Christopher Morris

The Lie Is Over

2009-01-14T17:28:00.000-08:00

Branwe: Part 3

2008-08-30T09:09:00.000-07:00

Fair citizens, I sing to you, o dear ones, for you must hear the deeds of Branwe and his cohorts. I beg sincerely, tarry a while longer, for the great battle is nearly upon us. And such a wonderous battle, a lively tale it will be, if we might but stay true and hear the proud deeds that proceeded it.

Duke Egghorn, the local seargent at arms, did summon Branwe and his noble footmen, Garth and Angus, upon their return from the fireblood swamp. Yea, and verily did he doth summon them and they mounted their steeds and rode through the center of town for to meet.

"I am sending you away," Duke Egghorn pronounced. "There is trouble on one of the King's islands to the south and you must put an end to it."

"Islands," Branwe said, "Are our speciality. Name this island so we may venture forth and sail upon the glistening blue and silver sea with haste and the promise of unbidden-"

"The Isle of Lycathropes," said the Duke.

A silence ensued that bespoke much of bravery and swashbuckling savy, I'm told. For the men were overcome with anticipation of the glory that waited for them.

"Werewolves?" Angus asked.

"Forget wolves," Branwe said. "We need a boat."

"I, for one, am not going," Garth said.

"Oh, why not?" Branwe asked.

"Why should I? What reward for I?" Garth asked.

"We'll give you gold," Duke Egghorn said.

"I'll want more than gold," Garth menaced him facially.

"What is it you desire?" the Duke asked.

"I want your job," Garth answered, "And twenty men at my disposal. And my own Inn. And lots of weapons."

"With the gold we pay you," the Duke said, "You can buy an Inn. We don't own a bunch of surplus Inns to pass out to adventurers."

"I'm going to kill him," Garth whispered loudly to Branwe.

"As shall I, brother," Branwe said, "When he least expects it."

"What sort of trouble is there on this island?" Angus asked, but they hustled him out the door and down to the docks to hire a ship. They searched high and low, and ships they did find. Garth mounted the walk and accosted the captain of a stout vessels called the Morsel.

"Give us you fookin ship!" he shouted at him, and beat him on his face. Branwe set fire to the main sail and slapped the crew members.

"We're truly evil bloodthirsty hijackers looking to kill all on board who don't obey," Branwe yelled. Garth ran the captain through and cut the lines to the dock. Away they drifted, out to sea, with Angus reluctantly calling upon Xezox, the GOD OF WAR, to speed the boat to its destination.

"This," he said to Garth and Branwe, "Might have gone better if you'd let me negotiate."

"Sounds like the talk of a man who wants a deep ocean swim, right now," Branwe said.

"Yea, stuff it, cleric," Garth said. And float they did both night and day on the flat sea until they saw an island like a giant island in the ocean. In fact, it was an island, dark and deadly with the sounds of screams heard for miles around.

"Bah," Branwe said, "We'll clean this mess up right quick."

"Who's we?" Garth asked.

"You, me and the Padre," Branwe said. "You're scared?"

"I'm so scared I'll stab your eyes out and eat them," Garth said.

"Don't be mean," Branwe said.

"Gentlemen," Angus interrupted, "Perhaps we should use a bit of planning before we depart."

"I like planning," Garth said, stepping into the longboat.

"Me too," Branwe said, lowering them down. Angus clambered into the boat.

"Before we go," Angus emphasized.

"Right," Garth said, rowing away from the Morsel. "Everybody plan."

"Shouldn't we discuss the plan?" Angus asked.

"Nothing to discuss," Garth replied, "We hit the shore, grab the loot and head back."

"Solid planning," Branwe said. "Say, shouldn't you be asking your GOD to smite for us or something?"

"It doesn't work like that," Angus said.

"What's the use of him, then?" Branwe wondered.

"Religion is useless," Garth said.

to be continued...

Branwe: Part 2

2008-08-23T08:54:00.000-07:00

Fair citizens, come quickly out of your wattle and daub homes and listen, I beg. For it is at this point in my tale that Branwe doth fight in the grandest of battles! So, endure for a moment, the tales of the Fire Blood Sawmp, filled with treasure and disease, so we may be on with it.

At dawn, the pre-appointed meeting hour for guides and adventurers across the hill vasts of the whole willy world, Branwe and Garth stood and waited for their faithful companion, Flint Thongbeard. But Lo! Flint had taken ill, but would most likely meet up with them sometime a little later.

So, they set off south toward the vast nothingness of the Fire Blood Swamp. Their journey from city to swamp was uneventul and therefor not worthy of the breath to tell it and so it was into the swamp.

"What," Branwe wondered, "Should we do?"

"We could," Garth suggested, "Go back and collect our gold. I see nothing in there."

"We should," said Branwe, "Wait for stout handsome oak Flint to tether our steps towards the fell and fey recesses of said swamp forwith to ponder and patrol our very good fortune to the merry people of all Fellatio."

"It's Fellinia," Garth said. "So, we just wait here?"

"Yes," Branwe said. They waited a quarter of the hour. "Okay, perhaps we should go in."

"Alright," Garth agreed. In they went under twisted bough and knotted branch and doo looking trunk. A foul odor assailed them nassaly. They became despondent, and spoiled for a fight. Fate obliged them thrice.

The first encounted was with a Swamp Rabbit, oh so much larger than a hare, and breathing all fire upon them until they ran, burnt and angry. The second encounter was with a Swamp Spirit, which could not be seen or touched, but made them ill. They ran.

Ah, but then, then I say they did battle with a Troll. A proper Troll, all green and sticky. None of this singing, grumbling, fat happy troll. This was a mindless Troll of the Fire Blood Swamp, guarding a pile of silver!

"Look," Garth said, "Troll."

"Aye," Branwe said, "Let's kill it." They ran screaming at it. It dropped a mighty fist on Branwe's helm, causing a swoon in him. Garth hacked with his sword, but the beast had hide as thick as burnt pork. The Troll stabbed him in the thigh with a boney bone finger, causing Garth to flee.

The Troll picked up Branwe over the shoulder and gave chase to Garth. And a merry chase it was! Don not hide your faces, fair constituents, for hiding in the muck was a hardy and fierce Acolyte named Angus. He watched Garth pass. He jumped the troll with flain in hand. The hand of fate was upon him, or better to say, the hand of his god, Xezox, the god of war. He smote the Troll skullwise. Branwe fell into the mire, awakened by the water.

Angus had a bit of healing in him, just enough for the moment. As they counter Troll Silver, he told them his tale.

"I am Angus of the Blunt," he said. "Flint is ill. I have come to bring you back to Fellinia. We have new orders."

"Orders?" Garth raged, "I take orders from no man!"

"Fine," Angus said, "Branwe, you and I will return to town with this silver and collect our fifty gold..."

"Oi," Garth raged, "It's my treasure too."

"Fine," Angus said, "We'll return with our share of the treasure, and Garth can continue patrolling."

"No no no," Garth raged, "I'll not continue patrolling."

"You were quite good at it," Branwe offered.

"No no no," Garth narrowed his eyes, "Claim me dead and take my fifty gold, will you? That settles it. We go to Fellinia. No more talk out of you."

"Fine," Angus said.

"Eh! No more talk," Garth said.

"Right, you," Branwe said. "I saw by which magics you healed his leg and my head. You're trying to bewitch us of our treasure!"

"I," Angus said.

"Shhh shhh shhh," Garth said. "No more witching us with your kind words and healing and treasure. We're not that daft, you pile of sweet sweet smelling dung."

"Dung!" Branwe shouted at him. Angus began to walk away from them.

"Oi," Garth raged, "Where do you think you're heading without any treasure? We're not carrying the whole lot by ourselves!"

"He probably cursed it," Branwe said.

"Aye," Garth agreed, "You carry the treasure. And lead us to town and not astray for we know the way."

"Right," Branwe said, "This will be a good test of your loyalty to us. Perhaps we may even forgive you."

"Never," Garth hissed. "He stole our honor during battle. Unforgiveable. Then he took all our treasure to make off with it after he cursed it and healed us with poison so we may die on the way back and then he'll collect the reward!"

Angus continued walking.

"I like him," Branwe whispered to Garth.

"Aye," Garth whispered back, "He's of the noblest sort."

Branwe: Part I

2008-08-19T13:28:00.000-07:00

Hark! I, Pessius the Bard sing to thee a tale of Branwe McCullum. Aha. So you've not run? Well, mayhaps, you should. For Branwe's tale is not one for the faint of heart. Aha. Ahem. Gather! Gather round children, sister and rogues, for I see upon my lyric sheet a mighty battle!

It's much further on than you think, but in order to understand it we have to harken to the early deeds of Branwe McCullum. Not quite as exciting as a hairy faced battle, but there's some life to it. I swear on my sworn oath, I do swearity swear unto thee, fair populace that fun and ribald bedtime scenes await aplent if you'll just sit still a moment.

Begin we in the Cresent Kindom, where our hero began his adventures. In a tavern he found his friend and right arm, Garth. I did not pick these names, fair persons, bear with me a moment longer. And a stout hearted madmad named Flint of the Guard. Flint Thongbeard, I say, and thereby avoid prosecution, I pray. Ahem. Indeed.

King Felini, I jest not, a noble man of Cresent Desent, pardon the errors, but this King needed patrols. And so, throughout the land he sent for men from the taverns to patrol his entire kingdom, including a rather horrible swamp, the Blood Swamp. Okay, the Fire Blood Swamp, filled with rain and pestilence, where heroes get lost and monsters eat the flesh of men. Nay, do not sob at the thought, for that is just what monsters must do and they've found a taste for it, so all's the better.

Flint entered the lusty tavern and called, "I need two men for patrol." Branwe, being neither smart, nor brave, averted his eyes. But Garth, being stupid and painfully daring spoke.

"If we join up, do we get gold?" Garth asked.

"Yes," Flint said.

"How much?" Garth asked.

"Fifty gold pieces," Flint said.

"Well," Garth said, "No way I'm risking my ass for fifty gold."

"Fifty gold will buy many a drink and a bath," Branwe said. "I wish to join you, sir. I will gladly fight for fortune and justice by the people whose grace I kindly spate in the-"

"Right," Flint said. "Tell your friend, Lord Goldhole, that he's coming too. By Order of the King!"

"I'm not moving," Garth said. "Let's see him try and kill me before we've ever got started. My ageless mystical longsword will make a quick end to this tale." At this, over twenty guards from various wars and adventures came in to assist.

"I'd rather die here," Garth said, "Than risk my neck for fifty gold pieces in some fop's swamp. Plus, I'll kill all of you gents as well."

"Brother," Branwe pleaded, "Perhas we will find lots of treasure and hone our skills in said swamp."

"There's no treasure in a swamp," Garth said.

"Oh," Flint said, "Did I forget to mention you may keep any of the legendary treasures of Fire Blood Swamp that you find for your own?"

"Fine," Garth sighed, "But I'm going to complain the whole way."

"You will be entitled to it, Brother," Branwe grinned.

"How's that?" Garth asked.

"Your noble song of lament will grease the wheels of rainsoaked time as we," Branwe paused, "Help. The. Land?"

"Good enough," Flint said. "Get some rest. We leave at dawn."

"Um," Branwe said, "Dawn? Hmmmm. You see, we're adventurers and we've kinda planned on a long night. I've got these ripe bananas and some copper pieces for the ladies-"

"Dawn," Flint said.

"Right," Branwe said. "Dawn it is. We'll see you in a little bit."

to be continued...

Michael and Milligan

2008-08-11T14:14:00.000-07:00

Underneath the dirt, lay tunnels. Tunnels made by hand. Man made crossways ducked under, popped up and out. People lived there. A person lived there alone. Many bodies lived alone, but not like the ones that lived under the earth. Meals bracketed hardships. Beautiful meals, overflowed from restaurants that kept customers happy, fell into holes. If a body was careful, fine dining arrived unspoilt.

Two men sat in a rain gutter, eating escargot. The shells ran off somewhere, but the feeble clinging life of a mollusk gave up the goods in a fine sauce of pinot gris to a homeless man. They conversed.

“It tickles the pallet,” Michael said.

“Indeed, it does,” Milligan agreed. “A plateful of this cud and we’re barons on a hill.”

In poor taste, the snail mixed with grain alcohol. Such is life. The sluttard pinch of dirt fell into the eye, no matter what the master wrought.

“The terrible price of luxury,” Milligan added.

“The delicate sounds we hear,” Michael said. They came to be a duo by chance. One, an expert at procuring shelter and the other an elder statesman of the rails, they traveled and stopped for a bite. Scud waters be damned as drips trickled down the old hole where they sat. Outside a grand metropolis, the leavings grew posh. Paris ran over at the brim with such frilly larder. It was all they could do to keep up with the high spirits of society. The liquor came from Portugal, apparently.

“Sewers,” said Milligan, “Wot we got ere’s sewers.”

“Find a hole that hides the rain and we hide from the rain in it,” Michael said. He stuffed his face with more mash and periwinkles. The two were a pair. Straight from a hot oven of London, cross the channel and into French Country.

A car hummed.

“Corvair,” Michael said.

“As if,” Milligan said. “Oi. Bleedin’ car costs money. Not to bother.”

“Napes,” Michael agreed, “Divine patience brings a sweet reward. No need of money.”

“A noble thought,” Milligan agreed. “Have we any?”

“Not a scrap,” Michael admitted. “Why?”

“No, nevermind,” Milligan said, “Once you’re wet, you’re wet, right?”

“Right,” Michael agreed. “A treat!” Under a coat, he slid and un-hid a bottle of Moet et Chandon.

“Gaw,” Milligan squawked, “Where’d you get that then?”

“Pinched off the last case outside Hotel,” Michael said. Pop, went the cork and they sipped gently in the rain. Gutter leaves whirled in eddies past the two men as they supped. Wax paper unfolded and revealed branch and tinder.

“Water run off my hot back is nice, but the chill,” Milligan said.

“Spot on, spot on,” Michael agreed. Fire breathed orange on them. They sank down low. Fuel for the night was a tire. A tire burned long. The smell wafted away with the cool draught of rain soaked air through the pipes. A bright white light sung too boldly into the night. Mumbled indignities flowed from the road.

“Piss off, ya bink,” Michael shouted. Freedom of speech set things right. In the ugly dusk of evening, a foul phrase could chase of the ghost of civil shakes. People of the world barely noticed the enlightened filth when trod upon. A large envelope made of gasses sealed in the rock on which the stage was held. Cold, empty black outside the packet waited for any over ambitious bag of guts that fancied a walk outside the bosom of the planet. Michael asserted his equality through voice. “You’ll not have me as your pit,” he said. The voices relinquished the air.

Purple adorned the sky as a royal sign that night was nigh. The two fellows set about their business.

“Ere,” Milligan said. “Drop some of that heather on the tire. Nice smell. God. I’m loose already. Fokkin clear night in France.”

“Is,” Michael agreed. “Kay, that’s better. Listen to the old fools. Rain’s bout to stop. Fit for a lie down a bit.”

“I’ll watch,” Milligan said. Michael chewed and chewed to sleep with a few nogs off the bottle.

“Mind it,” Milligan continued, “If some Frank comes round have us off, we’ll go up pipe.

“Kay, that’s better,” Michael said. The shell of consciousness parted for a while and he was warm, sleeping by the fire. Milligan enjoyed the voices after the rain. Water echoes and voices sounded slick. What a terribly wonderful night, with its chill and heat. The ball of nested humanity found shelter in overworked barns, stables and flats. Small mammalian creatures huddled for warmth, their blood thick and convectuous. Little pots of fat, floating in a water too deep to fathom. All shelter broke, eventually. Milligan pondered the tenant status of the human race and wondered if anyone knew how close the end was for all.
We float, he thought. Air currents and water currents and all the elements blended up in a big machine too vast to understand in a finite set of circuits. Magnets and hammers moved lava, more precisely, magma, under his feet. Well below his rough shod feet, the earth stirred.

The bowels of the earth made no excuses. It needed none. It did. And so did Milligan. He made his own, he guessed. Others would find fault with his reason, he knew, but it was his reason that made him who he was. Milligan knew himself a King among serfs. The serfs, poor addled souls as they were, thought the world a place to be humbled. Milligan knew. No man could gather the earth round all at once. It was too big. Nonsense. Ownership was the grand delusion. What if a man finds his situation tolerable? Then there was no need for ownership of anything. But the price, the grand, grand price of being freed. It worked its way down his spine in trickles.

“I have a question,” Milligan said.

“Gurrphhn,” Michael complained.

“Would you take a nice hot bath and steaming plate of meat right now if offered?” Milligan asked. It was pure fancy, speculation on his part. It sent Michael’s sleep soaked mind into pools of steamy relaxation. He tasted a bite of hot, raw meat mentally.

“Fog,” Michael called, “What’s this?” He swigged lightning. “Awk. Whoo.” Rain dripped down his hat. “Plate of meat? Course I would. You?”

“Ah,” Milligan sighed. The slick oil of liquor graced his lips. “Praps.” He belched. “The meat, sure. Bath warm? Hmmmmmm.” Silver hot liquid fled his throat to his belly. “Oh. Wonders.”

Michael nipped off again to dreams in which cool milk slid over wheat cereal on a long, long table. These men, hardy souls, enjoyed their caste to the limit. The questions of bath and of meat were moot. The price for those were slavery to the wheel. A humble life fit them properly. The finest things occasionally fell from table, down the drain and out to them. Careful, careful and mindful men could live such as Kings on the fringe.

In dreams, Michael knew of a doctor who’d tied himself down to land and wife. A miser of a man, he was, and beholden to all that is good and proper. The carcass of life stank with decay. Some terrible choice men make.

“S’pose I’ll nod as well,” Milligan said. “Tent up?”

“If you please,” Michael mumbled.

Milligan stuck sticks in the ground, and threw the tarp over them. The glow of burned tired kept them company throughout the night.

The sky broke, powder blue in Michael’s eyes. The sockets hurt a bit. The gut sloshed. He paddled off behind the pipe for a quick relief. Milligan still slept. Half a bottle greeted the morn, and they were off for the north, to Germany. It would be a long haul with a dozen switches if no one bounced them off the line.

KOSMOS: Part 1

2008-08-04T07:12:00.001-07:00

North Hollywood
February 28th
1997

09:00:00 PMT

Officer Trent radioed in the call, two suspects entering Laurel Canyon Bank of The States armed and wearing masks. The suspects disappeared into the bank. Officer Trent waited for a response.

“534, this is dispatch,” the radio squawked, “Be advised we are sending another car. Request that you observe and wait.”

“A car?” Officer Trent asked, “Send a tank. These guys look-“ A siren cut him off. “Shit,” he said, “Kill the noise, will ya?”

A man in all black kicked open the door of the bank and began shooting. He used an automatic riffle. It was an AK-47, a Kalashnikov, just like in the movies. His partner emerged from the opposite side, firing another automatic rifle. The radio asked questions. People were dropping. Officer Trent heard the call for officer down. Explosions and gunfire surrounded him.

Although the general public loves a spectacle, few people lingered to watch the shootout. Those that did, saw a boy fall from the sky. He was covered head to toe in midnight blue, except for his face and hair. His eyes poked through a blue figure eight mask. A monogram of a ringed planet crossed by the shape of a comet, making a ‘k’, graced his chest.

He landed on the sidewalk, fifty-seven feet from the bank entrance. The cement snapped under him, sending shards and dust into the air. The suspect turned his weapon. Rings of light jumped out of the boy’s hands. The bullets ricocheted off the rings. He approached the robber slowly, deflecting auto fire.

He slapped the gun away from the assailant. His left fist turned milky bright and slammed into the man’s chest, knocking him out. The boy kicked the gun away and walked through the bank.

He came out the other side, behind the second gunman. He yanked the gun up and away. The robber turned and looked at him. The boy smiled. The robber ended up on his back, with the boy smiling down at him. A hand closed around his neck, and with a gentle pressure, the robber blacked out.

Vacation

2008-07-27T17:18:00.000-07:00

Scan the giant green
Whole fields of rolling
Whole wheat a'boiling
Down in the cracks
Of the glacial valley.

Step, gray, step
On granite.
Float in and out forever.
Wait 'til the end comes
We fall in a brainscream.

Breathe in, our hair whips
Past as we
Rush downward calling
The ground up
Towards us the
Last time we'll ever do this,
I swear.

The Road to Emmaus: XIII

2008-07-06T09:13:00.000-07:00

Murphy scowled at the television. Only three stations carried signals. TBS had cartoon marathons with no commercials. MTV had replays of old sports games. Channel Seven had the news. The television habbit died a hard death. He kept it on for noise.

"Happy?" Jake asked.

"Shut up," Murphy said. He swallowed beer. He stayed in his robes constantly and they stank. Every idea they tried backfired. Jake seemed pleased. "You know, I'm starting to see why they didn't like you the first time around," he said.

"Do you know the origins of the word 'scapegoat'?" Jake asked. Murphy drank more beer.

"I want to tell you a story," Jake continued. "It used to be a very popular one. It's about these two guys, kinda like you except there's two of them. They're walking down this road and a stranger comes up to them..."

"No," Murphy said. "No stories. Fix this," he gestured at the TV. "All you do is tell stories and little joke miracles and you let people walk all over you. Even the Pope laughed at you. No more. Fix us. Fix this."

Jake stared at him. Murphy gave up.

********************************************************

She could see a little. Sunlight winking off the ocean, blurry faces, small fires. This is what she saw. Dempsey's grey coat fluttered.

"You know," he said, "The last time you spoke was yesterday." She had a thousand responses. She knew where they were and what he'd done to get them here. It didn't matter to her one bit.

"Thank you," she said. He winced. He put the blanket over her knees.

"Look," he said, "I wrote reports for people. I had no idea."

"Dempsey," a man called, climbing the hill. "Someone got word out about Virginia."

"Huh?" Dempsey stood frozen.

"You go down to the tent," the man said, "I'll stay with her."

"Take me down there," she said. The men looked at her, at each other.

They took her to the tent. She saw moving parts of a great blob. She smelled the strange aroma of men in close quarters. Their voices wove in and out of a great conversation.

"Hal," the old man said, "This is Dempsey. And this is Erin." She got a feel for the man instantly.

"He's the one from Maryland?" she asked. Dempsey affirmed. "Mr. Kermin, we all appreciate what you've done," she said. "My eyes are bad, so forgive me if I'm not familiar with the contents of your flier. I trust it had most of the information in it?"

A silence ensued. Many other men gathered around. The wispering started.

"Thank you," she said to him. "Dempsey, have your man take me back to the hill." The old man did as she said.

Hal watched her go. "Does she have any idea," Hal began.

"Yeah," dempsey cut him off. "She, um, was injured in the first wave of bombs and then," he stopped, "She knows."

"Why don't they kill us?" Hal asked.

"We're working on that," Dempsey said. "They might still do it. They have the time."

"What's she really like?" Hal asked.

"Just as you saw her," Dempsey said. "Cold."

The Road to Emmaus XII

2008-07-02T13:50:00.000-07:00

Simon woke in a bare gray room. He sat at a table and his diary was on it. The door across from him opened. A man entered. This older gentleman sat across from him and opened the diary.

"Simon," he asked, "Do you know who I am?"

"No," answered Simon.

"Do you have any memory of how you got here?" the man asked.

"No," Simon replied.

"Do you remember anything at all?" the man asked.

"That," he pointed, "It's mine. I want to read it."

"You will," the man lit a cigarette. "Right now you're under observation. We're trying as best we can to help you. Do you remember anyone from your past?"

"No," Simon said.

"You're a brave guy, Simon," the man said, "I've read this over ten times and I can't for the life of me figure out how anyone in your condition could pull this off. We've already had you looked at bya few neurologists, did a few MRIs, basic stuff. We'll be getting all the results back in a few hours. We'll know for sure then."

The man puffed on his cigarette. Simon froze.

"Wait," Simon said. The man lifted an eyebrow.

"I am waiting," the man. His voice sounded dangerous.

"Can I have one of those?" Simon asked. The man stood up. He tossed the pack on the table.

"Coming out," he said, and the door opened. Simon opened the pack. The door shut. He couldn't find a lighter. No lighter, no diary, he realized.

The Road to Emmaus XI

2008-06-26T14:01:00.000-07:00

"All I've got is rumors," Hal Kermin said, "Some people escaped Virginia." They sat together in a crowded coffee bar inside the King of Prussia Mall.

"I've got access to a press," Evan Gherrity said, "There's five, maybe six guys willing to start around two. If we trickled in during the day, maybe." He crossed is legs. "I don't know."

"No," Hal said, "I'm watched. You got a deck of cards at home?"

"Somewhere," Evan answered.

"Grab our stuff and throw it away," Hal said, "Pocket what's under my napkin. Stick it in the deck of cards. Tell your guys to be ready. Pick the smartest one of the bunch, one good with numbers. Get the cards to him without meeting. Never say anything on the phone."

Evan looked down at his cup.

"You'll figure something out," Hal said, "Do what I say and sit back down. We'll make some small talk, then go run two quick errands. Go home, load the deck and figure it out."

Evan inhaled. Hal stared. Evan got up, grabbed the trash and walked to the bin. Under Hal's napkin was a business card. Without looking, he wiped his hands on the napkin, reached into his pocket and took out his keys. The business card dropped in his pocket. He fiddled with his keys. He walked back to the table and sat.

"You won't hear from me until this is all over," Hal said. "Still planning that evacuation to Denver?" Evan nodded. He thought of his wife and kids. He knew Hal well enough to take his word on this. "Yeah," Hal said, "Probably best. Smart. Everyone needs to be smart to stay safe. I just don't feel safe here anymore. Neither should you. Denver will be safer, but the whole world's gone nuts. You know what I do when things get nuts?" Hal asked.

"What?" Evan asked.

"I go somewhere nice, like Denver. I take a break from the wife and kids and go camping. I don't even bring a phone." Hal said. "Come to think of it, I know a guy out there who can work on your house while you get away for a while. You're wife can relax. He's a good guy. I'd trust him to work on my house. My kids liked him too."

Evan stood up. "Let him know the house needs work. It's good to have contractors you know."

"Don't shake hands," Hal said, "Go run your errands. I'll have my handy man check out the house even before you get there."

"Thanks," Evan said. Hal watched him walk away. They hadn't fooled anyone, he knew, but there was a chance the truth would get out of Pennsylvania. One good thing about rumors, he thought, is that they spread like a virus.

The Road to Emmaus X

2008-06-16T17:21:00.000-07:00

Erin couldn't see the face. The room wavered. The colors changed.

He spoke, "Do you know where you are?" She shook her head. "Better that way. You're as safe as you're ever going to be."

"I'm sick," she said.

"You're drugged," he said. "Not that it matters. You'll be getting worse and worse for eight hours. It will feel like years. I will tell you now, I can tranquilize you, but not until I'm sure you saw nothing."

"Saw?" she slurred.

"You were at home when Hennen's exploded," he said. "You were cooking a meal. You saw the broadcast and were horrified. You saw it on the news. The stress has confused your mind."

"No," she said.

"Yes," he said, "Say yes."

"I don't know," she said.

"Do you know what this is?" he askeed, and showed her a large needle like instrument. "This it an extension of what we're going to do to you. The needle will hurt, and then you will feel your skin burn. You will have a fever, carefully monitored. Then, you will return to the hospital and be committed to a psyche ward for an evaluation. The doctors already know to committ you. You will continue to be drugged, unable to reason. You will be kept insane and hidden. You will disappear."

"You kill me?" she asked.

"Oh no," he said. "You'll suffer with the memories from here and from the imagined bombing. It did not happen. Say it did not happen. Believe it did not happen. You saw it on the news. I will tranquilize you and you will return to an outpatient care to be monitored. Break your promise and we take you here again."

"Where am I?" she asked.

"A bad place that doesn't exist," he said. "It can go away. It can. You were mistaken. Maybe you had a bad reaction to the news and thought you were there. Yes?"

"I saw it," she said. The needle went in her stomach and it hurt. The burning started.

"Rethink that," he said. She cried out. "You're an office worker. You can be a patriot by helping us to keep our country safe by denying all this. You had a post traumatic event. Believe it."

"Why? Why?" she asked.

"The world is under assault," he said. "Many will die if you continue giving information."

"Where's the Agent I saw?" she asked.

"I'm here," a voice said. It sounded like Agent Dempsey. "I'm sorry, but we had to do this. We have to."

"I," she said, "I burn... help."

"Put her to sleep for now," the man said. She drifted asleep.

The Road to Emmaus IX

2008-06-14T15:19:00.000-07:00

"I'm here to read a statement from our beloved leader," Mauly Peppers said. "I will read this statement, and then, I will return to my home in Trenton, New Jersey. I will be followed, of course, by agents from every enemy we have, and that's quite a few people." She smiled.

"But we did not choose America as our enemy," she continued, "Nor did we choose the European Union or Israel. They chose to fight us. We wanted nothing from them. We did not choose the nations of Islam as our enemy. They choose to bomb us, kill us, fly planes into our building, behead our journalists and they did this in the name of a God which our faiths share. That Gos is YHVH, the God of Abraham, the God of Moses, the God Irsrael, the God of Mohamed. If they claim there are no innocents, then so be it. All are combatants."

"The Great Leader says," she looked down to a paper, "Dear friends and adherents of all religions. The Lord Our God has declared war on all nations and peoples that..."

Jacob turned off the TV.

"Uh, was watching that," Murphy said.

"Right," Jake said, "You were. No more of it for now." Murphy pressed the button on the remote. Mauly Peppers appeared, still reading.

"...the blood of the innocent will be shed for all so that..." The television shut off again.

"Why let me have the remote if your going to do that?" Murphy barked. The remote, he noticed, disappeared.

"Better?" Jake asked.

"The illusion of control," Murphy mused, "Or the certainty of predestination?"

"There are no illusions," Jacob said, "Only lack of perception."

"Thanks, Obi Wan," Murphy said.

"More Yoda-esque I'd say," Jake replied.

"Then we're screwed," Murphy said.

"Who is 'we'," Jake said.

"My God, My God. Why have you forsaken me?" Murphy cried out. Jacob laughed.

"Okay," Jake said, "You're calling for my help?"

"Don't make me ask," Murphy said.

"Rule 1, I don't play with guns," Jake said. "Rule 2, The Primary Directive," He smiled, "We cannot directly interfere or influence. There's some wiggle room there, of course."

"Picard held pretty straight to it," Murphy stroked his goatee. "Kirk. More like Kirk?"

"A happy medium," Jake replied. "But I'm not doing all the work. You still have your robes?"

"Yeah, but..." Murphy said.

"Well, presto," Jake waved his off-hand at him, "You're a Monk again. You remember your duties. And slow up on the booze."

"So," Murphy sat forward, "What do we do first?"

"We're off to see the Wizard," Jake said and they both smiled.

The Road toEmmaus VIII

2008-06-12T17:54:00.000-07:00

"Erin," a voice said, "I'm Special Agent Dempsey. I need to ask you some questions."

"I've told you everything I can," she said.

"I'm with the FBI," he explained. "I know you've probably told everything to a lot of different people. Can you do something for me?"

She hesitated.

"I'm an expert on Domestic Terrorism," he continued. "The other people you spoke with gave me your report. I've read it. It's very informative. Could you try to describe from the minute before the explosion up until the ambulance arrived?"

"I'm not sure," she said. "Like I told Sherrif Marques, I was checking out. Just a few supplies for a nice dinner. A man walked in. I barely saw him. I don't know if he was carrying a bomb."

"He wasn't," Dempsey said.

"He wasn't?" she asked.

"No," he said. "This wasn't the type of bomb you could carry. The explosion was too large. It wasn't a nuclear device. Let's say that we know where the bomb went off, how it was detonated, and from where."

"Oh," she said.

"Did you see anyone sitting in a running vehicle on a cell phone on your way out?" he asked.

"No," she said, "I was looking at my groceries and loading my car."

"How often do you shop at Hennen's?" he asked.

"Once or twice a week," she said.

"What sections did you go to?" he asked.

"I always go to produce," she said, "Sometimes the butcher. Sometimes the Deli counter. I go to quite a few places in there. But I'm usually there for fresh vegetables. They had the best."

"You make your sauce from scratch, I hear," he said.

"I'm a bit compulsive about it," she admitted with a laugh.

"If I told you that you were three feet from the bomb, would that help your memory?" he asked. "We found bits of a crate there. Did you see a crate?"

"There's always crates," she said.

"Who brings them out?" he asked.

"They bring the in the front door," she said. "It's a local farm. Brayton's. I saw a Brayton's truck when I got out of my car. The tomatoes were really fresh that day."

"How long were you in the market?" he asked.

"Half an hour, tops," she said.

"Now," he said, "If you stop for a moment and think about the truck and the workers, did you see any crates being delivered? Make sure your certain either way."

"No," she said, "No. I think they were done."

"Did you know any of the empyees or owners of the store?" he asked.

"No," she said.

"Do you know anyone connected to Brayton Farms?" he asked.

"No," she said.

"Okay, Erin," he said, "I know this has been rough on you. Let me explain what's going to happen. You are going to receive a summons to Federal Court. I want to make things safe for you. That means you have to trust me. We're going to move you. We have doctors to continue your treatment, but we have to get you somewhere safe. Are there people you want to call to let them know?"

"Yes," she said. "I'll need to..."

"You can't," he said. "We will contact them for you. We know who and how. No one can know where we take you. They can't even be told we have you for a few days. Wait. Stop and think. They'll worry, but if we do it any other way, you're going to be killed."

Erin stopped breathing.

"In about five minutes there will be a group of agents taking you away from here. They won't speak to you," he paused. "I've read your chart. I need an honest answer. Are you fully blind?"

Erin tried not to sob. It burned her eyes. "I need to know," he said. "If you can see anything we have to blindfold you."

"Oh," she sighed. She shook.

"Erin?" he prompted.

"I'm blind," she said. The words came out bent and high pitched.

"I'm going to leave," he said, "but I will be at your new place when you get there. I'm sorry."

She cried. Her eyes burned like hell.

The Road to Emmaus: VII

2008-06-10T08:54:00.000-07:00

The center aisle of St. Joseph's Cathedral caught sunlight. It followed the sun, east to west. During winter in the temperate mid-latitudes of the northern hemisphere, the sun traced a holy arch at forty five degrees from the southern horizon. It poked through the windows, and streaks of pure full spectrum light hit the burgundy carpet.

A tiny shuddering shadow of a bird in flight caught Simon's attention. Distracted, he lost his place. He glanced at his notepad. You are in Church at your father's funeral, it read. Emotion failed to register. He knew what a father was and what a church was. He understood the concept of funerals. Father? Further up the page ir read, you have lost your memory. I wrote this to remind you. There was further explanation. Whenever you stop concentrating, you forget most of what just happened.

The woman next to him put a hand on his arm, leaned in a whispered, "I'm your wife. I wrote that. Concentrate for as long as you can."

"How long does this usually last?" He asked.

"Your record is five straight minutes of remembering," she said, pursed her lips, continued, "The memory thing is permanent. But, you've come a long way. Concentrate on the funeral."

"But," he said.

"Not now," she said. He relaxed and fell into concentration. Something about the way she said it was so convincing, it challenged him.

"I'm going to concentrate this whole damn funeral," he said, "You'll see."

"No damn in church, hon," she said. "We'll see. Get to it."

Concentration meant Simon needed to catalogue details. Always start with the weather, he told himself. A strategy formed in his mind. The whether established the setting and lead to descriptive detail and mood. The sun shone, but they cried for a dead man. His father. His unknown father. My father is dead.

He lost his place.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"Seven minutes," he said. "I have a life after all."

"It's taken you two years to break your old record," she said, "Congratulations. Now concentrate." His mind relaxed and continued cateloguing details. The sun shone. His father died. Green, the colour of nature in spring, did not exist in winter. People cried a lot at funerals.

"What's your name?" He asked her.

"Emily," she said. He liked Emily. Maybe they would have sex later. He couldn't remmber if they ever had. "Concentrate," she whispered, but he knew with certainty that this train of thought would distract him.

He lost his place. Thirty seconds into his next recall, he lost his place again. Emily replaced the note pad with another notepad. He looked at it, bemused at the daring of this stranger passing him notes in church. You've lost your memory. I am your wife. Relax and accept it for now. He sighed relief.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"I want to write a novel," he said at brunch.

"You were a writer," she humored him, "Do you think you could without remmbering? How?"

"I don't know," he frowned. "At least let me keep a diary. One decent notebook."

She thought about it and waited for him to lose his place and forget the idea. He stared at her a long time. I want to write, he thought over and over. "Fine," she said. "I'll get a notebook and I'll come up with a plan."

"One thing," he said, "Never look in it."

"How would you know?" She smiled.

"Just promise," he pleaded.

"You got it. I promise," she said. It was good enough.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

This is not your diary. It's a secret novel. Turn the page to the outline and look for the checkmark where you left off. Find the next blank page and continue from there. She doesn't know, but you can concentrate up to an hour while doing this. Try not to get distracted by aimless thoughts. If you do, come back to this page, if you haven't already.

Satisfied that his plan would work, he tucked the notebook under his mattress. There would be all sorts of tibits in the novel. Anecdotes that explained the current world, and why he needed to accept it. Secrets thoughts and insights. Her habits and sexual deviencies. It would be...

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
He read a passage:

"You tore the damn thing up and this is a sort of part 2. Some of it's edits and rewrites, someoriginal pages. Somedays we leave you a note to tidy up and closely bind in. We have yet to come to a decisions for when to prerest it for publicathin, but you'll have a long stretch of days doing the rewrite. Some of us are more on the ball than others. Hopefully, you're the initiative taking type that will begin to call a vote on when we should consider the whole thing done.

One of us wrote recently after sex with the woman. I hesitate to mention the location of that passage. Many of us disappear shorty after with a quick note, like "My turn" or "Hope it wasn't two minutes ago." You, being the endeaverring sort who's still reading, ablbeit at the mere drop of the work fuck I probably have kept only one of the three of you I can talk seriously too."

He'd never encountered this bebore. They all had secret friends within the book and subtle memories of them. This vice was new. Maybe he was one of the reknown Old Leaders from when the book was founded. He could be that louse, the Savoir or one of his followers.

They all relied on unverified reports of when his memory had been injured. Some felt he was 100 years old or more. These were immature assumtions. Best estimates had him between 20 and 50. Emily has 33 or 34, depending on who you asked and what they remebered. Why waste the good years writing a novel?

"Emily?" he called.

God's Son

2008-05-31T22:41:00.000-07:00

I wrote the Bible once. Looked down at that damn book and copied every word I read. I said I wrote the Bible and I mean it. And if you think God wrote the Bible, you wrong. Man wrote it down like that and it never had to be done by God cause a man had some paper and indigo or something and set man to do it.

I'm not the author, nothing. I said for God to Damn something and the teacher she says go on copy that Bible til my finger fall off. Hey, I had a plan and I left school that day and told myself the only way I'm gonna fix what I done is to do what teacher say and copy the whole damn Bible and that'd make no school for me anymore, right? So I did it.

It took me half my life with pasting pages and fixing spelling and getting a dictionary and I found out one thing. A man can write the Bible with his own hands in maybe a half a life if you figure a life at eighty years, and given time for meals and sleep and paying the bills which somehow always got paid, and I ain't so sure it was all on the level but I come out of writing that damn Bible owing nobody nothing except a few thank yous for a glass of water here and there and food and such.

This whole world kept on going while I did my work and I heard of wars and killings and gangs. Some group of kids get drugs and a few guns and a city stands still for a bit, just as I finished. I worked hard to write this Bible the right way on good paper with my best script, and when my hand hurt sometimes I'd just stop and run some cold water over it. Then I'd get going again.

Hell, it was work and I'm a good Christian man, but I made some mistakes and learned writing the Good Word the hard way. Oh, I'll tell you. I learned them names and numbers and the peoples and the songs and the praises and the Prophets and a Temple where Lord lived and died and lived again and then left, saying he coming back someday soon. Sometimes the stories make me so mad at God and He the One created me and I'm so confused as to why He has to hurt us so bad to see if we love Him, but that's a mean old thought you shouldn't think about your Lord.

I wrote down every sin God seen his people do and sometimes I start crying cause I don't know any better way to live than this. I ask Him take away all the sin and I give up all my wants and lets all be friends, but the Bible it keeps saying we're bad and, oh, how we can't see what we do to one another. There's wars and killings and false promises. There's so much hurt in that Book I nearly died of sadness at how hard we all are to ourselves.

But there's this one part I really liked which made the whole damn thing work and it's at the worst part when the poor Son is dying and his mama's watching him and he tells her to look at her new son and this boy he tells him that now he's got a mama because the Son is dying and I stopped writing at that moment.

I think.

Jesus dying, gives his mama a new son and his young friend a new mama.

I tell you, I finished writing that Bible with my own hand but I was sure I understood something that I might have missed if I didn't take my teacher so literal. That Man's last concern was for his mama and his friend, maybe his brother. That's when it got to me that man HAD to be God.

Yeah. I finished writing that Bible by hand, and I ain't seen much of what others got to see while living, but maybe I got something for my trouble that they might have missed.

Interruption

2008-05-23T07:26:00.001-07:00

A better version is on the WoW. Wand of Wonder 2.0: Sorry for the Interruption

It's Christopher Morris here with a consumer complaint. I would ask that you post this on your blogs or send via email, even though it is a local issue.First, the good. That's a sentence fragment, but who cares. The Hyundai Motor Company makes an awesome line of cars. They are super reliable, have a great 100,000 mile drivetrain warantee with a great extended warantee to boot for a small sum. They work hard to get the financing at a great rate and easy payments. Their dealers are typical high pressure, negitiate until your teeth hurt salesmen, but come on! That's half the fun. AND their service departments are superior. The fight for warrantee work and give you a loaner car and call every day with updates.Now, the bad news. Rick Torres Empire Hyundai:Company DetailsLocation: Fall River, MAFounders: Richard R. Torres, 41Website: www.empirehyundai.comYear Started: January 2000Initial Investment: $200KTurned a Profit: 2000First Million: 20022002 Sales: $18.4M2006 Sales: $60.7MNumber of Employees:Day 1: 92006: 852007: 111*Awesome company. Great service department, initially. Four years ago, the let go of some of the service managers and installed a few real hard asses. We fought tooth and nail. Then, when we had a drivetrain problem and a ball joint problem, they tried to screw us.Background. My father has worked in the automotive service industry for 30 years, with Goodyear, Getty, Moe's Alignment senter (owner, operator) and for Henney's Towing and repair and Glassman Auto (one of the most respected car dealerships and repair facilities in all of the Bristol Area. I had Glassman do the 60,000 mile madatory replacement of the timing belt, water pump and tensioners. ALL Hyundai Certified parts, with an ASE certified mechanic and a full itemization. Their reputation is known in three states as a quality shop.So, a year later a few problems pop up. We take it to RICK TORRES EMPIRE HYUNDAI. Jeff White, the service manager, is reasonably sure it's all warantee work, but promises to call if there are any problems. Without written consent, he takes the car apart (not even necessary) claims the timing belt is mangled and it's going to cost $450.00, no warantee, to fix.Hold on, I say. You did not authorize this.Well, I've got your car in pieces in my bay right now. It will cost you just as much to put it all back to gether, but feel free to take it somewhere else.Me: when can you have it fixed?One week.Oh? So, how are you going to get it out of the bay?It's going to sit there until you agree to pay or my guy puts it together and we get paid for his time.Me: My father works at Glassman auto. They replace the timing belt, the water pump and the tensioner. So, they screwed up?Yes.Okay, my brother in law works for a dealership and he could shede a little light on this. I want all the parts you take out.I can't give those to you.By law, you have to.No, they have to go to warantee to ensure that we did the right work.The job you said wasn't under warantee, you said.It's half under warantee.I want my my guys to look at the parts before then. They have all the records and they'll see about this.Well, it's going to cost you that much either way.So, you've got me over barrel here. This is like blackmail.I'm just doing my job.Look, I've been around car repair long enough. You're lying.I'm sorry you feel that way.Who can I talk to about this?No one. I'm the manager here.I'll hand it to JEFF WHITE, he never raised his voice and made me sound like a cranky old man.Fearing for my car, I apologized and told him to do the work. I even said my stress level was too high and I should not be taking it out on him and that he was doing his job. Which, I didn't tell him, was swindling people.I did my research and had a few phone calls made to RICK TORRES HYUNDAI.SHOCK! It all magically got covered under warantee. THEN, they'd stolen money from the car. Yes, we'd left it there on purpose. The last straw.Facts.1. NO repair shop can touch your car without a written good faith estimate and cannot proceed beyond that estimate without another written consent.2. The cannot charge you labor for any work they innitiate to investigate a problem.3. No company in their right mind ties up a service bay with a car 'totally taken apart' for nine days. They had to put it back together to get it out of the bay to work on other cars.4. They have no right to lock your car in a gated lock if they have done no repairs, unless they are willing to release it with a signature of receit.I was blackmailed, lied to and meant to feel very stressed out AND had to kiss the ass of a lying worm of a service manager just to save my car.Lastly, they dumped motor oil on parts of the engine to make it smoke and smell to try and get us to come in for a supposed oil leak. Nice try.Customer service cannot get either manager on the phone to resolve this. I want an admission of the lying and blackmail, reprocussions for JEFF WHITE and a watchdog on their ass, like the Mass Better Business Bureau.They pull this crap with old ladies and women and executives with no car knowledge.Advice:Go with your gut. If the price jumps without warning, refuse and ask to take the car immediately with no service charge.Keep spotless records.Always ask for parts that were taken out and double check with another shop if you suspect foul play.SPEAK UP! Squeaky wheel gets the grease. We got our warantee work for $50.00 (on a $600.0 bill).They are NEVER authorized to do work without an itemized estimate signed by you and cannot ecceed it with another signed release.If you get screwed, fight back and threaten bad press. Call the local channels scam busters, the papers and blog and email. Bad press will force their hand.Don't let them badger you. Get your research lined up and call a reputable shop and ask question. It helps to offer the new shop all your following business if they can help.PLEASE post this or link it or whatever you can do.Hyundai is a great company. Their service department is excellent, but many LIKE RICK TORRES EMPIRE HYUNDAI's service department are looking to scam.I invite Rick Torres, his General Manager (not his service manager) to contact me at eliasdolon@charter.net understand, that's not my real name for privacy issues on the net, but I'll feel free to tell you who I am and explain further in a rational way what happened.cc www.empirehyundai.com

The Road to Emmaus: Part VI

2008-05-18T07:25:00.000-07:00

"Shhhhhh," Mr. Daniel said. The television gurgled in the background. She saw dirt walls. "You're safe for now."

She didn't believe him. They'd punched her in the head to knock her out. It took six punches from multiple sides to do the trick. She heard a news report about her abduction.

"You see," Mr. Daniel said, "Before you reported the news. Now, you are the news." She screamed into her gag. He slapped her. "You ignorant woman. I'll tell you something newsworthy. Early in history, women were rulers. They were priestesses, governesses, judges. Then, something happened. The men rose up and took the power from the women. Do you know why?"

She squirmed. The foul smell of underground decay flowed in and out of her nostrils. She tasted blood. He put his hand on her head and pushed her cheek into the soil.

"Because," he said, "Women are stupid, evil and filthy. Praise be to God."

***********************************************

Murphy sat in the dark, drinking beer and watching television. He felt a pang of guilt when he wished the whole terror thing would go away so he could watch Grey's Anatomy uninterupted by news flashes. The guilt worsened when he realized his original guilt stemmed from watching Grey's Anatomy.

"I've had enough of this crap," he said. His legs wavered when he stood, so he sat. He shut off the TV. The last image, the one of Mauly Peppers in her bright pink Channel suit with the bright red tagline 'ABDUCTED', made him horny. More guilt, he thought.

The door opened and closed.

"'Bout friggin' time," Murphy said. "You missed another long night of watching the world go to hell." Murphy followed the footsteps down a long corridor to the kitchen. He heard the bottle opener click open a beer. "You're drunk again," Murphy said. He heard a second beer open. He took it when it was offered to him.

"You gonna do anything about all this?" Murphy asked.

"Nope," his roomate said.

"Why not?" Murphy asked.

"I seen worse," his roomate said, "Try 1100 to 1500. Now there's a world crisis for you."

"I asked you a question," Murphy said.

"Murph," he sighed, "If I start running around fixing every little problem the world gets into, no one learns to help themselves."

"They abducted Mauly Peppers," Murphy said, walking away. He stopped at the door.

"I know," Jake said. "That's why I'm drinking."

The Road to Emmaus V

2008-05-14T08:49:00.000-07:00

Press Secretary John Valenti addressed the media two days later. He stood behind a podium, and lied his blood out. He told them the President was in a secure location. He told them several cabinet members, including National Security Advisor Sharon Parks, briefed members of the law enforcement and intelligence communities. He asked for American Citizens to report any suspicious activity. He explained that the threat level would remain at Red, until the proper government agencies felt satisfied that the attacks were over.

Secretary Valenti had a crib sheet of answers in front of him. The bolded, red font at the top of the page read, "I don't have any information on that at this time." John knew the job well enough to state that fact in fifteen different ways, each specific to types of out of the blue questions.

"Is the President expected to brief the nation?" a reporter asked.

"At this time, I can't give you a definite answer," John said. "We just don't have enough information."

"What about the idea that these attacks are being coordinated by a well funded, military organization or government? asked another.

"Well, Al Qaeda was a well funded, government back organization," John said, "But with the nature of these attacks, it's hard to envision the type of organization that could be capable of this. We're looking into a few possibilities, but without solid information, it wouldn't be fair to speculate about who did this. We're still looking at the how, so to speak."

"After looking over the intelligence, was their any indication that an attack was imminent?" one asked.

"All I can tell you is that, as far as I am aware, there was no prior knowledge of an attaqck and no real increase in chatter from the groups we continually monitor, but again, it's still to early to rule out anything. Hindsight being much easier than foresight."

"What about the idea that this is a Christian Al Qaeda?" a man asked.

"I'm sorry," John said, "I'm not sure I follow you."

"A radical Christian terrorist group," the man explained. John looked at his sheet of paper.

"I don't have any information on that at this time," he said. One person in the room caught the lie.

***********************************************

"This isn't about your church," Mr. Eli said, his voice altered and fuzzed. Again, Channel 7 had trumped the other news agencies. CNN, Fox News, MSNBC and all the old networks, CBS, Fox, ABC, NBC, plus many of the spiritual cable channels and even ESPN broke in to catch the interview.

"On that we agree," said Reverend Tom Hill. "This isn't about God at all. Your people slaughter in the name of God. No sensible church would support that!"

"Except for the Sand People," Mr. Eli said.

Mauly keyed off her live mic and said, "Joe, we have to cut him off. We're being used."

"String him out," Joe said. "The more we let him talk, the more rope the Feds can hang him with."

"If they catch him," she said.

"You," the Reverend said, "Are hiding your face and voice. You're ashamed of what you preach."

"No," Mr. Eli said, "I'm smart. And my God has given me wisdom beyond what you can understand."

"Gentleman," Mauly said, over the air, "If I may..."

"He's no gentleman," the Reverend said.

"He's right," Mr. Eli responded, "I am no more than an animal. But I am God's animal and I'm true to how he made me. They've killed our innocent Brothers and Sisters. The marry 40 year old men and 12 year old girls. Haven't we outlawed that? It's dispicable. It's not a religion, it's a slavery cult."

"You are killing innocents too," the Reverend said.

"No one on earth is innocent," Mr. Eli said. "Your teachings state that. My goodness, stand up for your people Reverand! You are going to let them die? For what?"

"Gentlemen," Mauly broke in the conversation.

"Careful, Mauly," the producer said. She backed off.

"Jesus Christ died for our sins," the Reverend put on his pulpit voice, "And if the Son of God did not lift a sword to defend himself, but begged his followers to turn away from violence..."

"He's changed his mind since his first trip to earth," Mr. Eli said. "This time he brings fire and the sword. One more thing before I hang up and send more imstructions. Mauly are you there?"

"Yes," she said, "I'm here but I..."

"Shut up and listen," he said. A raw shock of cold ran over her. "Go and interview a girl named Jenna Paulson from the Reverend's old parish in Orange, Connecticut. Ask her why he left them." He hung up.

The Road to Emmaus: Part IV

2008-05-13T08:00:00.000-07:00

"Just as surely as if they put a gun to your head," Mr. Isaac said, "They held an entire nation, an entire religion, an entire world hostage." He stared, swiveling his head as he spoke, catching each pair of eyes along the way, pacing. Mr. Isaac, pacing like a rope-chord muscled panther.

"Well," he said, "Suppose one day a group - not some radical group, no no - but some group who would die for the Lord, stood up and said 'Take your heathen, bloodspilling, sand covered religion and go back into hiding, because the Lord isn't going to sit by and watch." Murmurs of agreement came from the crowd, "The Lord is going to send his people into the flames and like gold in a refiner's crucible, they will be cleansed. The Lord sets the table before us in the face of our enemies. The Lord will not forget his one true people."

He paced. People in the front row heard him make a low noise in his throat. "The Nation of Israel, the people of the tribe of Judah, and the followers of the Christ - God be praised - His followers all will unite. They claim to be the Sons of Abraham," he cocked an eye and grimaced, "Decendents of Abraham, yes. Sons and Daighters?"

"Have you ever heard of Ishmael?" Mr. Isaac asked them. People nodded and shouted affirmatives. "Ishmael was born to a servant girl, fathered by Abraham. Ishmael was cast out because he displeased God! Thus are the decendents of Ishmael not true Sons and Daughters of Abraham. Only those decended from Isaac can call themselves Sons and Daughters of God Almighty, and Allah is NOT the name the Father gave us to call him. Ask any Jew. Ask a well read Christian scholar. The name was Y - H - V - H and its pronounced Yadhevah, not Allah, may God strike them dead in their ignorance."

"If we are consecrated in God, by God, and for God, then we can join his Holy Struggle against the serpent sons of Ishmael, the heathen Islamists." He stepped of the stage and walked into the crowd. Like lightning, as quick as he had come, he left.

******************************************

The assasinations started twelve days after the bombings. Every hour another news broadcast interrupted regular programming. Twelve world leaders died, one every hour. Reports landed on secret desks in nonexistent buildings.

Beneath the streets of Baltimore, a small cadre of advisors rehashed Special Agent Dempsey's assesment, ammended to reflect his voicemail message.

"No one," the Guru said. He leaned back, the only one out of the eight assembled there that looked relaxed.

"How the hell does he get briefed, then?" asked the National Security Advisor.

"It gets to him," a young Intelligence Officer said.

"That's it?" she asked.

"That's all we can say," said the Guru. "It's for his protection."

"Your job is to protect this country," Langley said, "We'll protect the President."

Every phone in the room rang at once. The Guru felt his heart squeeze to half its size. In the eerie half silence between ringtones, they looked at one another. They heard heavy boots marching down the corridor. Langley answered his phone. General Phillips answered the door.

"We need to move now," General Phillips said.

"Agreed," Langley said as he snapped his phone shut.

They stood and moved for the door. The Guru leaned in close to the NSA. "Stay behind for one second, Sharon," he said. The others left. He pulled a packet from his inside breast pocket and threw it down on the desk. "Go ahead," he said. "Open it. You want answers, there they are."

She felt the needle in her neck. Shock stopped her from responding. She fell and slid off the table.

"Bet they don't teach you that at kickboxing class," he said. She landed face up. She twitched. She tried to talk. Nothing worked. "Maybe we'll take you to see him after all," he said.

The Road to Emmaus: Part III

2008-05-08T14:35:00.000-07:00

Special Agent Dempsey locked his office door. He turned on his computer. In one hour, he could type up a summation and present it to JCoS and SIC, but he had fifteen minutes and he was not tapped to present. AD Mosher would brief the Director and the Director would present it in an hour.

He realized a fifteen minute summation needed to cut the fat off and leave only fact and a hard, rational core of theory on why. He knew the facts. All of the attacks had been carried out on soft targets, mostly Muslim owned businesses and religious centers. Some didn't fit, but a pattern formed regardless. The attacks occured in the span of two hours and ended abruptly. He put the detail 'coordinated attacks' under a column of facts.

Given the freedom to preculate, he added a short statement about a single, anti-muslim entity. He held his finger over the backspace button. He moved on, adding that the facts ad stated did not add up to any known radical groups in the United States. He wrote a one sentence final assesment:

"However impossible it may seem, these attacks contain the imprint of a large, well funded military organization."

He felt no need to specify which organizations he had in mind. As with most jobs, the credit for being right would be snatched up by the boss anyways. The blame for being wrong would be his alone. He hit send.

The document printed automatically from his computer, and three other computers in the Washington D.C. area.

He cursed. He realized his blind spot. The document printed. Special Agent Dempsey made very few mistakes. He ommited mention of the blind spot, and used the phone to correct it.

**********************************

"This is a local piece?" he asked.

"Utah," the Producer said, "Salt Lake City. I want to air it as a breaking."

"What is he?" he asked.

"Don't know yet," the Producer said. They watched and listened as the bearded man spoke to the Reporter. "It ran last night. Wally caught it. Haven't heard anything about it except this piece."

"Who's the skirt?" he asked.

"Mauly Peppers," the Producer said. "She knocked one out on a CNN relay from New York. Channel 7."

"She's good," he added.

"Seems likely she is," the Producer said.

"Go ahead," he said. "Run it. Now." He sipped his tea. "Shut this off, put on The Network. And grab me a coffee from the fridge before you go."

"Sure thing," the Producer said.

In five minutes, he watch the uncut interview as it aired. He shuffled through The Network to see who piggy-backed their feed. A smile came and widened.

The Road to Emmaus: Part II

2008-05-05T07:45:00.000-07:00

"I'm not understanding what I'm seeing," Mauly Pepper said into her collar mic. The producer cintinued his furious babbling. The monitors showed smoke and fire. Fifteen locations sent live feeds, digital video flowed in with angles and other locations. Mauly sniffed and flipped her hair back. "How long do I have?" she asked.

"Fifteen seconds," her PA said.

"I'm supposed to make sense of this in fifteen seconds?" she asked.

"Just read the prompt, Maul," the producer said. The ground shook.

"What the f-," a camera man said.

"Shut up and do your job," the director said. Footage popped up on monitor twelve. It was an old analogue TV they'd dragged in from a breakroom and wired up to a fixed relay. The feed had switched. Gearge Parks, the senior, had climbed out of bed to run the trucks today. Feed twelve showed a Mosque explode.

"In ten," the director said.

"What just happened?" Mauly asked? "You're dropping me in a pit here. Someone give me a direction for Christ's sake."

"Read the prompt," the director said. "It's another broadcast, Maul. Just another broadcast. In five." The lights came up. Five monitors showed the cut in. Breaking News, it read.

The red light went on.

"Good afternoon, I'm Mauly Pepper and this is a Channel Seven Breaking News Update," she said. Viewers across the Tri-State Area saw her, heard her.

"CNN is picking up the feed, Maul," the producer said, "Go get it." He keyed off his studio mic. "Leave it ti Dick to take a week when this happens. If she f-s this up..."

"Multiple explosions have rocked building in New York, San Francisco, Boston, Chicago, Ann Arbor, Kansas City, Portland Oregon, Portland Maine, Houston, Austin, New Orleans and multiple cities across Europe, Asia and the Middle East, most notably Jeruselem, Mecca, Medina and Beirut."

The switchboard locked up, as did the website. Massive DNS outages shut down the major news sites. Even Wikipedia ground to a halt. Severs and switboards across the world shut down to save the hardware. Satlites and relays switched to emergency government protocols. Phone lines went dead. Satelite phones lost service. Businesses closed. The FAA sent out an 'all down' signal. Jet fighters srcambled across the globe.

"Keep going," the director said.

"While there is no confirmation," Mauly said, "It appears that a well planned, coordinated terrorist attack, a campaign of global destruction, is underway. As information comes in, it is impossible to tell the scope of this worldwide assault on the major cities of the world. We take you live to footage from the scenes of the attacks," she said.

"Who wrote this?" the producer asked.

"Kim," the senior copy said. "Kim Nugyen."

"Get him a f-cking cigar, a pot of coffee and a bottle of whatever," the producer said.

"She," Kim said from her keyboard.

"Yeah," the producer said, "How much rope do you have?"

"About thirty words," Kim answered. "Let her fly solo over the feed for two minutes, I'll get us Murrow."

"Talk to the people, Maul," the director said.

The Road to Emmaus: Part I

2008-05-04T14:59:00.000-07:00

She selected a tomato from the top of the bin. The firm state of the thing and its color gave it value. Erin's sauce had a reputation, and choice tomatoes laid the foundation for her modern epicurial bastion. Some, she fancied, even believed it could cure illness. In anticipation of praise, she walked a fine line between demanding perfection from her tomato base and being a totalitarian with genocide on the brain. Some tomatoes deserved a special place, others were pushed aside.

Had she been a complete dictator, she would hurl the vagabond produce from a high cliff into the ocean. This one, she thought while holding another, is not fit to live. Her human weakness made her set it down carefully instead of smashing it there and then, as an example.

She hated to think what would happen if she was thrown out of Hennen's. She saved the tomato selection for last. With fourteen ripe specimens, she hauled the old wobbly cart to checkout. The total looked outrageous if you'd never had the sauce. The left front wheel squeaked as she parked the cart right next to the baggage boy, a dark young fellow, not black but far from fair.

He smiled and she smiled back. The auto ringer heralded another customer. The bag boy waved. She prefered to keep her eyes on the boy. Maybe Middle Eastern, she thought. He had dazzling white teeth, strong black hair and a clean complexion. She wondered his age, and decided on twenty-two for decency's sake. God forbid she think those thoughts about a teenager.

She rolled out, squeaking. She located the 2006 Mazda and popped the back. She packed the ingredients and a wall of air knocked her down. Her skin relayed bad information to her brain. She smelled oven cleaner. Her ears rang. Her eyes watered. She breathed smoke and fumes.

She roled onto her back, seeing the store window broken and spitting flames. I didn't hear a sound, she thought, I didn't hear a sound. She spent the next eternity crying into the concrete.

The Chemist

2008-05-01T12:08:00.000-07:00

He believed in the physical, the microscopic. He allowed for theory only in an empirical, mathematical sense. He kept a clean, oderly laboratory. He sterilized his instruments. He wore surgical gloves and goggles and a respirator.

His experiment succeeded to a degree he'd not expected. History provided evidence of possesion of entire villages. Demons turned people into manic savages, committing attrocious acts of depravity. Documented visions of hell conjured gutteral fear upon retelling. The voracity and reputation of the chronicles made him think.

Then, just a few short miles away, an outbreak of just such a hysteria caught his attention. Investigators discovered it was ergot poisoning. Many chemists suspected ergot poisoning as the root of the old tales of villages turning mad overnight. Now, he had a parallel case to study not far from his laboratory.

The sources described the intense distress and disturbing behavior of the town. The doctors tested the bread supply. They found the suspicious mold and it oozed ergot. He aquired a sample. He worked for days and some nights, probing the chemical. He tested and retested, using his clever chemistry to tease out the secrets and found several promising compounds.

Some scientists refused to believe that a simple compound could alter cognition in a radical fashion. He knew otherwise. Any student of Freud knew the power of simple plant chemistry to alter mood and behavior. The effects could be drastic.

One morning, while working in his usual careful way, he isolated one promising ergoline and began the synthesis of a new compound from it. He'd performed this procedure a few times before, but he wished to test it further. He knew the powerful nature of the new chemical. Unsure of the propper dosage, he placed a conservative amount in a pipette and proceded to allow drops to fall into various liquids for a diluted solution.

The morning went queer in less than an hour. The insight hit him. The compound could pass through the surgical gloves, through the pores on the skin and into the blood stream. He slowed his breathing. His heart pounded. He took a piece of white paper and calculated the milligrams per kilogram in his body. Even if he exaggerated the possible amount absorbed, it looked miniscule, immeasurable almost. Such a profound effect from such a small dose seemed idiotic.

Time slowed and his surroundings became menacing. He recognized the symptoms. Ergot poisoning. The hallucinations started. He stopped breathing. He forced a bit of logic through the mental noise. Two things came to him.

He'd isolated and synthesized a non-toxic compound.

The strength of this compound exceeded statistical measure.

As the gap from normalcy widened, he loudly pronounced himself unfit to remain in his laboratory, went out to his bike, and rode the twenty minutes to his home, determined to lie down until it had passed.

That twenty minutes stretched and distorted beyond explanation. Some time later, he would try to document it, he thought as he passed a world of fractal shapes and colors. Even then, he laughed, knowing he would never get the explanation quite right.

Involuntary Reaction

2008-04-28T14:34:00.001-07:00

"It's for your own good," his mother said. The men in the rubber green chemsuits hosed him down with a viscuous liquid foam that stung like bees. He struggled and they pushed him to the floor. It hurt a lot. His mother's voice over the loud speaker said, "Stop resisting. The demons will not like this."

"The list of demands is not that long but it must be obeyed completely and for all eternity without one mistake, do you understand?" she shouted over the loud speaker. The foam, he noticed, was only to hold the small insects suspended and stinging. The bees were moving like drugged cattle, stinging when touched. And they touched his skin.

He didn't blame the bees. That's what they did. He blamed the men in the rubber suits and his mother. They hosed him off with water and dried him roughly. Mother came in. "There, you look much better. Do you feel better?"

"The were stinging me," he said.

"You have a lot of cuts," she said, smiling in an oil puddle of makeup and sugar sick smile. "Of course they stung you. Now, at least you look more human." The demons laughed. She's made fun of him again.

"Now," she said, "Doctor Hammerfall will open your mind up and tear out what we don't like and make you sit still. You will take these medications." She handed him a few beetles and one wasp. "You have to take them Michael, you have to. You'll get better, no promise." The bugs squirmed in his hands and down with throat with the can of oil the gave him to drink. The wasp stung his throat.

"Good job, Mike," a voice said.

"I've got a lot of pressure on my right now," Mike said.

"I know," Mike said. "The walls here are loaded with cameras and it's not an illusion. The demons will know all about this. I can handle this on my own, just let me out. I want to live my life."

"Michael," Dr. Hammerhead said, "We need to run some extensive and painful experiments on your stomach by using bullet drugs to dig out through your abdomen for a while. It will hurt for months, but after a while, you'll stop caring about the pain and next thing you know, razooom, you're free from the silly made up voices."

"Punch him," a silly voice said. Michael did not.

"This is the best way to make the demons leave is to get your mother off your back by shooting holes in your stomach with these bullet drugs. No more voices." Dr. Meathammer said.

"How do I know you're not a voice?" Michael asked. He knew Dr. Footsal wasn't a voice. He tested him.

"Because I can kill you without using your hands," the Doctor Suit answered.

"This fifty foot wall of bugs is no illusion. Bugs like cameras and cameras in bees," Michael said.

"Whatever, slick," Doc Meade said. "Pop those pills forever and you get better, dig?"

Michael knew then, Dr. Mangler was a demon. He planned his escape.

The Offering

2008-04-06T17:09:00.000-07:00

Counting back from twenty into the desert, but the air, not quite dry enough, and the spray of green across the plain. He smelled the ocean and a close fire of cedar. The boy lay tied on a stack of wood.

His expectations had been shattered. An ax leaned on a tree. The hill sloped down from him. He looked up at the blue sky. This strange moment in time bore little similarity to its literary account. Elements connected the two. The boy, the fire, the hill, the knife all marked the narrative, but this land and the land of the legend differed.

He understood the mind of the man and he looked for more wood, His son, now tied down, had gathered most of the share he rested upon. The boy, the boy, he thought. My only boy. He gathered wood.

At a few hours after midday, he completed the easy part of his task. A Being had spoke to him. This Being told him to slaughter his son as a sacrifice to Him. The covenant demanded absolute obedience. He had no choice, he agreed to withhold nothing.

The demand for his son as a sacrifice shocked him. He dared not question. El Shaddai aksed no question and accepted no question. The child, if the covenant were to be sealed, must die. He sharpened a small scythe, lifting it out of its pole. He said the blessing as the Being had taught. He stood and walked to the pile of wood.

They boy was quiet and calm. 'Father," he said, "If I die for The Lord, I benefit from your sin of murder. This is not what God intends." The father touched the blade to the exposed stomach of his son.

"Then, son," the father replied, "God wills my to be cursed and damned for murder, as Cain."
He paused. "You are my only work of good in this world. It makes little sense to me, but I do as the Lord commands,"

He raised the knife over his son'y belly. His sone never flinched. A moment in time stretched out and he saw a man dying a horrible death somehwre on a hill in the noonday darknes. The knife began to come down.

"Abraham! Abraham!" A divine voice shouted. The death blow never landed.

The phone wrang. Ben, shaking his head clear, answered it.

"What's the haps?" a familiar voice said.

"Nothing," Bend said, "Just a little meditation..."