't be stingy, either. You may be needed in the direction of the possible future. I just wish you would let me give you an Old Testament weekend. Couldn't you use a break from all this craziness? So...how about it? Some Jesus Time? Yeah? Serious. How about a weekend hanging out with Jesus Christ, The Son of God Himself. On his home turf, for real, with you there, my friend. Just like that.”

Bertle could tell that Chang was being entirely sincere. Chang smiled warmly at Bertle and said, “Yeah, and if you act now, Bertle, you'll get full language fluency in everything that you hear, and read. Right from your first moment of arrival. During your time in the New Testament. When you want to speak, it'll be like you're speaking English, but not to them. Beautiful. Fully integrated. And yet, it is you, Bertle. And next to you is The Son of God.

“It's yours, if you want. You can go, and have that. The real deal. Come on. This is a once in a life time opportunity. Jesus Christ. You and the genuine Son of God. The Chosen One. Side by side. Imagine that. The real guy, too. Not some cheap imitation magician flim flam sp;l;ce.

“Ah, I see. Temptation. Yes. I understand. Well, let's make it not your fault, and I just send you there, ah, to that here, and be done with it. This way, you can't blame yourself, and you get Jesus Christ. The real one. Oh, and are you ever in for a treat. With all you know about Real Magic, The Messiah might seem like a side show. But he was the real deal. Little is mentioned of some of the big miracles. Maybe you'll get to see some of them. If you stick around for the full ten years.

“Yes. I am going to sl;ce you in at Emmanuel's twenty-third birthday. You get the ten year ride to the cross along with the living Christ. I will bestow upon you a trickle of money, minted gold, to manifest as you need them in your money pouch. Your tongue and ear will partake of many tribes, and the tongues of many nations.

“You will know the names of the sacred days and gods for each, and the customs. All this and more in the manner and look, you...Dear Bertle, going back to be with your Saviour. Let's start you off first at the one of the famous scenes. When Jesus arises from the dead. Yes. You need to see what happened.

“Then I'll shoot you back to ten years before that. And you can live through all that, and then, when Jesus rises from the dead, this second time that you go through that, you will go up with Jesus when Jesus ascends. What do you say? Sound too good?

“Well, no choice is a poor version of being sort of a choice. That's what you've got. No choice. So...Bertle. Any last words before you, ah, go?”

Chang stopped talking and waited expectantly.

Bertle did not disappoint. He said:

“My fondest happiest wish is that all you, you, you things just never ever bothered us, ever. That it never happened. And I'll wake up in a cold sweat, and none of this ever happened. A startlingly bad dream. The dream that was thick and heavy. But fading. And then gone. That is my prayer --- to the real God. I wake up from a bad dream. And get up, and it is a new day. And none of this ever happened.”

Chang sighed prettily. “Ah, yes. But. What about The Lord? And having no-choice. Eh? Nothing to say about that?”

Bertle was trying to get a really good look into Chang's eyes. He'd done it with all those six magician fake humans. Especially with Verchinski, and Joe Future. Bertle had tried to look into their eyes. And it was bleak. Dead. The endless dead. And then the sucking, very suddenly, over faster than it started. The eyes sucked something. Bertle figured it was the energy in his body. Something the creature liked. Maybe something the creature did made the human feel...something, and feel urges, strong urges, to do certain things.

Those inhuman eyes sucked on the fear in Bertle, in any human, you, IF you looked, say, Verchinski, in the eyes. Maybe you have no fear in you. Before. Then you look into those eyes of the eternal abyss. And if you are a normal human being, you will feel deep dread. A quite strong jolt of it, too. One that gets into your bones.

And that's what those dead eye craters are counting on.

The moment the crescendo of mortal dread nears madness, the sudden suck, the hungry maw of the eyes probe out into the human, into Bertle, into you. A sudden protrusion. A no-choice intrusion. A new kind of home invasion. And so suddenly you don't even have time to not notice, the eyes sucked in your astral energy, pulling all the human astral energy energized by the infinite dread. This was a brilliant way for a non-human to feed on the mortals.

And to orchestrate an entire here.

And thus giving treasure of riches.

To itself. In the form of dining on the astral energy of those human mortals being farmed for their astral energy. And this production of types of astral energy can be deliberately tampered with by unscrupulous creatures.

Usually they are non-corporeal except when they can't avoid it. Or they want to play. And the magician clearly wanted to play.

***

Bertle was really getting a good, long look into Chang's eyes. And it was a long time before he bothered to look away. And it was only after Chang closed his eyes that Bertle looked away.

Slain by what he'd seen when he'd looked into Chang's eyes.

Bertle saw into the eyes of a hero.

And into the eyes of a man Bertle would gladly follow into the jaws of death. Bertle saw a valiant spirit, dedicated to the power of good. And would do whatsoever it took. To blunt the hunger of evil.

“I am glad you have seen for yourself some of my sunnier prepositions. Look deep into my eyes. And so on. But, we have some business to finish. So...off you go on your little no-choice excursion to The Holy Land.

“In Living It As It Came to Be.

“The real story of the Holy Land.

“First hand. Eye witness. I can see you are actually quite keen, and glad of the no-choice feature. And now, you are off. With all the little accouterments, the bottomless purse of gold coins, just to mention one.”

A pause. Much needed. Then.

“Right. You are going to be coming back to the exact moment you leave this here for the other here you are about to, ah, go to. So put that into your calculations. When you are done in the Holy Land, you will find yourself back in this here, with me. Only you most certainly won't be nearly the same man you are now.”

Chang laughed.

“Then we'll know what to do with you. You'll have more depth, Bert. It's a once in a lifetime transaction with no-choice. So, it's time to say goodbye until I say hello to the very different you. See, the moment you leave this here and go to your next here, for me is the moment after you come back, but as the new you. The one just returned from being with Jesus Christ. That you. Not the you that you are, right now.”

And with that Chang clapped his hands together. Dramatic. You could hear big gongs, really big ones. And then Bertle wasn't there any more.

His here wasn't there.

He was in Palestine.

The time of The Christ.

And so began Bertle's time following the Lord.

But Bertle's name was somewhat changed.

Thus Bertle was changed.

He became Bur Tul.

And all of that happened, and Bur Tul was there for all of it, plus a lot of stuff that never made it into the newspapers of the times. Especially the secret teachings given to the disciples, giving them agency over evil, and so many unreported hard core miracles. Bur Tul was there to see a lot of first hand strange physical healings of amputees, with the missing body part growing back into place.

Over the period of about ten minutes.

What a mind-fornicate that would be.

And when finished growing, all the fingers and thumb, working, strong, dexterous. Obvious miracle. With eye witnesses.

And Bertle was there when (after the death of The Christ) one of the Apostles was put in a large vat of boiling oil. In front of thousands of people. The vat placed in the center of the Roman Arena. The stands set in the classic model for The Games of Death. Gladiators. And then it became all the rage to find Christians and put them in the arena.

Ah, the sport!

In the year 92 A.D., the Apostle came to be in a vat of boiling oil at the order of the Emperor of the time.

Domitian. Ah, yes. Sweet Domitian.

All this happened in Rome.

And it was Saint John the Evangelist that Domitian had put in the rather large pot of boiling oil. AKA John the Apostle.

It was not a quick dip in the vat of boiling oil.

Domitian was aroused. The screams of suffering. The final proof that these dirty charlatans peddled a fairy story. No intercession by their dead rabbi. Or his daddy. Or that ghost they kept babbling on about.

Domitian wanted thousands of people to see all this.

The Apostle was lowered into the slowly boiling oil.

But no screams. No struggling few moments before being pulled under, down into the boiling oil. For that is what every other mortal put to this end had done.

The Emperor of Rome, Domitian --- such a sweet guy --- watched as The Last Apostle stood calmly in the vat of boiling oil. And then he slowly sat down and submerged himself in the boiling oil.

Thousands of people went nuts when he did this.

Domitian lost the plot completely.

Then The Apostle slowly stood up and waved at the thousands of people. The oil continued to boil. Domitian ordered more wood on the fire.

Yes.

But even with more wood on the fire, and the oil furiously boiling, the crowd of thousands could see that The Apostle was unharmed.

He could not be killed even in a vat of boiling oil.

He did not die. He was not burned.

After that, the crowd went mental.

Thousands of people in that crowd were instantly converted to the New Religion of worshiping the dead jew, his daddy, and their ghost.

Domitian did not like this.

He dared not try and harm a greasy hair on The Apostle's greasy head. There was a better way to solve the problem.

Saint John must go. Banished.

Banished to an island.

He wrote famed scriptures “The Revelation”, ever the measure of the times for the End Times. And Bertle, well, he was along for all of it. For this Apostle was the only one of all the other Apostles who does not get killed for his faith.

Though being put in a large vat of boiling oil ALWAYS is quickly hideous agony as the very hot fat fries your outer skin and sinks in to the next tender layer of cells, and now, into the fat cells, and oh baby! --- what a sudden feast for the boiling oil in the large vat.

A very large vat of boiling oil.

But John was unharmed.

The thousands of people were, naturally enough, astonished. And many thousands became instant converts to the Christian deal. At the time, the cult had a fairly simple deal. And Bertle (AKA Bur Tul) had a front row center seat, all the way to the end of the Apostolic Age.

When a much seasoned and burned out Bur Tul was reunited with his life as Bertle, years had passed living in the Age of Jesus. That had become his life. The languages, the cultures, the slowness of everything.

Becoming Bertle again, and suddenly, not in Palestine, and it wasn't 92 AD.

But it was just like Chang had said. Bertle wouldn't-couldn't be the same Bertle. He was forever changed. And while he was living in that other here of oh-so long ago, he'd found some love. At last. A nice girl from a nice family of some of the earliest Christians.

And he could settle down now that the last of the Apostles were dead. Bur Tul had plans to buy a nice farm and settle in with some slaves and his nice girl from a nice family. Start all that up around the year 92 A.D. He'd need that perpetual purse, too.

But to do that. What?

What did Bertle have to trade?

His even temperament? His easy natured, open minded, inclusive, consensus building, progressiveness --- no. That couldn't be. Not him. Even more so after being spl;ced back ;n. From leaving the here of the burial of the Last Apostle. To delivery of Bur Tul back into being Bertle.

The Bertle of the here with Chang. But this here with Chang was the one of Bertle coming back from the Bible Age. The Bertle of the moment after the first Bertle went to the here of Jesus Christ. The here Bertle was brought back into, the here that started in the moment Bertle was brought back into here, brought back from the End of the Age of the Apostle.

***

Chang welcomed Bertle back with a genuine hug that lasted a nice long time. It was quite loving, actually. From Chang's side. Perhaps Bertle tolerated the hug. And then he began to reluctantly pretend he wasn't feeling it. That he and this cosmic freak had some skin in the game --- together.

“Yes. I can see it's been quite a ride,” Chang spoke without trying to be amusing, “Never ever the same. Just a few moments ago, the you of then went to the here you just finished being in. But the you you are now, is the you you became after years of living as Bur Tul. In a time where life was without the infinity of modern conveniences that you find in this here. But was a time with a plenitude of great inconveniences. Some of them lethal inconveniences. And the realistic danger of being injured or even killed in some sort of dust up. And the maybe worst of all that danger risk threat --- getting in the way of the Romans. Or somehow attracting their attention.”

Bertle piped in. “Don't want that. Romans best left alone. Believe me.”

Chang looked at Bertle with happy surprise.

“You don't say?”

“Well, you know all about it, probably.”

“Not the way you do. You spent a lot of time being there, with Him. The Son of God. And then all that crazy stuff that happened when Saul turns himself into Paul. Oh my. That man. Now I did spend a lot of time with that seg;ment. You know, the time when Saul was killing Jews. Having them stoned to death. So much fun.

“Yes. And all that time after Saul changed. His famous conspiracy theory of being blinded by some agency of The Lord. On his way to Damascus. Yes. I was there when he arrived, transformed by the ghost of The Son of God. I followed him around, too.

“And now that I think about it, I do remember seeing you around. Yeah. For sure. You were most definitely on the scene. Yeah. And you were one of the strong, mostly silent types. But when you spoke --- woo boy! --- you suffered no fools.

“Yeah. That's right. You and that fascist Saul-Paul had some traction with each other. You wanted him to pay for his crimes he committed persecuting Jews who were into this new Jesus Christ thing.

“After all, his thing was having those Jews who did do the Jesus Christ deal, simple solution --- have those Jews killed. It was most definitely a thing.”

Bertle spoke clearly, brooding over each word. “Saul led a nasty retribution against the oh-so young and tender Christian church. He started out in Jerusalem. Once he gets going, he obviously gets a taste for it. With his crew of oh-so nice fellows, he drags men and women off to prison. He does this by going door to door, house to house. Usually in the middle of the night. But not always.

“So they round them all up and stuff 'em all into a really comfortable holding cell, with enough floor for everyone to sleep on. Until there is no more room. But they keep being shoved in. Jammed in. No place to sit down, let alone lie down. It was a lot of fun.

“Next step is to find the believers guilty of what is clearly understood to be blasphemy, and each one is speedily so found, guilty of blasphemy, and then Saul orders them off to be stoned to death. Which is the next stop for each one.”

Chang whispered softly, “The stoning ground.”

“Yes, Chang, that's right. Each Man, yes. Woman, yes. But at what age is the cut off? Ah. Tender mercies, yes? No. Not with good old Saul.

“If Saul finds them guilty, then they could be a batch of little kids. And they often were. Obviously a gaggle of bumbles are guilty of blasphemy by being kin to Christians. Off to the stoning pit. Let the rocks decide if they have the favor of God. None did. And Chang, get this...the rocks used most often, lots of big rocks. And some nasty rocks. Some small enough to be thrown fast. Big enough to inflict the death by a thousand blows.”

Bertle ran out of words. He stood staring into Chang's eyes.

The little pause stood. Growing.

A lot was said without anything being said.

Then Chang said, “Well. Then. It is time to put it all back to where it was. And you want to have your cake and eat it too. Okay. Done. You can have it. The woman and the entire package. The perpetual purse. All of it. Yours. Done. We'll take care of the small detail of your who-here. As in, who is going to be you in the new here I am about to put in here. Whew.”

Bertle said, “What exactly are you going to do? What will I know?”

Not really not a question.

“Oh. That. Hmmmm. Well, we all need a fresh start starting at about the moment when the first letters started appearing out of thin air. Yes. And then, just a little bit further along, after the Brit and the Russian get their first taste of, ah, other options. Azura. Romana. Drake. Mosst. The two older men now in the bodies of younger men. Strong and fit younger men. Virile younger men. Sharp witted. Decision makers. Successful. You give 'em one hundred dollars, they can turn that into one thousand dollars within one year. So smart with money. That's the word on the street. And all that is to come.

“And I need them both getting fatter and fatter with money. To be ready for IF I need them as they are, er, will be, ah, are right now, in that here that isn't this here.

“But first, we sn;ip right about th;ere.” Chang made the smallest of gestures with his left little finger. “Okay. Good. Here is the new-here sp;l;ce. Right. That went in okay. Not a feather ruffled. Well, except maybe that one.”

Chang was obviously doing something big in the way of manifestations. Bertle could feel something uneasy shifting, far away. Queasy. Unsettling. Very faint. The vaguest hint.

Chang went on talking.

“So all that's left to do is one more tiny, little bit of fuss. Really nothing more than a small little detail that needs a bit of a touch, you know. And can't be by me. I'd draw too much attention. No. It has to be by somebody who is the last person anyone playing on the inside would ever suspect.

“Who could that someone be, I wonder? Why...yes. It could be Bertle. Couldn't it?”

Chang stopped talking and made pretty faces. Helpless and needy. Faces for another time and another place. Chang added a funny voice, and began talking using a funny voice.

“What if, and this is only an if...what if Jesus Christ is going to be murdered before he's going on the cross. I mean way before the cross. How about just after he gets baptized. Or maybe before. Yeah. What do you think? Then he wouldn't be the Son of God. Right.

“But if you knew he was going to be murdered like that, you could maybe go and stop it from happening. Right. You could, too. You are perfect for the job. Already have extensive field experience.”

Bertle said in a no-nonsense voice, “Is that what you're telling me? Jesus Christ is going to be murdered before he is supposed to be murdered? What does Jehova God have to say about that?”

Chang roared with laughter, and once near to having exhausted his mirth, said amid small attacks of laughter, “Ah! Now you can go and find out yourself. And while you are there in that here, the murderer will come dressed as a woman. Trust your instincts. You will know which one it will be. But beware of tricks!”

Bertle was not a complete fool.

He said, “I see. Yes. The truth is there is probably more than one. And where there are two, there might be a third. Each one sent to kill Jesus Christ. Beware the trick.”

Chang was delighted.

“It's almost not necessary to send you on this mission. Because of how much you know. But I need you to go and stop Jesus Christ being murdered before he gets crucified.”

Bertle wasn't keen. Both could see this.

Bertle said, “I can see that you'd do it without me even knowing anything about it IF you could do that. Unless this is some sort of training deal for some other purpose, or, or, or. But, ah, there it is, now I get it. The magician is doing something really retro vengeance dark side. Destroying the entire future of humanity of having any Jesus Christ. Churches? Gone. Why? All that stuff that went along for over two thousand years. And some great moments, like the crusades. And the inquisitions. Ah, fun times being Christian.

“So, none of that.

“And The Royals?

“Where are they without The Church?

“So no war between The Protestant and The Catholic.

“Why? You ask? Answer: No Bible to fuss over.

“All of that spreading of Christianity in the New World --- never happened. The missionaries never came. So. Forget all that, for a moment.

“And back to who is gong to murder Jesus Christ. I can see that it is the magician. Back to do harm. Is he the one going to do it? But is it a trick? Yes, more than likely. So that's why you want to put some chum in the water. And that'd be me. I'm the chum.”

Chang said sympathetically, “They know you. You know them. And you've both changed a lot since the last time you, ah, knew each other.”

Bertle could see this was going to be one of those no-choice deals. So he decided in the moment he had nothing much to lose if he asked for a favor.

“Okay. Mr. Chang. I will do it --- What ever it takes. But here's the thing. What about My New Life. After I do this thing and stop Jesus Christ getting murdered, then I'll be all done. Live in peace in My New Life. Right? We got us a deal, right Mr. Chang?”

***

It was a deal.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Until they didn't.

But that is another story.

The NEXT story.

Saul leads a violent persecution of the young Christian church in Jerusalem. He goes from house to house, dragging men and women off to prison. When believers are found guilty of what is considered to be ‘blasphemy’, Saul calls for them to be stoned to death

============================================================================================

NOTE:

For the complete story on Bertle's time in the New Testament Days. And his time as Bur Tul. Look for:

“The Tale of Bur Tul and Jesus Christ”

was one Bertle wanted emptied.

============================================================================================

Epilogue

REALITY CHECK

At the end of this entire episode, the world had come to know about the existence of Real Magic. It was no longer the hidden secret of the very few. The story broke wide open.

There was a leak.

And then there wasn't.

Tangled webs all tattered and old, past caring now, which way the what had gone. At least as far as Sir Darcy was concerned. The Americans were out of the magic game. And in a few days it would all go away. The memories would change. What had happened would become hazy. It would all go away. An entire species being gently cleansed of memories of magic. Sir Darcy knew this would happen. Now that the magician had left the world. And his servant.

Good.

What had made the magician leave? This was of singular importance for Sir Darcy. He faced a great puzzle. For the magician had triumphed, and his particular game was well under way. He had the humans chasing each other and the imminent full deployment of his magical carvings by at least three different nations. The world of the humans would have been his to do with as he pleased. At this moment of triumph, with the metro population of Los Angeles being tested with the Edict of the Eleven Commandments, and the trinkets being tested by the elite of each nation...oh he had savoured his triumph.

Playing all the suckers.

One man being many.

And offering such toys to play with. And as a patriot! And each version of the same man (more or less the same man) denouncing the other as devious and powerful and not to be trusted.

Ah! A master of the turbulent emotions. He thrived on this subtle and gross display of power. The magician enjoyed playing with the humans. Sir Darcy could understand this, of course.

He carefully examined his surroundings for any presence of the magician. Okay, the magician was gone. Sir Darcy sighed. This perfect version of Sir Darcy was relieved. Did he dare take off his disguise? No. Not for a moment. Even so, as a perfect facsimile Sir Darcy, he knew of Chang. It was Chang who was stuck with a mystery. The magician had folded the show and split BEFORE Chang really made a move. Some thing(s) or some one(s) had done something and the magician went away.

Why?

Of course, you never knew with this magician. Games within games, and all serving his ambition. Simple fellow, really. Well, not really really. Wanted to have a string of worlds under his thumb. Well on his way to doing it, too.

What could have been his reason for leaving?

Chang thought the magician had sniffed his presence and decided he wouldn’t wait to have his plug pulled.

Sir Darcy didn’t dare stop being Sir Darcy. You never know what tricks the magician might be playing. Best to keep the perfect version of good old Sir Darcy.

The end had come with the twists and turns of three nations trying to stop each others magic programs. And keep it all super-secret and at the same time keep on testing and planning for full implementation of...what? Magic? Yes. Magic.

The servant became a big player. You might as well know, the servant was the magician. Not bad, eh? This one entity was able to play six different human life forms, in the flesh, continuously, and seamlessly.

But maybe you'd already guessed this.

As the servant, he played with the traitors and the war-mongers, played ‘em on their desire for power and a piece of the action. The servant dangled The Book of Instruction, and with a few discrete samplings by the suckers, The Book of Instruction became a great prize for each of the suckers to get.

The servant offered up a conspiracy to over-throw the magician and strip him of his powers. The Book would provide the means.

Such was the impact from the brief sampling of The Book of Instruction by each of the suckers. Each of the samplers had been elevated and given enough natural ability at magic so that the sale was made; after verifying that they could now do their own Real Magic, not one of the suckers hesitated. Not with such a prize within easy reach.

The sucker's elevated grandeur was intoxicating to each one of them, and the super-normal abilities let the suckers throw away the wooden bits they'd needed for telepathy and mind-reading, and for traveling anywhere, just by thinking you want to go anywhere.

--- Zap! ---

Each of the suckers could do it without the magician's wooden trinkets.

Bertle could be in Washington, and want to be in Moscow, checking out what the Maestro was doing. Being a bit careful, Bertle would make sure he was alone. Then go, baby, go! This new way to travel was even better than by wood chip or wooden wings or any of the wooden bits. This was faster and smoother. Not a sub-atomic particle out of place, and in Moscow, discretely, arriving with all the other super-normal powers intact and ready to go.

Invisibility, levitation, strength of a hundred elephants, reduce body to size of an atom, skin as hard as diamonds, withstand a vacuum, able to stand inside a star, can navigate the galaxies of this universe, in this here, can put own mind inside another body, speak to and understand the sounds of all creatures, can change the elements, change the weather, make objects appear and disappear, see the future, know the past, and many other features with all the bells and whistles.

All from this brief exposure to the Book of Instruction. And all that on the first page.

The suckers wanted the Book.

Oh, they wanted it so bad.

***

EXACTLY HOW THE SERVANT PLAYED THE SUCKERS

(The Cautionary Tale of the Three Wishes)

Bertle McPhee

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US, CIA once found Syrian torture useful

BEIRUT — As Secretary of State John Kerry delivered his opening remarks at the Syria peace talks in Switzerland on Wednesday, he expressed outrage at new revelations of the brutal tactics perpetrated by President Bashar Assad’s regime. Evidence of the execution of thousands of Syrians in Assad’s prisons, Kerry said, represented “an appalling assault, not only on human lives, but on human dignity and on every standard by which the international community tries to organize itself.”

Kerry was referring to a report released this week based on the testimony of a defector within the Syrian military police, which seem to provide evidence of the systematic torture of thousands of detainees in Assad’s prisons. The defector, known only by the code name Caesar, provided roughly 55,000 images showing dead prisoners bearing the tell-tale signs of strangulation, brutal beatings, and starvation. The Assad regime’s enforcers had obsessively photographed the murdered men and kept track of them by reference numbers — in order, the report claimed, to prove to senior officials that the executions had been carried out.

Maher Arar, a Syrian-born Canadian telecommunications engineer, hasn’t been able to look at these images, or the other pictures and videos streaming out of his native country over the past three years. They brought with them flashbacks from his own experience: In 2002 and 2003, he was Prisoner No. 2 in an underground cell at the Syrian military intelligence’s Palestine Branch in Damascus, where he was beaten and whipped with two-inch thick electrical cables until he gave into his interrogators’ demands and falsely confessed to having been trained at a terrorist camp in Afghanistan.

The only mystery for Arar is why Americans are shocked at reports of torture in Syrian prisons. “What surprises me is the reaction of some people in the West, as if it’s news to them,” he told Foreign Policy. “As far back as the early 1990s … the State Department reports on Syria have been very blunt — the fact is, Syria tortures people.”

It’s a history that the U.S. government knows all too well— because, at times, it has exploited the Assad regime’s brutality for its own ends. Arar was sent to Assad’s prisons by the United States: In September 2002, the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) detained him

during a layover at New York’s John F. Kennedy International Airport. U.S. officials believed, partially on the basis of inaccurate information provided by Canada, that Arar was a member of al-Qaida. After his detention in New York, Arar was flown to Amman, Jordan, where he was driven across the border into Syria.

“Successive U.S. administrations may not agree with the politics of Bashar al-Assad, but when you have a common enemy called al-Qaida — that changes everything,” Arar said. “[S]ince 9/11, Assad’s regime has been used for what the media now calls ‘torture by proxy.’ ”

In Arar’s case, however, he had no actual ties to al-Qaida to confess. He was eventually released in October 2003, and both Syria and Canada admitted that they had no evidence tying him to terrorism. Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper issued a former apology to Arar, and announced that the government would pay him a settlement of almost $10 million for his ordeal. Arar currently resides in Canada.

Arar was far from the only detainee that the CIA threw in Assad’s prisons. In December 2001, the United States requested that Moroccan authorities arrest Mohammad Haydr Zammar, a German citizen suspected of aiding al-Qaida’s Hamburg cell, which was a key player in the 9/11 attacks. Once Zammar was apprehended, according to information obtained by British journalist Stephen Grey, he was interrogated by CIA officers in Morocco and then flown to Damascus, where — like Arar — he was held in the Palestine Branch.

The cooperation between the American and Syrian intelligence agencies was close enough that the CIA even offered German intelligence officers the opportunity to put specific questions to Zammar while he was in Assad’s prisons, according to Grey’s book, “Ghost Plane: The True Story of the CIA Rendition and Torture Program.” Nothing is known of Zammar’s whereabouts or health since he sent a letter to his family in Germany in 2005.

“Globalizing Torture,” a report published by the Open Society Justice Initiative, 

provides the names of 136 detainees who were subjected to extraordinary rendition or secret detention. Of those detainees, at least eight were sent by the CIA to Assad’s jails. They include people who seemingly posed little or no danger — such as Noor al-Deen, a Syrian teenager captured with Abu Zubaydah, who the United States initially believed was a top al-Qaida operative but would later admit had never been a member of the terror group. They also include legitimately dangerous figures such as Abu Musab al-Suri, who was released by the Assad regime and subsequently became one of the world’s leading jihadist ideologues.

Despite the wide range of disagreements between the Bush administration and Assad, U.S.-Syrian intelligence cooperation in pursuit of al-Qaida represented a détente of sorts between the two governments. When ties soured in 2006, a parliamentarian close to Assad’s feared domestic enforcer, Assad Shawkat, told U.S. diplomats that Shawkat “still considered himself a friend of the United States.” In February 2010, when U.S. officials were trying to persuade Assad to stem the flow of jihadists into Iraq, intelligence chief Gen. Ali Mamlouk told a U.S. delegation in Damascus: “President Assad wants cooperation, [and] we should take the lead on that cooperation.”

The Syrian regime is once again trying to repair its relationship with the United States and Europe by invoking their shared intelligence goals: Before the Syria peace talks began, Assad said that their main objective should be “the fight against terrorism,” while top Syrian diplomats have loudly trumpeted visits by Western intelligence officers to Damascus to discuss the fight against Islamist extremists.

But while rendering detainees to Syria is out of the question these days, President Barack Obama’s administration has not repudiated the Bush-era practice to the extent that civil rights activists would have liked. The Obama administration announced that it would continue rendition, but promised to ensure that detainees would not be tortured. According to a report published in The Nation, the CIA still funds a Somali-run prison in Mogadishu, where U.S. intelligence officers can interrogate suspected members of al-Qaida-affiliated al-Shabab terrorist group captured in Somalia or rendered from Kenya.

The U.S. government has also never apologized to Arar for rendering him to Syria, or admitted that he was tortured in Assad’s jails. So it’s no surprise, perhaps, that Arar believes U.S. officials’ surprise at the latest revelation is more than a little hypocritical.

“Of course, the U.S. government will always ask for assurances for people not to be tortured,” he said. “But they know that those assurances are not worth the ink they’re written with. They know that once a person gets there — they know what’s going to happen.”

Kenner is an associate editor specializing in the Middle East at Foreign Policy.

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