The Maya Phenomena
©2002, Wayne Lundberg
Chapter 1
On the Senate floor the senator
from
Tall,
crew-cut reddish hair, immaculate gray flannel suited, Senator Blakey reached for the voting button on the console
and as he touched it his body stiffened, as though fired by a billion-volt
charge of electricity. Instantly, he met death, but just as suddenly he gasped
and his lungs filled with air. He was alive - but his hand froze Then he drew
back from the voting machine. Dizzy, in a cold sweat, he steadied himself by
grasping the armrest of his chair. He hesitated. Deep inside he knew he had
faced some kind of intelligence with infinite power that had stopped him from
making a terrible mistake.
---------------------
Idi Amin
Gandala, grandson of the great Amin, the man whose whispered name caused big
men to faint, smiled. The girl was exactly right. Thirteen, skin wet from fear,
trembling. Alone with her as his captive, surrounded by imposing, tall palace
walls and Gandala’s mighty size, she lay prone on the cold tile floor and
whimpered. He kicked her gently on the stomach. “No tears. No crying”, he
hissed words in a language she barely understood.
Crouching
to sit flat on his feet as was the custom of his people out in the jungle, he
reached to tear off the only garment she wore: a beaded metallic belt, a
talisman an oh-so-wrong witch-doctor had ordered her to buy before her
adventure to the big city. In the instant before touching the belt he was
struck by lightning and cried out with a single voice which carried the power
of the million fellow-humans he had victimized in his short span of
immortality.
An instant
later he gasped for air and knew he had barely missed death -- and wondered
why.
---------------------
Ausencio
Gutierrez thumbed a stack of hundred dollar bills and handed them to Miguel
Angel through the car window. “I’ll wait here.,” he said. The other nodded in
silence and backed away from the car before turning and jogging off into the
dusk. Ausencio leaned back, resting his head against the padded seat back of
the Jaguar. Blood surged to his penis pressing his erection against the tight
khaki pants. He pushed forward enjoying the sensation as he visualized the
power he would have over others once this deal was done. Music, he mused, and
reached for the dial on the car radio. The shock made a flat board of his body
and the erect penis was crushed between pelvic bone and unyielding steering
wheel. Recovering from the shock, Ausencio knew without looking that he would
never bear another child and wondered at the might of an angered god.
-----------------------
Mark,
watching C-Span from his favorite recliner, sharpened his focus on the Senator
from
He closed
his eyes and for a moment relived last Tuesday, that evening in
Mark and
Kelly walking hand in hand along the pathway connecting all the hotels on the
strip. A gathering storm in the distance flashed lighting every second -- some
smarting the eyes, others behind the clouds making the clouds themselves
brightly lit images of animals, phantoms, symbols. Mark, tall, brownish short
hair, muscular and athletic as expected of a Navy Seal. Kelly, clean,
unblemished olive skin, radiant black eyes which only a Venezuelan beauty queen
could display. They did not speak as both became aware of the slight smell of
ozone, and a deeper, more penetrating sense of a miracle about to happen.
A feeling,
then a desperate urge to get to the pyramid shaped hotel on the strip. They
approached. “Look Kelly. Like Lemmings”
said Mark as they noticed other people apparently in a daze going
through the broad open doors of the huge hotel. They were all moving as though
rehearsed a dozen times, to the center court and into the indoor jungle at the
heart of the lobby. Kelly swept a hand
across her forehead, wiping away the misty rain caused by moisture and modern
air conditioning.
At the center
of a growing ring of people was a richly adorned woman in full Mayan costume –
head plumage and all, arms outstretched, welcoming them with a saintly, almost
sad smile.
-----------------------
From inside the security observation booth Deva Noel Jamil, “D.J.” as she was called by fellow agents, knew something was wrong the instant the senator moved. She left the observation booth and nodded to the other security personnel, pointing toward the senator. Others had seen the senator’s panic-stricken body movement also and nodded, agreeing with her action.
She
approached the senator from in front so he could see her come and not be
surprised. His eyes were glazed, and unfocused. The sheen on his face made D.J.
think he may be having a heart attack and thought of pressing the medical
emergency auto-dial on the cellular phone she now clutched in her left hand.
She hesitated as she saw the senator blink and nod. Most of the aides and
hangers-on in that area stopped doodling and became attentive at the unusual
intrusion by security personnel. Even a senator or two, usually responsive only
to the press, turned to see what was up.
The floor of the Senate was at a three-quarter occupancy,
meaning the bill in question would be on the minds of a majority of citizens
and many would be watching their senators, marking in their little black books
the way the vote would be cast later in the week. The issue had to do with how
much more could Robin Hood steal from the rich to give to the poor without
killing the goose that lays the golden eggs.
“Are you all right?” D.J. softly asked the senator.
He nodded
only slightly, eyes focusing, becoming alert. “What happened?” he asked.
“We thought
you had been shocked by some electrical problem. Do you know what happened?”
“I was
about to vote. I never touched the button but I got hit by a twenty megaton
lighting bolt - that’s what it felt like. But I’m O.K. - don’t feel a thing
right now. Can’t even remember the pain.”
“Have you
had any health problems? Heart, lungs - anything?” she asked while taking his
wrist and feeling his pulse. His skin was cool and slightly moist. Shock, she
thought.
He shook
his head and pulled his hand free, aD.J.usting his body and manner to fit the
image of power and supremacy with which he instinctively shrouded himself. D.J.
shifted her attention to the automated voting machine control panel. Gingerly
she moved her hand toward the metallic frame and waited for the telltale
bristling of body hair in the presence of static electricity to warn her of high
voltage. Still hesitant, she flicked the frame with her right index finger.
When nothing happened, she did the same to the buttons. At last she wiped the
panel as though dusting it, again feeling nothing. Lastly she knocked the frame
with her knuckles and felt nothing.
“We’ll
write a report and submit it to maintenance. Let them come and check it
out. Is there anything we can do for
you?” she asked.
He shook
his head and deliberately snubbed the agent as he focused on a stack of papers
in front of him, took one, and passed it behind him to an ever attentive aide.
D.J.
returned to her post and reviewed her observations. An electric shock, some
high powered capacitor discharge? But there would be burned skin on the
Senator’s hand or finger. No, there was
no wound, no burn on his body. If a capacitor-like discharge, then from where?
She knew the Senate floor was reinforced concrete with ample padding and
carpeting above it. Certainly not conductive materials! Then where? And how?
This should
have been the last of it. An incident without cause and without effect. Nothing
more. But an article on the third page of the Washington Post the following day
froze her attention as she read of a Colombian drug lord turning himself in and
asking to be condemned for life in a monastery. “I felt the hand of God through
my whole being as an enormous electric shock...”
D.J. knew
something was happening. Either the prognosticators of doomsday were right and
it was beginning to happen, or the return of Christ was at hand, or some new
gadget had been invented and was in the hands of do-gooders who would soon be
breaking every law known to man as vigilantes gained strength.
Two
impossible and identical events simply do not happen as natural phenomena. She
slapped her wrist to make sure she was not in one of those dreams in which you
knew you were dreaming, but were not sure. Things like this happen in novels,
movies, and fiction. Not in the real world. Never, Impossible!
At home
later that day she turned on her computer, logged onto to LexisNexis news retrieval service and asked for any
story containing the word ELECTRIC, SHOCK, LIGHTING AND LEADER, CHIEF, LORD,
POLITICIAN, CRIMINAL.
------------------------------
Deep in the
Maama felt
the cool hardened clay-floor through her feet. She felt the power of the
subterranean gods course through her Mayan self and reach the nebular and solar
worlds through her stroking the fire which made the smoke and steam from her
cooking. The near hypnotic scent of moist earth binding the whole. All
together, in harmony - as it should be. She tingled with joy at the thought of
being Maya.
Long ago,
as a girl, she had not known the difference. But when Dr. Carlson had tickled
her clitoris those many years ago, then convinced her father -- the mother
having died giving birth -- that she was special and must go to the university
in Mexico City, she learned. Dr. Carlson, dear man, she thought. Caught in a
prison of his religion and the laws of his country. So distracted by these
mental demons that she, in some instinctive way, had led his finger, then his
mouth, then his organ and whole being into her youthful body. Once again she
wondered at the impossible rules man imposed upon himself as a community and
felt glad she was home again - and now with the power to change things. At the
university in
Then
receiving the adulation of one who represents a vanished, mystical,
awe-inspiring race. It was Thor Heyderhall and it was Chariot of the Gods - it
was the Ballet Folclorico and Jenning’s Aztec. It was the right time. Maya and
the mystery of the Mayas could be found in Maama’s personage, whit and
intelligence. Unabashed, unashamed, she claimed the spotlight and used it’s
power to study more, to study harder, to get the best minds on her side and to
not only learn, but to dominate history, science, politics, medicine.
When at
last she knew enough, she left. She simply vanished. Now, causing sparks to fly
from her prodding, she felt secure that in this shack, in this place in
Yucatan, she could safely take the second step of the adventure she had started
only days ago in Cancun. She smiled. A contented smile. A smile she knew would
please Ah Cantzicnal Bacab, guardian of the four corners, the one God.
______________________
Idi Amin
Gandala had never known fear. Not the kind he felt now. The word coward in
Swahili was a sound like a snorting pig - ugly even to think of. But Idi
snorted and flexed his arm as though to strike the naked girl on the tiled
floor. Instead, he stood with a mighty leap and yelled with a voice and fury he
knew would dispel the pig-like grunt that still rang as an echo through the
marble lined walls of the palace. In his mind he cried for mercy against what
he knew would be another strike of lighting he would have to bear.
Caught
between logic and primal fear Idi stood tall and silent imagining himself in
front of his army, a leader, a commander, a general. The vision filled his mind
pushing away the pig sound, pushing away the echoes of his later fury. The girl
did not move. Nobody had come into this inner sanctum. As expected.
He reached
for the phone and before he could touch it, the instrument melted issuing a
loosened steam-like hiss that brought an image of a steam locomotive of years
ago. Repelled by the mass of molten plastic and shining copper wires on his
desk, he lifted his eyes to the heavens as though to beseech the god he had
long ago forsaken.
Angered at
his earlier cowardice, determined to redeem himself in his own eyes - to hell
with the creature on the floor - he dipped his index finger into the molten
plastic and quickly withdrew it, licking it to cool the savage heat and burn he
had not really expected. But the discovery that no further shock, no further
heat, no further action took place on this attempt gave him food for thought.
His eyes caught sight of the telephone wire still running from the molten mass
to the wall-jack some meters away. Testing his new theory with the bravado of a
true chief, he reached for the wire and was not surprised when the second bolt
of lightning snapped his jaws shut and made his body as taught as a strung bow.
“So. . . I
am cursed by electromagnetic phantoms,” he mused. “Who did this?” he asked
himself, beginning the thinking process in earnest. No man ever reaches the
pinnacle of power without an above average intelligence. Their reasons may
appear to be illogical and stupid to others, but intelligence and cunning are
key ingredients to any but a royal-born despot. Idi was no exception.
He picked
up a chair used by the lowliest of the lowly in his court and threw it on the
tiled floor, breaking it into small pieces. He picked up what moments ago had
been a strut between the legs of the chair. Using the strut as a tool, he
approached the phone cord again and was about to touch it, to move it, and the
bolt of lighting hit him again. Hard, harder than the first and much harder
than the second. He reeled and fell to the floor, clutching his chest in a
desperate effort to aid his heart in pumping that extra bonus of blood he
needed to live.
Gasping for
air, cringing in untold pain on the cold tile floor he watched the girl smile
and suddenly became afraid. A fear he had never imagined possible but one which
he knew must be true because he had heard of such fear while on the lap of his
grandmother those dozens of years before, when he was a child. The girl held an
amulet in her hand and smiled at him. The smile was neither of pleasure nor
surrender. It was a smile of superiority, an intolerable smile and he lifted
his hand to strike her.
Again, the
moment his arm was extended the bolt of lightning came through his hand and
into his body as though he were a lightning rod. Gasping, unbelieving that he
was still alive, he looked at the girl and felt the hopelessness of the true
living-dead. He at once knew he was untouchable and forever banished from the
tribe of man. He cried, not the pig-grunt of cowardice, but the cry of a child
who has lost his mother’s nipple and yearned for the honey-sweet milk he knew
he would never, ever, in all of eternity, get, again.
---------------
D.J. spent
the night pursued by dreams, fits of restlessness and trips to the fridge.
She had
fought her way from poverty through a stubborn, uncompromising dedication to
logic. In school it had protected her from the harsh realities of her life and
she pursued it through college, to a master’s degree. Not just black, not just
white, not just Asiatic, biologically and culturally the almost perfect mix of
all races and religions she often wondered why being a typical representative
of the ‘melting-pot; she so often found herself isolated. Men, she learned
through having lived through it, hated smart women. Women, she had learned from
on-the-job training, hated good -- looking women who were also smart. She knew
she was both and often hated herself for not being more submissive or less
attractive. Then, she’d wake up from her never-ending desire to fit in, and
simply be D.J. She mentally shrugged, ‘Fair trade. Jump from perfectly safe
airplanes, have a Socratic discussion with any Nobel Prize laureate, or wrestle
a man twice my size in a flash. Who cares?
She knew
the sleepless night to be the result of acquired logic pit against deep
emotional beliefs learned from the endless mantra of soothing speeches from
aunts and an unforgettable grandmother oh-so knowledgeable in voodoo magic.
‘Just because science has not invented sensors capable of detecting psychic
phenomena does not mean that ESP does not exist,’ she thought. Knowing she
would not sleep, she took action. She turned on the computer and accessed
LexisNexis news retrieval service. Three stories. Scanning the headlines she
selected the one from
“
D.J.
slapped her desk and stood, shouting: “I’m right!”
She looked
around her small apartment not seeing, searching for a thread upon which to
focus her wildly pulsing imagination. In the flash of seconds she saw the whole
evolution of weapons from the
Didn’t
anybody else see what was happening? Why hadn’t she gotten a call from
headquarters yet? Surely her report and what is happening now must have
connected with the NSA or one of the think-tank geniuses that were supposed to
be on duty in the Amazon Butterfly Effect team. She’d call them. Now. Get on
with it, she urged herself.
Another
story appeared on her computer screen: “
Barrio
D.J.
smiled. “Sure,” she thought, “I bet the police are as dumbfounded as the
crooks.”
D.J. closed
her eyes, touched her left thumb and first two fingers of her left hand
together, took a deep breath and projected herself mentally to her favorite
place of relaxation. She felt herself sitting in a comfortable easy chair much
like the captain’s chair on Star-Trek’s
She
belly-breathed deeply three times and after mentally repeating her mantra,
posed the question: What kind of weapon? Somebody has invented the perfect
weapon. It doesn’t kill - it finds it’s target through some sixth sense sensor
- triggered by the victim’s own subconscious - as in a polygraph - where their
own guilt produced the tell-tale signs of evildoing.
She
visualized a sociopath and saw her analysis dissolve into nothingness.
Sociopaths have no social conscience. Polygraphs do not work on sociopaths.
What is it, then?
She let her
mind wander, a technique she had developed over the years. She knew that deep
inside her mind/brain was a problem-solving mechanism more powerful than any
computer if only she could let it work without her conscious interference. Just
before falling into sleep she touched a possible answer and took a closer look.
If a sociopath did not trigger the energy, then someone else must be directing
the force. How? And it was not being used to conquer, to dominate nor to rob.
But who owned it?
Nothing in
the agency memos had said a thing about it. Surely if the government owned this
weapon she would know. Unless. . . Could the company be messing around within
the country - against the law - again? And if no crooks or bad guys, then where
would the next pay-check come from?
She called
the Amazon Project office.
Chapter 2
Don Chuy
stood at her door, hat in hand, bent forward. “Dona Maama?”
“Ah, Don
Chuy,” she said, smiling, turning from waist high stone, brazier upon which the
beans were cooking. “Please,” she said, bowing in return, motioning the old man
to come in, gesturing to one of the two chairs at opposite ends to a rough hewn
wooden table just to the right of the doorway, a few steps from the brazier.
Straightening slightly, feeling as her equal,
he took the chair next to the entrance. She searched briefly behind a pile of
freshly picked, multi-colored fruit and
retrieved a long-necked bottle nearly filled with crystal clear liquid. She
took two spherical shaped clay cups and sat across from Don Chuy. She poured
and slid one cup across the table.
“Salud,”
she said in Castillian Spanish.“Chi haa,” he replied and they toasted.
For a
moment they simply enjoyed the sharp bite of sugar cane alcohol known as firewater
coursing down their throat into their stomachs and the sudden surge of
unimaginable power. Knowing the power was fiction, yet they enjoyed this brief
illusion together.
“It is happening” she said.
“Are you
sure?” he asked, not in doubt, but to give her free passage in telling the
story.
“I have
seen enough in my dreams to know that many evil men will no longer have power.
I am also sensing a confusion in the mind’s of our players - one which is
asking ‘Then what?’ The world is so used to conflict, war, killing and bullies.
What will they do with their time when they do not have to build fighter
planes, aircraft carriers and atomic bombs?”
They looked
at each other and nodded.
“They call
it the Garden of Eden,” she said.
“Others
call it Nirvana, some paradise, others simply peace. But they have never had
it. It is in the literature, in their religious writings and in their
imagination. They have never known it.
“Don Chuy,
you and I know it as ‘most of the time when the lords and the gods are not angry’:
To us, it is the normal way of life.”
Don Chuy
drank and smiled. “And you will be able to teach the world all of this?” Again,
an invitation to speak - not a challenge.
“First, let
us eat.”
She served
him on a clay plate, steaming white rice topped with soupy black beans and on
top a few slices of fried banana. Along side was a fresh maize tamal filled
with armadillo meat. On the table were green and red sauces for him to choose
from.
“Cihuateteo,”
he said looking up to infinity and sipping. “To your mother.”
She looked
down and acknowledged his toast to her mother who had died giving her light,
and accordingly the daughter’s ability to speak directly with the gods.
They ate in
silence, at one with the gentle breeze, the sound of insects and birds, the
clucking of hens nesting for the night. A kerosene lantern illuminated the
interior of the one room hut. But Don Chuy was there for a reason. She had
invited him, to discuss the plan.
“Maria...
Maama, what can I do for you?” he asked, moving his plate aside.
“Ah, Don
Chuy, my ‘almost’ father, I simply need to talk with someone I trust.”
“Thank you
for the honor,” he said.
Neither
spoke as he readied to listen and she prepared to speak. She poured another
dash of aguardiente into his glass.
“Tell me if
I’m wrong, Don Chuy,” she said, hugging herself as might a child who dares to
say what she thinks. “Is it not possible that once again the world could live
happily? To be as children, exploring, playing, learning, doing—openly? Do you
remember the time you and I played together, imitating the monkeys, licking
each other, tickling, wrestling in the grass, discovering the difference
between boy and girl and with never a single thought that it was evil, black,
belonging to some kind of devil?”
He nodded,
his face relaxed, his age not apparent through the smooth skin and beardless
features. ‘He is still innocent,’ she thought and plunged ahead.
“When did
it become evil?” she asked, not expecting an answer. “Who invented innocence to
be a sin? What purpose did they have in mind? Where in all of nature do we see
any creature covering its genitals? So why us?”
A night owl
hooted and the breeze rustled leaves, but otherwise there was quiet. No radio
in the distance, no television, no boom boxes—just nature.
“Chuy --- I
see a new world. A world our ancestors built, and then lost. It is time to
learn from this and to bring it back, without the danger of losing it again.
This is what I see in my dreams and in my visions. I see our people building
these wonderful Olmec, Toltec, Maya -- pyramids and plazas for the sheer
pleasure of creating something of beauty beyond anything in the past. I see
each ceremonial center of this great Mayaland as a tribute to man’s quest for
self-actualization. I see each center better than the last, and each day a
challenge to be fulfilled. I see youth at play with the rubber ball and with
slingshots and the atlatl[1]
in sports and in hunting. I see the older people being the judges who reward
superior performance and teach the under performers where to find their place
either in the arts, in cooking, in building—but every person has a purpose and
a challenge. Every person has something to look forward to each morning, and
each person knows how to find recognition and to earn the rewards for whatever
they do. This is the only measure of happiness, Chuy!”
Surprised
at her own outburst, she giggled. “You see? I am not at all calm and logical
all the time.”
He also
chuckled. “ I know that better than any man. But I have heard this before. What
is bothering you now?”
“What I
propose is so basic that I cannot understand why it is not being lived today. I
cannot understand why people allow themselves to be trapped into lies, which
have no foundation in truth. The biggest lie of all being that happiness is the
result of having a television set, refrigerator, car, house here, cottage
there, and membership in the country club. Ask any happy person and they will
tell you their happiness is from having done something worthwhile.
“There is no other answer. So, I am to bring
this opportunity to mankind through the powers granted to us by our ancestors
and our very special kind of angels which we, individually and collectively,
have created – for good or for bad. As few of us know, but must share with the
world before it is too late.”
He looked at her for a long moment, nodding. “What you
are concerned about is that you may be crucified also,” he said flatly, the
truth they both felt.
She sipped from her glass and said nothing
Sunday
A.M.,
“Amazon,”
answered the voice on D.J’s phone.
“Charlie? -
it’s D.J”
“D.J! -
what a surprise!”
“Come on -
you should be expecting my call. You’re not?”
“Have you
guys given up on the search for irrelevant data concerning chaos?” she asked,
mischief in her voice.
“Never!”
“On the
level?” she said, sensing secrecy.
“You know,”
and he paused.
“Do we need
a secure line?”
“Why don’t
you come by instead, D.J? Seems you’re onto something.”
“On my way.
See you in thirty.”
She
disconnected, got her stuff together and left.
The Amazon
Project office and labs are located in the Smithsonian, impossible to locate
among the labyrinth of storage, research and display sites in the huge complex,
except by a guide or by experience. The perfect location from where Internet
and Telnet connections give them access to every data source in the world along
with the vast hardcopy and solid resources of the Smithsonian itself. The
budget covers subscriptions to virtually all news and databases in the world
which includes a staff of statisticians, researchers and deep-thinkers. The
thinkers spend their time dreaming in a semi-awake state, with environmental
music in the background in dimly chroma-lighted and aromatherapy type, rooms.
D.J. had
spent a tour of duty as a heavy thinker. To the everyday FBI agent and
supervisor the Amazon Project was just another listing on a long list of
special projects and relegated to insignificant if not outright stupid waste of
taxpayers money. How in the world could you justify a bunch of people spending
their time in a trance at a hundred bucks an hour considering payroll and
facilities costs?
On the
frosted glass door leading to the lab is the inscription: “The Amazon Project”
and bellow: “Order out of Chaos”. If a visitor to the Smithsonian were to
become lost and accidentally walk through the door, a receptionist sitting
behind a nondescript desk would give the visitor a smile and hand them a flier
describing the work being done behind the wall at her back. The flier is in black
and white with no pictures, the print in Times New Roman at 8 points. There are
no paragraph breaks and the columns are so close together it is hard to
distinguish one from the other. If the casual visitor dared start to read the
document they would soon fall asleep at the first paragraph describing in
scientific terms the theory of chaos. If they were truly tenacious and read the
whole document they would learn of the Amazon Butterfly Effect -- but not much
else. Briefly stated: A butterfly sitting on a leaf in the Amazon moves just as
a drop of water falls from above. Had the butterfly been there to receive the
drop, the Wall Street crash of Black Friday, 1929 would never have happened.
And a scientist can trace the events that caused it because that one drop fell
on a leaf without the butterfly. The conclusion, then, is that if we are
observant enough to detect the very first step in the chain of events, then we
can predict the events and thus: 1- manage the chain of events, or 2- stop the
chain of events. In either case, control it. Control out of chaos. Man’s
ultimate dream of conquest. And the taxpayers are doling out the funding for
this Mission Impossible. This ‘urge’ to manage our future started when some
think-tank guru wrote a paper using Hitler as an example.
For the
real student of chaos, a dedicated librarian will help with research by
pointing to several resources from where the students can launch their quest
for knowledge. But results from the real work at the center are summarized
daily and hand delivered to the Director himself.
Of the
forty-five people involved on the project, twelve work in the Smithsonian lab
and the remaining thirty-six roam the country as legitimate FBI agents
following whatever leads that emerge from the vast database searches and
matchmaking efforts of the lab personnel.
The process
starts with the selection of a seemingly randomly chosen topic - say “Fire
Ant.” Search machines such as Lixus-Nexis, Google, Alta Vista, Yahoo, Excite
and others are used to find any reference to “Fire Ant” in Web Pages, printed
material online or Newsgroups. Then a comprehensive search will be made through
magazine and newspaper databases. The search will be duplicated in the major
languages and resubmitted.
Millions of
hits will occur and from these hits other words will be added to the first
search string and repeated. Subsequent searches will be in the thousands of
hits but if there is a pattern of some kind it will begin to show and from
there additional words associated with “Fire Ant” will be added for even
tighter searches.
These
patterns are then analyzed for possible meaning and further tested against
war-game, socio-economic and terrorist theories.
The whole
idea is to use technology much as a border agent using a dog to sniff out drugs
or bundles of cash. Most criminals and
D.J.
thought of this on her way to the lab. Again she pondered the tax money going
into the project and the added value to society for the cost. The agency could
pinpoint virtually every criminal gang, every revolutionary, every potential
terrorist, every drug dealer and drug cartel but were powerless to do anything
about it. When caught, and brought to trial, the evidence gathered was
inadmissible. So what was the point? How much longer would the taxpayer be
willing to bleed for a system that could not provide them the safety guaranteed
under the Constitution and Bill of Rights, the pursuit of life, liberty and
happiness?
Her mind
drifted to her ‘discovery’ of this impossible weapon. What would the world be
like without crime? What would people do? So dependent on their television and
never-ending bad news for entertainment, shows for all ages filled with
violence -- making it appear as the natural
state of being. Babies watching talking animals bash each other and laugh. Kids
watching commando heroes holding canons in one hand destroying cars, buildings,
people. What would they do with themselves if crime were to be eradicated? What
would she do? What other activity could be engaged in that would give her the
same satisfaction as did her work shedid now?
She parked
her new Neon next to Charlie’s old Chevvy and entered the vast complex from the
door next to the southeastern loading dock. She smiled and said good morning to
an ever present, always changing, receptionist as she went beyond, into the lab
itself.
They met as
old friends and, with coffee cups in hand, sat together, each eager to discover
something new.
“Look at
this,” D.J. said handing Charlie the printouts from her queries through
CompuServe. He glanced through the text
and waited for her to continue.
“Haven’t
you guys hit on this?”
“Maybe, but
not enough to make it to the daily report. There’s just so much time in the day
and militia, terror and drug related data dominate the agenda—and it’s what the
Director wants.”
“You still
have the Golden Key?”
“Yep -
still have it. Want to use it?
“Will you
join me?” she asked, a seductive glint in her dark piercing eyes.
He pulled a
miniature calendar from his shirt pocket, glanced at it, nodded his head and
said, “Let’s do it”.
The Golden
Key computer station is used by field personnel working on hunches or
non-assigned but potentially valuable projects as seen by the agents
themselves. This seemingly
counter-culture freedom within the agency had grown after a change of culture
series of seminars during which Total Quality Management theories were to
become the norm. Department Of Defense (DOD) had pioneered the concept,
followed by the Air Force, Navy and Army.
The whole
concept was revolutionary in that for the first time in a traditional top-down
organization, it was recognized that some people in the trenches might have an
idea of ‘what it’s all about’. Further, they were given the opportunity to
research, write and promote their ‘idea’ up an alternative chain of command
route.
Of course
most front-line personnel woke each day with the fear that this new freedom and
challenge would disappear. After all, how long could middle management remain
in position doing nothing now that real work was getting done?
“Let’s play
the game,” said D.J. as she clicked to the online news database. “Let’s make a
few premises and test them against the news. Our target is a person or group of
people who have developed a weapon, which strikes with an invisible bullet. It
must be aimed and fired. Where is it aimed from, and how is it fired? Any ideas
Charlie?”
Charlie
thought a moment and said: “Don’t forget that a weapon must have a platform
also. And - can we assume the target to be bad guys in general? And if bad
guys, by what definition? A moral religious determination or a judicial, legal
definition?”
D.J.
smiled, jotted down their basic criteria using single words, scattered about on
the piece of paper and drawing a lopsided oval around each. A technique they
all used to waken both right and left hemispheres of the brain in an effort to
get the most out of the greatest thinking machine in the world: the human
brain. Experimentation had proven that to draw an oval, the human brain would
instantly turns on the creative, innovative, artistic powers within.
“Look,” she
said. “Idi fits under the bad guys for simply being a bad guy within any
definition. The
“Easy
enough. Let’s get into C-SPAN and see.” Then, a minute later: “ Here we go.
What time did you see the senator jump?”
“Three-forty
yesterday,” she answered without consulting notes.
“Here it is
- a bill that would liberalize the use of marijuana for medicinal purposes.
Much like the bill in
She thought
for a moment, chewing her lower lip. Charlie suppressed the urge to help the
chewing process.
“No. Let’s
leave this one open and focus on the ones we know about. I’d guess he was about
to vote against the bill, though.”
Huddled,
studying screen after screen of selected data, their bodies touching one way or
other, an arm brushing a breast, body scents in the air they breathed, memories
of past encounters, made concentration become difficult and the time between
screen changes longer. Fewer words, deeper breathing and the semi-darkness
surrounding the workstation drew them into another world neither wanted to be,
yet desperately needed to be. Neither would ever forget that incredibly stupid
day when he took her home to meet Mom and Dad without first telling them she
was not Lilly white.
D.J. caught
herself daydreaming herself with legs wide apart, wider than ever, and Charlie
a wonderful light-weight, on top of her, deep inside, thrusting. She felt wet
and knew she blushed. She quickly forced her mind back to the screen but it did
not work. The image lingered and her body moved to the image. She looked at her
watch and, breaking the vision, said they should go to lunch.
They stood,
leaving the computer on, and headed toward the entrance. She did not know if
they would make it to lunch or only to his old Chevvy with the pull-down window
screens and gigantic back seat. The thought of the back seat rekindled the
image, and she drew him like a magnet toward his car.
Four months
and a few days had passed since the family incident. Charlie had tried again
and again to apologize for his parents, but D.J.refused to be consoled. Maybe
it was time. Her body demanded it. Would Charlie be able to forgive her for not
forgiving him? As they quietly, but briskly walked toward the car, her heart
beat faster with each step. He was not balking and she could sense his growing
eagerness, could almost see his growing erection, could almost feel him inside
her and they both quickened their pace.
No words,
just the heat of their blending auras drove them to an ecstasy they had enjoyed
in the past. Breathing, smelling each other deeply, they merged, sharing,
giving, taking and reluctantly culminating their passion together.
Charlie
cracked open a window, leaving the curtains in place and offered her a smoke.
She declined and he put away the pack, untouched. He closed his eyes and leaned
back against the soft padding of the rear seatback.
She smiled,
eyes closed, pulling his arm closer. “Did He?” she murmured.
Nothing
more was said. The topic had been broached and had not triggered the animosity,
the passion it once had. This was the sign for a brighter future; where
closeness could be both physical and more importantly to both, mentally.
Charlie was learning to think for himself; not solely as the son of
conservative Southern Baptist parents. The Book of Genesis, after all, was
written by man. It could be discussed.
Charlie
took a deep breath and allowed himself the luxury of thinking before speaking.
She had taught him how - long ago. It was good to be doing it again.
“I see a
world without cops and robbers and sense a void, a vast emptiness where boredom
conquers all and suicide becomes
rampant. Mankind has been conditioned to
Yin and Yang, God and the Devil, Positive and Negative.” he shook his head and smiled. “Can’t happen.
Nature has made it impossible not to have positive and negative pushing and
pulling all the time.”
“My
thoughts also,” she said. “But supposing there was a Garden of Eden at one
time. Those human families lived naked and fearless in harmony with nature.
Something like what most religions promise their faithful will be waiting for
them when they die.” She mused, then bitterly: “and 72 virgins!” thinking of
the excuse for homicide bombers and their ilk.
A few
moments later he said: “Take away crime and the bad guys and people will have
too much money and time on their hands. Will they use it to become smarter, to
create better works of art? Or will they add another hundred channels of
garbage on their TVs?”
D.J.
stirred nervously. “Let’s get back to work. This wonderfully delicious
theorizing may soon become reality. Somebody has invented a ‘bad-guy’
neutralizer. We’ve got to find out who, why and just how many of them have been
deployed.”
“Then
what?” he asked.
She looked
at him, lost focus as she pondered his question and shook her head. “I don’t
know. What’s worse is, who do we tell, and when do we tell. If they take our
findings seriously what will they do?”
He closed
his eyes and pondered.
“Think of
it, Charlie. If such a weapon exists, our agency, the CIA, and every other
secret service, police force, courts and lawyers will be out of business. They
will spare no expense in getting rid of the miracle weapon - and the people
behind it.”
The cold
specter of reality engulfed them as they hesitated, realizing they were
approaching a junction which would demand a decision which could affect the very
future of mankind.
“Who else
may be picking up on this?” D.J. asked.
“Who knows?
Hackers into the Butterfly Effect craze. College research programs. The media.
Other intelligence agencies. But the alarm bells will only go off when it hits
people like the Director. The concept is so crazy and far out that it will take
time for it to reach the powers that be with any degree of credibility, no
matter how much evidence there may be.”
They looked
at each other. They had just put their future on the line.
“No,”she
answered herself. “We dig and do what has to be done when we know what it’s all
about. Deal?”
They went
back to work.
Chapter 3
Mark woke
early eager to see the new day. His heart fell as he opened the drapes and saw
the clouds and zero wind. The sailing he had so much wanted to do would be
another day. Slowly he began his morning ritual as he thought of what could be
on the plan of the day at muster, tomorrow, Monday. The Team was on edge. Much
too much training in the same old stuff. Nothing new. Nothing to challenge the
Team’s natural tendency to ‘solve problems’.
He fantasized a ship-sized catamaran capable of crossing the Pacific at
30 knots, as a means to escape the reality of another routine week on the
So he chose
the next best thing to do that Sunday. With a cup of hot coffee, Kelly still
asleep, her body shape tantalizing him through the sheets, he went downstairs
and into his den. He picked up the booklet they had received in the hotel in
He wondered
why he did not feel a greater sense of excitement. How he could continue
working and living a routine when he and Kelly had already seen the effects of
the spell and all doubt had been cast away in a milisecond? Yet he knew, from
only one experience, that they could not share this knowledge with their
friends. That one time when he tried to tell Joe of the miracle they had
learned in
He opened
the booklet and flipped pages until he reached Chapter One. It listed the do’s
and don’ts of casting spells. A negative thought such as making a person sick
can only be done within 30 feet of the person. A negative thought such as
making a person sick beyond the 30-foot range will come back to the sender.
Healing
thoughts cross time and space. To heal a person filled with negative thoughts
you must project positive thoughts in the form of blue-white lightning bolts.
If a blue-white lightning bolt thought is sent to a person without evil, it
will be received as a good feeling. The evil person will be shocked almost in
proportion to the evil they have in their being.
It is not
necessary to project these images for long periods of time. The power of the
projections will increase with the number of people making such projections.
Mark knew
them to be true by then. There was no longer any doubt.
He closed
his eyes and visualized that evening in the hotel with all the people streaming
in from all parts of the city, the strand, neighboring hotels, and the streets
--- everywhere! As they entered the lobby of the vast hotel, this little woman,
could be 30, could be 40, could be 80 - impossible to tell - greeting everyone
with a two-handed handshake and deep, deep penetrating eye contact. Eyes that
were bright black and so deep there was no end - it was looking into infinity
to meet her gaze. Some people immediately turned around and rushed back into
the streets. Others, for no apparent reason, moved on to the center of the vast
lobby and misty rain; slowing, taking in the hanging vines, live plants,
semi-jungle of the lobby itself. As had he and Kelly. No words. Yet more
communication than he had ever felt at any gathering - business or religious. A
sixth sense kind of communication which as of yet produced no mental images
such as those produced by words – something – something much, much deeper.
The people
mingled, exchanged smiles, a few talked of this or that, and mostly where they
were from or what they did. He could not remember exchanging names or
reluctantly receiving business cards. Nor could he remember seeing anybody
exchanging cards - why else go to meetings? No. The experience was out of this
world and it was taking time to appreciate it. He sat there wondering if his
passion for sailing and his passion for ‘doing the right thing’ in the Seal
Team was taking second place to this new adventure into the land of Oz. Could
he still be an active and effective Seal if he put the time he felt he must
into the new project? Did it matter?
And this
bothered him. Would he have a job once total peace on earth has been achieved?
Or would it be like taking a leap into the future where all the rules of the
past are tossed out by one gigantic evolutionary eraser and mankind starts from
another level?
Clouds and
wind no longer seemed to matter. Today would be the first day of a new way to
look at life - perhaps a revolution. He rubbed his hands and turned on the
computer ready to get into the Internet in search of evil. In a few seconds his
modem connected to the unlimited in technology.
He clicked
newsgroups and was instantly into alt.culture.mex where other mind warriors
were communicating. He logged unread messages first by author, did not
recognize many of them; then listed messages by topic. There were a dozen or so
since the night before. He read them all. A few minutes later he summarized the
content in his diary: “Dec 15 - No sailing today. Winds and clouds. Into mind
warrior mode. The other side of the world has been busy with over 10 entries.
80 percent of all messages relate to local problems much like Idi Amin only
smaller scale. One target on this hemisphere of interest to me. Oscar
Maldonado. Source of prospect is Juanito Perez who identified Ausencio
Gutierrez a few days ago. How does Juanito know all this???”
Back in the
newsgroup he wrote a note to Juanito: “Eager to coordinate with you on O M. Am
concerned this open communication will get us into trouble. Suggest we begin
encoding. Download free encoding software CypherPlus from my home page. Will
post similar message to other mind warriors.” The message was sent. He then got
into Google, his favorite search machine and typed “Oscar Maldonado”. A split
second later a few random hits appeared on the screen. Nothing solid.
It would
not take long for some snooper to put two and two together, start searching
through the net and come up with links to the mind warriors. What could they
do? Nothing --- legally. But if they were to change the way things are with the
bad guys of the world somebody was going to get upset. Maybe during the
innocent years of J. Edgar Hoover the
activities of the mind warriors would receive medals and appreciation. Not
today. There is simply too many jobs and too many powerful men whose power
depended on crime. Keeping drugs a criminal thing ensured the kind of power and
control only criminals and politicians could enjoy.
Anybody
with over two-ounces of gray matter, if put to use, would understand why the war against drugs
was a complete failure—doomed from the start. Criminalize something and you
open the door to black market, crime, bought politicians and very high prices
at the consumer level to pay for it all. Take the profit motive from the drug
business by legalizing it, and it would fade away in a few years leaving behind
thousands of junkies but no longer would you see the neighborhood drug dealer
giving away samples in the school yard.
Or the
so-called fight against cancer. If one researcher were to find a cure for
cancer—and surely they had found cures—would they dare stand up and claim their
would-be fame? Never! To find a cure would put thousands of researchers out of
work, shut down those polished chrome labs and rid half the hospital beds of
patients, putting every hospital into
bankruptcy overnight. Mark could not imagine the kind of character it would
take for a research scientist to stand against the awesome power of the pack.
Too much
money is at stake both from the good guys and bad guys point of view. Drugs pay
well, all the way to the top. Proof? After all the billions spent on the insane
‘war’ against drugs, there has been a steady increase instead of a decrease.
The more money going into the so-called effort breeds more drugs and more
crime. The crazy reporter up in
Hell,
everybody knows that if you just distributed the confiscated drugs to the
existing addicts you’d put them out of business in weeks! Put the addicts on
health farms and feed them as much as they want from confiscated shipments.
When that runs out, take over the growers and continue the supply until they
all die. End of drug problem.
No way. Mark
laughed at the oh ‘so simple’ solution and shook his head. When a problem is
given to the government, only government will grow while the problem remains.
Parkinson’s Law at work. Where are the Gilbert and Sullivans? We need to laugh
at ourselves, he mused.
“Hey guy,
what’s up?” Kelly, beautifully dressed in her birthday suit said as she
tip-toed toward him.
“Morning,
beautiful. God you look great.”
“Thanks.
Care for a taste?” She said, rubbing against his bare shoulder. He hugged her,
pulling her close and kissed her belly-button, teasing her pubic hair with his
fingers.
“Tempting -
tempting - tempting” he muttered, lips against her belly.
She held
his head close as she sat on the nearby couch. She sighed as he licked his way
into the thick shrubbery of her pubic hair.
Later, over
coffee, he told her of the latest development of the mind warriors. She
congratulated him on starting the encryption process.
Mark and
Kelly know the secret of a harmonious marriage. They work on their friendship
and their lovemaking. They respect each other’s space by such things as he
never getting into her purse or opening her mail. Married for over ten years
and still childless, they are the odd-balls at any gathering. Except in
“Juanito
suggests we work on a fellow by the name of Oscar Maldonado. Do you want to?”
“After
breakfast. While I cook up some huevos rancheros - the way you like them,
mushrooms and all - you can get the data.”
“Deal” he
said, his love in his voice and smile on his face. She nudged him with her
elbow and got up. She belly-danced away from him to the unheard tune played at
a camel’s pace. Once she was out of sight he turned to the computer.
Juanito
must be living beside his computer because an encrypted message waited.
Translated, it read: “Have advised others of the encryption program - It’s
great! - Here’s the deal on Oscar Maldonado. A big guy, eats too much, punishes
waiters, in the cartel at a high level. Eats out a lot and always with an army
of bodyguards - not that we care!!! - Right in the heart of
“Picture
Mark
checked the time.
Chapter 4
Charlie
rolled up the blinds and they got out of the car. They were quiet on the way
back into the Smithsonian’s entrails. He walked close, touching her arm with
his, lightly. She did not resist nor move away. They breathed in the mid-morning
air savoring the sharp bite of the Winter chill. They slowed their pace as they
approached the door. Too soon, they were back inside and earning their pay.
D.J. took
her position at the Golden Key and began to search. She started with the news
services with the key words ‘shocked, criminal, lightning, surprise, bad-guy,
hoodlum, cartel’ not necessarily connected with an ‘and or near,’ letting the
search machine come back with any article containing any of the key words in
the title or text. It seemed to take forever - a clear sign there would be a
zillion hits. She rubbed her hands and waited. The screen shifted with the
message “450,234 articles containing ....”
She ignored
the rest and clicked to the first articles, which contained one or more of the key
words, she would discover to tighten the search. Entry by entry she searched
for some connection between what she had seen on the Senate floor, read in the
articles on Idi Amin, the Colombian and
A half hour
later, groggy from scanning so many listings, having found only a dozen or so
likely hits, she rubbed her eyes and got up. The hits were not worth a
follow-up, as they could be explained logically. What she wanted were stories
that were not logical.
Of course,
if she was right, there were few reporters in the world willing to print
stories with a supernatural bias. Still - the three stories and her observation
could not be written off as coincidence. Coincidences do not happen in real
life without something else behind them.
She recalled
a lecture while in the academy about the hundredth[i]
monkey phenomenon. Backed by science -- which defined meant that the conclusion
of the observation could be replicated with predictable results -- researchers
in
“Charlie?”
she called and from two cubicles away he pushed himself out on the castered
chair to see what she wanted.
“You told
me about a Russian experiment—something about a mother rabbit and the brood
taken out on a sub --- remember?”
“Right.
This was back in the early 70’s when they were deep into mind control
experiments. They connected the mother rabbit to an EEG and at pre-arranged
times the crew on the sub would kill one of her babies. The mother continued
chewing whatever she was chewing but the EEG went wild each time. Right on the
money. Unbelievable.”
“Thanks. Go
back to work” she said with a chuckle in her voice.
D.J.
recalled other lecturers in prepping her for the Amazon Project claiming that
during WWII many interviews were conducted with mothers of soldiers, sailors
and pilots killed in action. Many of them readily admitted they knew the exact
moment when their son’s had died.
Was this
new weapon a psychic weapon? Every piece of evidence clearly pointed in that
direction. How to find it?
Again, D.J.
went into the search machine under newsgroups with the names of the people
appearing in the news articles. Senator Blakey, Idi Amin Gandala,
Ausencio
Gutierrerz appeared under the cultre.mex newsgroup. She read the messages. They
simply described him as a drug king-pin. Who are they? she wondered. The originator
is a Juanito Perez with no company listed, just a name and e-mail address. She
wrote “Juanito Perez” in the search machine and shortly a list of messages
written by him appeared. The last message encrypted!
She pushed
herself away from the computer and looked up to the ceiling triggering her
twin-brain to analyze in harmony. She then closed her eyes and let the images
come without conscious volition. She relaxed and listened to her inner self.
She could
do two things. Trace Juanito through his original subscription to the service
he was using.
One – no problem if in the
Hacienda
Mar, near
Oscar
Maldonado, Don Oscar as he allowed the underlings to call him, left the Spartan
hacienda in the new Jeep Cherokee. He would have loved to ride in a limo but
the road into
The
Cherokee held tight to the road, the extra weight from armor plate making the
ruts in the road even deeper as the vehicle bounced on its way. Through the
coffee shrubs and taller trees he caught occasional glances of the city and
glimpses of the river that runs through it. An airplane was making an approach
to Olaya Herrera and to his left a higher airplane climbed from the
international airport beyond the valley, an hour by car - a minute by air.
Time—distance—nothing proportional now-days.
Coffee had
been the source of wealth for his family. Other families enjoyed rich gold
mines. After all,
But like
the virgin 50-year-old aunt nobody talks about.
Oscar shook
his head, chiding himself for forgetting that weaving and the making of
exquisite clothing also added money to the
He nodded
approval to the head of his bodyguard detail that had also gotten out of their
jeeps ahead and behind him. The guitar and a violin cases obvious covers for
other instruments, deadly instruments. The cases were paper-thin and were there
only to give the appearance of normalcy to the occasional tourist or
businessman visiting
In another
block he would begin his selection process. He slowed, allowing the two or
three prize fair-haired ‘window-shoppers’ to move ahead. He watched their walk,
the size and proportion of their hips, legs, and breasts. The length of hair
and the cut of their clothing. The way they carried their shoulders. He stopped
at an open-air leather-goods shop. He picked up a whip and tested it against
the wind. It sounded good. The proprietor, who knew him, smiled. Oscar walked
on, a bodyguard paid the shopkeeper.
The bell
tower of the Cathedral Metropolitana could be seen now, above the trees. In a
few minutes he would walk into the plaza where even more females would be
congregating for the Sunday ritual of walking and being observed. And of
course, for his arrival. They always did. No matter how badly he treated them,
there would always be others willing to bleed for money. He flattened his penis
against his belly as his imagination began to take over. Nothing else in life
mattered. Dominion through sex, fear and torture. That is what matters.
Everything else is just preparation for that which counts. Power cannot be had
without a lot of money. Everything at the hacienda, with the partners, with the
phones and on the toilet wall led to this meaning of life. The bulletproof
cars, the guitar cases and guns, the people on the payroll. All of it put into
place just for this. His pulse quickened and with it a hunger for food, a
hunger for music, a hunger for a beautiful woman at his side. Maybe two—or
three.
He signaled
his driver pointing to the two ahead of him and the one who just joined across
the narrow street where no cars were permitted. He quickened his pace to reach
the corner restaurant looking forward to sitting at his reserved table on the
sidewalk, back to the wall, facing the plaza, the cathedral and a fine
sculpture of Bolivar, the dictator disposed of by the adolescent Cordoba. Got
to be a general because of it! -- Where to find people like
His waiter
greeted him with his whole body, mind and soul. Oscar nodded, wiping the smile
he felt off his face. He put on the mental mantle of Bolivar, the utmost in
power and fear. Let the people beware! Instantly a glass of cold water, a cup
of steaming coffee and a bowl of black bean soup appeared on his table. At a
discreet distance a marimba group began playing a tango by Carlos Gardel, the
Argentinean who had died in this very city in ‘37.
One by one
the girls were led to his table. The first an Asiatic beauty, covering her
mouth as she smiled. Next came a Barbie-Doll blond with a touch of black
showing at the roots of her hair. Both Asiatic and the doll are obvious imports
for the growing number of strip-nightclubs in the area – probably from some
joint from Chicago or LA. The third could be a model walking a promenade
showing off the designer’s latest creation. ‘An expensive one!’ he thought. He
loved it! He maintained a grave, judge-like face and they mostly smiled with
rising eyebrows to get his attention.
The game
had begun. Without actually looking, Oscar was aware through peripheral vision,
that his bodyguards and restaurant staff were in position to handle his every
need. He breathed deeply savoring the slight scent of charcoal in the air, of
food being prepared in nearby homes and restaurants, by street vendors and the
occasional homeless fortunate enough to have a stick of wood to burn. A quick
scan of the plaza and street revealed there were no police and no military in
sight, just the normal Sunday crowd. The plaza was his!
Pockmarked
face Pepe, the most experienced and well-dressed of his bodyguards, sat in a
chair by the table to his left. Guard the left, the heart is on the left.
Chubby Meliton to his right, chewing on a fat cigar. Both focusing on the
people and the movements surrounding them. Both with the guitar cases at their
side, hands on the guns themselves through slightly opened lids. They would not
bother taking the guns from the cases, but if necessary, would fire through
them until the cases fell apart and if the guns needed reloading, then a quick
jerk would free the weapons. A third
bodyguard would be on high-ground, somewhere, out of sight.
Oscar felt
secure in his domain, his world. And his imagination began as he studied the
three girls, one by one, letting his visions lead the way, the actual physical
self of the girls changing with the changing mental images. He imagined one by
one cower before him, his whip tearing
at hips, arms, backs - never the breasts! Chagrined at the very thought of his
whip near a breast he almost lost the image. He sipped coffee then the bean
soup, nodding encouragement for his soon-to-be playmates to do the same. Food
was arriving and they responded, each in her own way. One by plucking the wing
from the chicken and sucking at the meat. Another by coyly forking at the
chicken breast pulling strings of chicken into her plate. The other by taking
the bowl of bean soup in both hands and drinking from it, then squeezing a few
drops of lemon, adding coriander and onions and sipping again. The music played
and Oscar once again became in tune with his imagination and the physical
presence of the girls.
A leaf
drifted down from a nearby tree and landed on his beans. He slapped the table
with his whip and yelled at the waiter lurking at his side to clean up the
mess. His act on automatic, he studied the girls. He raved at the waiter while
his inner self quietly gauged which one would please him the most. Maybe all
three! What joy!
Saliva
spilled ever so slightly from the left side of the mouth of the girl to his
right. Mina, across from him, grew eyes the size of golf balls. Riza to his
left continued forking the chicken and eating as though nothing was happening.
In his mind’s eye he ripped Riza’s panties off and whipped her ass until it
bled. He knew he’d do it, it was what life was all about. He would then lick
her wounds, cleansing them with his saliva, purifying her
Suddenly he
jerked, bolting upright, knocking his chair aside, an invisible force blasting
him against the wall where eyes a glaze, he slid to the floor. When he could at last focus, he was looking
up to the ceiling of the arched cafe front, blue sky and plaza trees just
beyond. He gasped and before he could move, other hands were lifting him,
pulling him back into his chair. His feet had upset the table and people were
hurriedly putting things back together as though nothing had happened.
His first
thought was to give his bodyguards hell for letting it happen. But he saw their
confusion and suspected something out of the ordinary. He could not explain it
- how could they? But he was not the kind of person to give the benefit of the
doubt—yet at that moment he held back, thinking, wondering just what the hell
had happened.
He testily
moved his muscles, sensing where the pain would be the most. But there was no
pain. It reminded him of those horrible
instances when walking on a carpet and then touching the doorknob and the
sudden surprise of that little shock of static electricity. Only this was as
though he were an insect on the finger of that hand touching the doorknob. It
went through his very being and had been strong enough to knock him on is ass.
People were
jabbering away but he could not hear them. He focused on sound and yes, he
could hear, but was simply not paying attention. Let them jabber! What had he
been doing when the lightning struck? He had the girls panties in his hand....
no, that was his imagination. The reality—everybody was eating, the music
playing and he imagining the way it would be later.
He steadied
his gaze focusing on the cathedral as though searching for a laser gun from the
bell-tower. He felt like a child at his mother’s knees being blessed by her on
his way to the first day of school. No! Stupid superstitions! The priest’s
hands of the political powers that be, fools and fooling the fools. Yet -- what
else?
He
straightened, pulled his chair closer to the now cleaned table and called his
bodyguards close to him.
“Never,
never ever again will I allow you to let a thing such as this happen!”
He glared
at them one at a time until they cowed, until they almost pissed in their
pants. He knew just how hard and how long to give the look of the devil itself.
They inched away and he focused on the girls.
The women
were silent, the play scared out of them, but the greed still there. The
willingness to bleed for the glory of money kept them at his table. And
suddenly he despised them. Suddenly he savored the rich flavor of coffee and
yearned for the feel of his grandson on his knee.
Fighting this
horrible sensation Oscar picked up the whip and dashed it against the table as
he laughed the laugh of the Barber of Seville. The music began again, the girls
put a laugh on their face and the waiters refilled everything in sight.
Four tables
away Juanito Perez observed it all. Puzzled, he wrote it down, point by point
starting with the arrival of Oscar Maldonado, the girls, music and waiters.
Oscar had hit the wall with his back as though hit in the stomach by a
cannonball that propelled him against that hard brick wall. But he was on his
feet almost instantly and not because the hands that helped him, but his own
strength.
Juanito
continued to observe, hoping his friends around the world would continue
projecting the imaginary lighting blue/red light toward this singularly
horrible bad guy. The minutes ticked by and the only thing happening at Oscar
Maldonado’s table was laughter, liquor and food.
And yet,
there appeared a kind of tranquillity he had not seen before. After weeks of
shadowing this legend of a man, Juanito had never seen a kind gesture.
Arrogance, cruelty, force—yes. Now, once on the ground you would expect a king
to kill all the messengers—everybody that had seen the great man fall. How
could he not?
Juanito
stayed, watched, wrote. Time ticked by announced only by the bells at the
cathedral forevermore calling for mass, or penance, or evening confession.
Churches everywhere and all with their own schedule. Never an hour of peace.
But Juanito was not really aware of this. His focus was on Oscar Maldonado and
his confusion was making him an unbeliever—again.
Maama had
promised, he had followed, and had been rewarded on that evening only a few
days ago. His new pals on the Internet had reinforced his newfound beliefs and
sensed being among peers with great force. He belonged. An outsider, now a part
of a purpose greater than any self. He willingly gave himself to this cause. It
blended perfectly with the dream Carl Marx had instilled in him through his
books and history. But now, he was having second thoughts. Why, after all the
preparation, was Oscar Maldonado still frolicking, laughing and enjoying life?
Why had he not fallen to the awesome power of his own evil as promised by Maama
on that fateful night in
Oscar
suddenly stood up, surprising Juanito. Oscar waved off his companions and
raised his eyes toward the cathedral. He took a deep breath and walked toward
that which he was seeing.
Oscar was
tired of this play. He could not escape the replay again and again of his
hitting the brick wall with his back, falling to the floor as a common drunk.
He would not justify it to his companions. It bothered him more than he wanted.
He had put it aside during the last hour again and again but it would simply
not go away. The blow had been the blow of some supernatural power. It was not
of the world. He could not ignore it. Was it God?
He chilled
with a shivering wave down his back and through his body. A rekindling of the
shock, only now a cool, cold, chill. Same nerve endings, same muscles touched
only this time with a silver-white tingling spreading through his being. A
warning? A message? What?
It had been
years, but now was the time to see the priest. The priest was now a bishop—but
to Oscar he was the priest. The same one who had married him and later blessed
his children. Too many years had gone by. Now is a good time for a visit. Why
not?
Oscar waved
his girls away and motioned his escort to follow. The party came to an end. His
driver lingered only long enough to pay the bill, tip the waiters and girls,
and then caught up as Oscar walked across the plaza toward the cathedral. Once
at the door he waved them all to stay behind.
He walked
through the two huge doors, which never closed, into the cathedral. Hundreds of
kilos of gold had been used to adorn the interior of this honor to Christ, the
Virgin, the saints and to God. He ignored the glittering adornments as he
walked directly to the confessional. Once inside he whispered his need to
confess. The voice on the other side was not of the Bishop. He told the duty
priest his sins were so great that only the Bishop could help. Would it be
possible?
“Yes my
son, it is possible. Be patient, repent as you wait and he will be with you
shortly.” Oscar waited and had time to think. He forced himself to sit still as
his imagination took over and told him this was a useless and self-destructive
adventure. He forced himself to see himself at his mother’s knees receiving her
blessing—and stayed.
Juanito
hesitated behind a pillar separating the vast openness of the huge church and
the sides, where the confessionals were located. His heart beat faster at the
thought of what he was about to do. The super-sensitive microphone/transmitter
tuned to his miniature tape recorder was capable of picking up sounds through
brick walls.
When the
priest emerged Juanito breathed a sigh of relief, thankful he had hesitated. He
would have been caught—and excommunicated! But now, an even greater opportunity
if he could bring himself to do it. Could he? His body moved forward as though
on it’s own accord, distant and apart from his mind and will. He slipped off
his shoes and quietly slid forward on the cold hard marble floor. He suspected
there would be a shelf at waist height in the cubicle reserved for the priest
and was not disappointed. Quickly taking out the wad of gum he had been chewing
he stuck the bug under the shelf and hastily retreated. He took a pew nearby,
took out the receiver and checked for the hiss of static.
Incredible!
He could hear the rustling of clothing from Oscar’s chamber. Quickly he
connected the cassette recorder and put it on auto, set just above the present
hiss and sounds emanating from the cubicle. He covered the electronics with his
baseball cap and moved toward the isle so as to not cause anyone in the
confessional area to hesitate in fear of there being someone nearby.
Oscar
looked up to the darkness and asked himself if this is what he had to do.
Before he could change his mind he heard footsteps and the next door close
tightly. He heard the bishop sit and a moment later the curtain was opened and
he could see the father’s face in the shadows and a twinkle in his eye.
“Good
afternoon, father. I don’t know. Will you listen and advise me if I have?”
The bishop,
Ysaisas Ybarrungutia, was clearly taken by surprise. Oscar lost sight of the
face as it receded into the shadows. Soon it reappeared, composed. “Let me hear
what you have to say.”
“Four
hundred and some odd years ago your forefathers and mine came to this land to
escape persecution. Our Vasque heritage is one of adapting, learning and
changing according to the needs of survival. I want to talk about this. It’s
our blood and it is as important as is our church.”
“Go on , I
am listening. And I am patient,” whispered the bishop in the voice reserved for
the confessional.
“We built
this city with our own hands. We had no slaves and did not use forced labor
from the Indians. We mined for gold, we cultivated the miraculous coffee which
we learned from the Arabs. We learned of the potato and beans, the turkey and
coca leaves. We saw the miraculous strength and stamina of the highland
mountain Indians and discovered they chewed the coca leaf.”
Silence,
interrupted only by the tinkle of a wind charm somewhere in the distance.
“Our people
and many donkeys were killed building the roads in and out of this valley. We
have paid dearly for this small piece of the planet. My question, father, do
the lead miners and uranium miners face hell and damnation because the fruit of
their labor end up as bullets and atomic bombs?”
“What are
you leading up to Oscar?” murmured the bishop, well aware of where the
‘confessional’ was going.
“My family
grew coffee, beans, potato and maize. We grew what people wanted to buy. We
still do. We grow what people buy. We do not force people to use our products.
We grow what people buy. And we are labeled as criminals, sought and forced to
defend ourselves as any nation would if threatened by another nation with other
ideals, values, laws. Am I a sinner father?”
The bell
struck once, and again, interrupting their brief silence. Five bells, five on
the clock. Evening mass would be starting soon. Unknown and unseen by both men
Juanito continued as though praying, hiding his anxiety at being caught and the
terrible excitement within at the thought of capturing the secrets of the
confessional of a most evil, vile, criminal. Already another priest had looked
him over as though doubting the reason for his presence. His heart had stopped
as the priest started to reach for the cap. Juanito motioned the cap was his
and the priest went on his way. He relaxed.
“Your
product is killing people. It is the reason for the fall of civilization as we
know it. Surely you must be joking!” The bishop’s voice rose in anger.
“Father -
listen - please!” And Oscar could hear controlled breathing.
“I have
never given a free sample to a person not on drugs, nor a person on drugs. I do
not start the demand for this product. I am a farmer who produces what people
want to buy. Am I also responsible for coffee addiction? Am I responsible for
the fat people in the world who eat too many beans and potatoes? I ask you
Father, from the deepest of my heart - am I a sinner?”
Low humming
notes from the organ penetrated their silence but only briefly.
“For
killing,” said the bishop with authority in his voice he did not really feel.
“Ah -- but
father, how many people have been killed in the name of our Savior? Have they
all been sent to purgatory and to hell? They defended what they believed and
did only what had to be done to preserve their way of life. Christian against
Jew, Islam against Jew and Christian—the same god!”
“Oscar, my
son. Are you saying that your cartel is innocent because you are doing God’s
work?”
“No,
Father. I am aware of our bloodshed and do not consider it religious in any
way. It is business. Just as it is the business of nations to war against each
other when one threatens the sovereignty of another. It is their right to
defend themselves and to attack when necessary.”
“You
consider yourselves above the law?” The bishop warmed to the argument.
Organ music
filled the vast open space of the cathedral and Juanito picked up the
electronics, listened, and heard only the organ. If Oscar and the Bishop were
still talking, he could not hear them. He sat, thinking. Soon, Oscar emerged
from the confessional, bowed toward the front of the church, touched his
shoulders with his fingers making the cross, kissed it and quickly left.
Juanito followed.
As Juanito
emerged one of Oscar’s bodyguards caught him by the collar of his shirt. “Why
are you following this man?” he demanded.
_________________________________________________-
Near
There is
simply no doubting the future. The centuries-old prophesies, drawn on codices,
retold generation to generation, had predicted in awesome detail the union
between Maya and Toltec. It told in graphic detail the coming of the new
Quetzalcoatl from the sea and how this God would punish the impudent, evil
curse of this world—the Aztecs. It told of centuries of hide and seek between
bearded zealots spawning from the Quetzal and his rod.
Maama
stoked her smoldering fire keeping it alive. Nothing was cooking, but her
favorite place to meditate and to visualize the future, the present, to speak
with her ancestral spirits, was by the brazier. A flame, no matter how small,
helped focus the many images—her reality.
The owl and
the deer in dzidzontun, the place of the pointed rocks and the image of Ah
Chichic Soot, the shaker, leaving behind the sour taste of the liquid in the
Katun followed by the hunger Ah Uaxac Yol Kuil, the eight sacred hearts. Images
upon which the stories came alive through memory, each story a chapter in the
Maya history. So easy to visualize from day one to the last day of recorded history
even though that last day lay in the 21st century. No other culture
on earth came even close to this kind of historical, time-stamped veracity. The
Maya history started thousand of years before Christ and ended slightly over
2,000 years after Christ. A beginning and an end.
Nowhere
else did a culture or religion have a history book with the exact starting date
and an exact ending date of the world. Unlike most endings, however, the Maya
end of this calendar is their rebirth, where it all starts over again with a
full second chance to bring God’s will to the planet earth.
To Maria
Consuelo de Vega -- PhD from the UNAM, Universidad National Autonoma de Mexico,
aka Maama in
Dr.
Carlson, the man with the Sterling expedition at La Venta, her village, had
prodded her with his enthusiastic pursuit of the truth, the college staff
pushed her further fueled by the thought they could blend her into a Nobel
laureat. At home her family and friends met her each time she returned as a
hero, a saint, an entity.
With all
those good people expecting her to be a goddess she became one. And in
becoming, all the barriers came falling down and the world, life, society
turned into a rainbow where there were no walls—simply merging things into
merging things—a whole. A unit. A single force made up of zillions of pushes
and pulls with none having more power than the other, thus maintaining a
balance.
The only
imbalance of the present; being human, blinded by demagoguery. She wanted to
think ‘stupidity’ but she knew deep down that it was not stupidity. The human
race is extremely intelligent, close to the gods in their abilities to think.
Their imagination at a par with the gods. The weakness is in their inherent
trust. They believe too easily. They are gullible, susceptible to suggestion,
receptive to psychic forces even when they don’t believe in them.
If
separated from the demagogues and given a chance to reflect based on observed
fact, if given the facts without coloration, most humans will develop the right
conclusion. But their desperate need to belong is what keeps them at a low
level with sheep and cattle. Hitler proved it beyond a doubt; and television is
hammering the last nail into humanity’s coffin. Kids on the street see the
absurdity of where humanity has been and is going—instinctively—and they cling
to each other much as a drowning man would cling to driftwood even if it were
swarming with fire ants.
Dr. Maria
Consuelo de Vega, Maama, closed her eyes
and breathed deeply. As she exhaled she saw herself and the new powers she had
discovered as a catalyst, a small wedge that could easily shift the rails upon
which humanity traveled and shunt them to a new horizon where greater happiness
could be a reality. After all, if a single measurement were to be used upon
which to validate one action or another—the only worthwhile result would be
measured by a happiness meter. Nothing else mattered.
But
happiness is not the result of having money and things. It is the result of
self actualization and being recognized by one’s peers, family, friends—the
village.
She caught
sight of herself during one of her last lectures at the University to students,
faculty and guests. They had been wide awake and sitting on the edge of their
chairs as she spoke of the Maya legend, now being proven through experiments,
of mind control at a distance. And as she continued with the lecture in
describing peace on earth and a return to the Garden of Eden how, the audience
slumped back and some even fell asleep, waking themselves up only with their
snoring! Was the concept of a new Garden of Eden that boring?
She looked
at her bare feet, at the clean dirt floor of her native hut, at the glowing
embers and nearby pots. She listened to the birds, felt the gentle breeze and
the tropical humidity and heat on her skin. She studied the colorful Maya
pattern on her white embroidered blouse and recalled the wonderful chatting and
joking with the other women of the village as she had created that blouse.
There are
no cars in or near the village, no television, no electricity, no telephone and
no running water. Yet, -- when she is walking about there are more smiling
faces, more peace, more happy children as a percentage than anywhere she had
been on the earth. And oh, had she traveled!
Her thesis
had been widely publicized and it created a furor. Dr. Carlson, dear man,
fanned the flames and took on the job of being her PR man. The next thing they
knew they were flying all over the world in first class cabins and staying at
first class hotels as audience after audience demanded her appearance.
Everywhere she went she made it a point to escape at one time or other to walk
the streets and to ‘feel’ the environment—to tune in her sixth sense and
‘listen’ to the common subconscious in every city, every town, every
neighborhood possible.
Yes, she
had discovered a happiness meter but could not say if one group or area rated a
clear 1.2 or 5.4. But she could say cold, warm or hot. And put a happiness or
anger on the cold, warm or hot. Ninety percent of the world was a cold anger—or
a frustration in that they felt powerless to change and saw no options to the
meaningless of their existence.
She
discovered this to be the perfect breeding ground for the bad guys of the
world. The smiling faces promising happiness in one form or other - money,
drugs, power—but rarely, very rarely self esteem. There are all too few Andrew
Groves, Bill Gates and Iacoccas in the world and all too many Sadan Husseins,
bin Ladens and Castros.
Beyond the
thin log walls of her hut she heard the hens clucking as they readied
themselves for sleep and she became aware of the time. Dusk had fallen and she
was expected at the ruins. She put on her guarache sandals, covered herself
with a colorful reboso, a shawl, and made sure the fire would not spread,
nodded to the spirits guarding her and her home and left.
Maama
mounted her mare and headed through the thick jungle along a well trodden path
which the horse knew better than she did. She held the reins loosely, unaware
of their presence, as she gazed at the occasional sky as seen through the thick
vegetation and trees. Small trees now, the huge jungle trees of past, long
taken as building materials and fuel for people far away from this place.
Today’s
miracle, in her mind, was that this village so close to her ancestral
ceremonial center survived as it did. She thanked the tour companies from
Science and
technology had plainly demonstrated that open field grazing in the tropical
zones with rich loam was to kill the very essence of the wealth of the land.
Better, much better, to cultivate maize in aD.J.acent lots then feed the cattle
this harvest. But this would require manpower and the absentee landlords—mostly
politicians who had appropriated these lands under laws clearly written to
justify their thievery—it would cost them a few pesos more and they would
rather sacrifice the land than to pass it on to their progeny as a healthy
inheritance.
Long ago
she had determined to do something about it. The evil men in
Even to
this day the Maya nurtures the fine balance between nature and man. The
She dug her
heels into the side of her mount urging for a faster clip. In her musings she
was losing time. To her right was a field exactly as she had been thinking. The
cornstalks were dead and yellowing. A month ago the ears had been plucked and
the stalk broken to kill it. Climbing up the drying stalk were thick, green
leaves loaded with bean-pods almost ready for harvest. These injected tons of
nitrogen into the arid soil. At the base of the cornstalk grew squashes,
several varieties.
In a month
or so the farming family would uproot the lot, shake off the soil, chop the
greenery and cornstalk into pieces and let it all return to the soil over a
three year period. Six months before tilling the soil again the villagers would
perform a ceremony whereby they would ask Ah Tooc “The Burner” to ask the gods
to forgive them for burning the dried vegetation but it had to be done if
p’entac (the people) were to survive.
Once the
stalks were burned, the field would be plowed mixing the earth with oxygen,
nitrogen and freshly burned vegetation with whatever manure could be collected
from the farm animals. Every aspect of
this process, except the manure, had been invented over 7 thousand years ago
near this, her homeland.
Maama sat
straighter in the saddle as she thought of the ever increasing power of the
environmental movement and her own ‘magic’ that would be brought to bear on
this change which could well be the turning point for her country. Not to join
the industrial world, but to recapture the Garden of Eden it once thrived
in—before the dastardly Chichimeca (Apache and/or Comanche) invaded them from
the north some thousand years ago and established the Aztec reign of terror.
Bonfires
and electric lights illuminated the south side of the pyramid and the sound of
a flute tingled her being. Thirty or forty people gathered about the fire, a
few children kicked a ball, two horses doing their best to chew at grass
trampled by the throng of tourists who ambled through these spaces during the
day. She smiled and nodded at those who met her eyes and she dismounted,
loosened the belly-cinch on the mare, patted the animal on the rump and let it
go where it willed. She knew it would not stray far as she had fed and watered
it earlier.
She had
long ago given up the habit of stooping as a way to equalize her height to her
fellow Maya. At 5’4” she is taller than most and coupled with her academic
knowledge plus her Maya heritage of a healer, she often felt her image to be
pretentious. But stooping had not done the job, so she replaced the mannerism
with an easy smile, soft-spoken voice and eye-to-eye contact which told the
other person, without a word, that they were the most important person on
earth. To her, the greatest lesson she had learned in her life had been this
little secret, and she thanked the Dale Carnegie organization for the millionth
time.
She saw the
admiration her people had for her in their eyes and in their courteous manners.
Yet she was welcome, not deferentially, but as an honored aunt. Not as a
grandmother—held aloof by one and all—but as a frequently visiting aunt. She
felt good about this and her drive to rekindle this kind of relationship among
other human beings on the planet was once again reaffirmed. This habit of
evaluating her actual life with the one she proposed to sell to the world
continued to give her confidence and strength to do what had to be done.
Tonight’s
meeting among the local people would involve them with the growing number of
foreigners she expected in the near future. Some ten days ago she had led the
first group of foreigners in
Instinctively
the people had formed a circle about the fire with Maama facing the pyramid,
eager to hear her words. She had been one of the few to have left, then come
back with even greater beliefs and knowledge of the world beyond. Few ever came
back. And if they did, they brought with them little of real value -- unless
you considered television of value.
“Blessings
to you all,” she started. “You know the tourists by now, and you know the tour
companies and how they are helping us maintain our way of life. I am here to
tell you that even more people will be coming to this place and will be doing
their best to learn the secrets of our people. You know me and trust me. For
this I ask you to be not afraid to let the outside world see us as we are. It
is now time to be honest and open with these strangers.”
She paused
and looked 3 or 4 people in the eye, not challenging, but inviting comments.
She had not expected disagreement but her message would set better if they
believed they had no objections. Jose Luis and Mario shuffled a bit, but said
nothing. They were the youngest to have married recently -- out of puberty and into matrimony and head of
families. With the appropriate sense of new responsibilities and the need to be
recognized.
“Jose Luis,
Mario -- would you and your family have a problem with this idea?” In one fine
stroke of leadership she pre-empted a possible note of opposition and would get
their strength on her side, instead of against her.
Mario spoke
up “It’s just that this is against what we have been doing. Maybe we need to
see a better reason,” eyes downcast yet with strong voice. Jose Luis and
another in the shadows agreed.
“Yes, I
agree,” she said, putting more confidence in her voice.
They had
said exactly what she had hoped they would. It gave her the entrance she
needed. They had asked and she would deliver. Had she simply delivered, she
would be a demagogue. Now she was the teacher and they yearned to learn.
“Our
codices have been destroyed, long ago. But our history lives in the memory of
our elders and is passed to us even now. Of the surviving books of our past we
can prove our living history—but you all know this. Picture this in your mind’s
eye: Each one of you, and all of us Mayas leading whites, Orientals, blacks and
mixes from all over the world. Leading them to learn a better way of life.
Leading them toward happiness and fulfillment. Our heritage is to rise as
leaders.
“We have
the Maya spirit which is stronger than any weapon on earth. Yet it is not a
weapon to kill nor maim—but a weapon that touches the very soul and softens
that soul in such a way as to kill the evil within. It is a weapon I am now
teaching to the good people of the earth and it is being used even as I speak.
As these people experience the rewards of their effort—as they see evil people
shed that evil in what appears to be a lighting bolt—they will become true
believers and will come here in awe and in search of even greater miracles. You
and I will help them learn. We will become the world’s greatest and warmest
hosts. We will show the modern world how to heal itself before it destroys
itself.”
“Someone
out there -- perhaps many, perhaps a multitude -- will discover what we are
doing and will try to stop us. These are people who are nothing without the
evil-doers of the world. They may be police or they may be secret services,
lawyers, judges or even politicians. Remember, my friends, the world has gone
insane and the powers of good against evil could easily become the new evil. So
they will come looking for me and will kill me. . .”
“No!
Never,” they interrupted her as though with one voice.
She held up
her hand and they were quiet, but they shifted and touched each other, shook
their heads and showed displeasure.
“It does
not matter,” she said, quelling them. “By then you and thousands more will have
the secret and there is simply no way for them to stop us all. There is a
reason, let me explain. As we grow our strength, theirs is weakening even
faster. That is why we must learn as fast as we can because now is when we are
the weakest and could be stopped by a single unlucky bullet. By bullet I mean a
person with good intentions who will believe I am the evil they are seeking.”
“So tell
us, Maama, what can we do?” asked Jose Luis stepping forward, showing one and
all that he was a leader ready to take his place in this new battlefield.
“We start
right now, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? she said in a joking manner. “Sit
down, make yourselves comfortable.” Even the children sat, black eyes shining
bright in the moonlit sky and flickering bonfire.
She asked them to close their eyes and visualize the
scenes she would be describing. “See
this world as it was before the Maya, imagine the vast ocean which separates
our continents and the people before us, who knew nothing of the world except
their little piece of hunting grounds ---“
Still
Sunday December 15 -
Gerardo
Padilla, 62 and balding, potbelly proclaiming him as a man to contend with,
shooed Pedrito and Anita, the grandkids for this family Sunday, out into the
garden. This Sunday was an unusually warm day and incredibly clean. So clean of
smog that the Popo and Ixtla could actually be seen. The sentinel mountains
capped with snow that are the hallmark of this valley, this city, this
country.
Fluffy, the
Chow bitch, barked delightedly as the
kids found their way outside. Manolo smiled, shaking his head, a drink in his
hand, standing at the entrance of Gerardo’s personal living room studio.
Gerardo returned the smile and motioned his associate to sit anywhere he
wanted. Gerardo flicked on the corner lamp and sat in a chair opposite Manolo.
Picking up his own glass he raised it at eye level as Manolo did the same.
“Salud,” they both said at the same time.
Manolo,
also 62, but with thick black hair, broad shoulders made to look even broader
in the tight golf shirt he wore, tougher looking because of the lateness of the
day in which he had shaved only once in the morning, downed the rest of his
drink, put it aside and said:
“Nafta is
killing us.”
“Tell me
something I don’t know,” said the host not concealing his irritation. Manolo
had come on Sunday. Sunday’s are for family! Bad news. He was ready—not eager
to play a guessing game. Manolo must know this as well.
“The
gringos are opening the door to change. I need permission to tackle our future
through the president.”
“Tell me,”
rumbled Gerardo, not liking the sound of it.
“The
American president shifted gears and is protecting 600 straw broom makers. Our
own president retaliated by imposing a 20% duty on
“So tell me
something I don’t know,” Gerardo almost whispered so as to not show his growing
impatience.
“My
operatives are telling me there are dozens of
“We saw
that coming. What’s your point?”
“We don’t
have a plan.”
Gerardo
felt his face flush and his body tensed. He had not gotten this far in life by
loosing control. He reached for the nearby bottle of Herradura tequila and
poured himself a short shot. He stood and with deliberate calmness walked to
his associate’s chair and refilled Manolo’s glass. He slowly sat down and
raised his glass at eye level. They drank, without saying ‘Salud,” only a sip
being taken.
“This news
must have cost you a lot of emotional turmoil to come here on Sunday to tell
me. So tell me more.”
“Yes. I
hang my head in shame and it is difficult,” said the big man with shining black
hair. Words which did not fit the appearance of the man. “But as I’ve said
before: if I were Superman I’d not be working for you -- but for me.” And he
regretted it the moment the words were spoken. Don Padilla’s eyes burned
through him, more painful than any verbal abuse possible. Especially since Don
Padilla never exploded verbally.
Manolo
continued: “I’ll be frank.” He squared his shoulders as he gathered the
strength to speak. “Under the conditions you and the family have set we have
not been able to create any plan that could work. I’m here, on Sunday, to beg
you and the family to change or relax those conditions.”
“Such as?”
The Don asked, poison in his voice.
“Invest.
Put some money back into the operation,” Manolo blurted, expecting the worst.
It was
against every principle Gerardo and his people believed in. He closed his eyes
and looked into the past. His father, a cohort of the then powerful Aleman
family, had been rewarded well. Vast square miles of tropical jungle given to
him for his assistance in ‘appropriating’ lands from legal owners, occupants
and even entire tribes. Tribes! He chuckled inwardly at the audacity of the
political powers that had stripped Indian tribes that had survived the Aztec
and the Spaniard and finally brought to their knees by people now sharing their
own gene-pool!
How
elegantly simple it had been. Levy a tax! Thousands of small villages hidden in
the jungles, farming land they had farmed for over six thousand years, now had
to pay a ‘property’ tax. The very beauty of it being that these people had no
money. They lived by barter as they always had. There being no money, the
powers that be at the municipality level simply confiscated the land until the
tax was paid. Gerardo’s father or other member of the family would then swoop
in, pay the tax bill and end up as legal owners. Hire the few remaining,
unsuspecting, villagers for money, which by now they recognized as an
invaluable asset, and have them cut and burn the jungle.
Before they
realized what had happened, the native Indians had no option other than the
long march north to the wonders of the Americanos. Behind, their land and
villages destroyed and reoccupied by the mixed breed of cattle, half zebu
Brahma, half native. Cattle everywhere and not a person to be seen -- even the
fence posts grew into trees, so rich is that land.
His father
had started the process back in ‘44 while the world’s attention was focused on
Gerardo
shook his head and Manolo sat quietly waiting.
Shocked,
the big man shook his head. “You know that is not true - it is not possible.”
“I am
secure because of the wise investments you have led me into Don Padilla, and
perhaps the social security. But why...”
“I will be
replacing you, Manolo. The time has come for you to be a Superman – as you say
-- on your own. I will have Rafael in human resources give you a well-deserved
severance package. More than what the law requires of me. You can now relax,
and enjoy the rest of your drink. Come, man! Don’t be so sad. You know you will
enjoy your retirement. Drink up!”
“But... “
Manuel tried to say, pulling from memory the argument he had to use to get the
family to change it’s mind.
“No buts,
Manolo...” Gerardo said, then drained his glass, putting it down with a smile,
showing his guest the way to behave.
And at that very moment he stiffened, the
glass flung, smashing against the wall shattering into a million pieces.
Gerardo’s eyes bulged as if to pop from their sockets.
Manolo’s
senses, slow in shifting from self survival to that of watching the destruction
of another human, waited for the sound of a shot and was instantly confused.
The man in
front of him was shaking like a man holding the wires from a million volt power
line. He’d seen it before! Knowing he would also be electrocuted he held
himself in check. Slowly he got out of his chair, eyes still wide in fear
watching Don Padilla as he slowly, ever so slowly began to breathe, blink, his
body lose the stiff board position and regain the shape of the chair. Moments
later Gerardo cleared his throat, testing his voice. “How did you do that you
bastard?”
“I did
nothing!” Manolo shouted.
And
suddenly it happened again. Gerardo swallowed, nearly choking on the words he
was shouting to Manolo and this time he closed his eyelids to keep his eyes
from falling out, using what he had learned from the first attack. Only this
time the shock went deeper and before he could compose himself to meet his
maker it was over again.
Surprised
to see himself still alive, to see the utter horrible and incredible look of
surprise on Manolo’s face, he took a deep breath and forced himself to think.
No way could Manolo be responsible, not from the look on his face nor from the
simple fact that the man had done nothing either the first or second time. He
had simply been there.
Tears
rolled down his cheeks and Gerardo caught his breath so as to not sob as a baby
in front of Manolo. In his mind was the sight of innocent Indians dressed in
white marching in single file from their burning homes. Machetes slung to their
left, useless now. Women trekking behind with baskets on their heads carrying
all their possessions. Babies suckling and children at the side of their elders
with puzzled looks as puzzled as the adults and as puzzled as the gray haired
elders. His hand reached out trying to pull them back, to stop them before they
crossed the
“God, this
is awful,” Gerardo at last mumbled. He studied Manolo sitting across from him
on the edge of his chair. He was looking at a man he had just fired for even
suggesting the thing he now knew must be done and with the greatest speed. He
could not bear the thought of one more Mexican walking away from the land that
was once theirs. Nor could he bear the thought of
The moments
became minutes. Both men regained their composure.
“What can I
do?” Manolo asked even though he had just been fired.
“Supposing
we invested... what would be your plan then?”
There,
Gerardo broke the rule. He would have to answer to the family but the choice of
pain between family and his recent bout with the supernatural was easy to make.
He’d face the family, anytime. Cousins, uncles, aunts, fathers and sons -- the
fraternal Padilla being the first -- but all with Padilla blood, who
collectively owned 60 percent of the fertile land along the Gulf Coast
producing the lion’s share of the eight thousand head of cattle slaughtered
each month to feed the fifty million Mexicans who loved their meat fresh off
the hoof, and could afford it!
Few in the
family were interested in the business. Only Pablo on the
Up until
just a minute ago Don Padilla would just smile at their good luck. While other
families, like the Losada’s who owned the sixth largest company in all of Mexico
-- Grupo Gigante, the supermarket chain -- had to fight for market share, had
to manage a business, the Padillas simply raked in the cash as though it
sprouted from fertile ground. Because in reality, it did. The green grass grew
naturally along the golf coast. Between rain and night dew there was always
plenty of water. The cattle could eat it, walk away and in a few days come back
and find even more, tender, succulent grass to chew. That’s all cattle do, is
chew grass, converting green leaves into meat.
Payroll was
centavos on the Peso, if that much. No rent and negotiated taxes made for very
comfortable overheads. The toughened herds had been created through selective
breeding over many years. No more hoof and mouth disease, no more early
mortality nor poisoning by vampires, nor wood-ticks. Immune now, needing hardly
any attention. Very low payroll, he thought as he rubbed his hands, then
suddenly came back to reality and focused on Manolo.
“Let me
hear your plan. Then we will talk about your future,” said the Don with command
once again in his voice.
“Yes. . .
Well, we have been studying an operation just east of
Cattle eat,
shit and piss and all of the shit and piss is collected and sent back to the
land. The blood is drained the moment the animal is slaughtered and used to
make protein for sale to
Don Padilla
listened and visualized the setting. He had heard of these new cattle factories
but paid them no heed since the family had never been in the mood to do more
than enjoy the fruits off the stolen lands they had acquired.
Suddenly
feeling exhausted and depressed, Gerardo said: “Write up a very simple and very
short plan of action along with cost and payback. I’ll have to present it to my
associates. And -- if you have a mind to stay on, after I fired you -- then
stay on. Do you agree?”
“I’ll be in
the offices tomorrow afternoon.”
Manolo
nodded, stood, shook hands and left.
Gerardo
picked up the phone and dialed Pablo’s number. A moment later the maid’s voice
was on the line. “Conchita, this is Gerardo, will you call Pablo to the phone?”
There was a moment of silence and he felt a sudden dread. “I will see if he can
come to the phone, Don Padilla.,” she said.
“Is there a
problem?” he asked.
“Well, I
don’t know. I’ll get him. Hold on please.”
As he
waited he visualized his cousin Pablo, the only other member of the family with
an interest in the business. Younger, stronger and a Yale graduate. Enjoyed
politics, played golf with the Mexican president before the pip-squeak got to
be head honcho of the country. Pablo is
too young to get sick -- the message Conchita sent through the tone of voice
and the way she answered the phone.
“Pablo
here, what do you want?” The strain in his voice clearly saying he did not want
any interruptions even from a close friend and associate. It hit Gerardo at
once that Pablo had also suffered the lighting bolt.
“How the
hell do you know that?” Surprise and irritation intensifying his voice.
“Because I
just had the most terrifying experience of my life and I sensed from Conchita’s
voice and yours that it also happened to you.”
“What is
it?” asked Pablo, humbled, eager to learn.
“Not now.
Just know that you and I both share more than we did an hour ago. Can you meet
me at the offices tomorrow at say, thirteen hundred?”
“We may
have to invest some money in our own business. Talk to you then. Sleep well.”
They wished each other a good night and hung up
[ii].
Sunday
evening, the cathedral in
Juanito
reacted instantly, the result of hours of practice. He brought out a pad of
paper from his shirt pocket and scribbled “I am deaf and mute,.” and gave the
burly bodyguard the pencil and paper. Caught off-guard, the man took them.
Looking squarely into Juanito’s eyes he slowly asked, “Why are you following
Don Oscar?”
Juanito
looked confused, arms akimbo, shaking his head. He took out the small cross
hanging from a cloth necklace and put his hands, palm to palm as though in
humble prayer.
The bodyguard, ‘violin’ case clutched firmly
to his side, could see Don Oscar moving farther away toward the restaurant. He
could not stay here long. With an explosive “Bah!” he tossed the notepad back
to the urchin and followed his master.
Juanito
scooped up the pen, which had fallen to the ground and shrunk as he desperately
wished the other bodyguard would not see him and check further. They ignored
him. He remained thus cowed; until they were all out of site then he touched
the electronics in his pocket to reassure himself. With a long sigh of relief he slowly regained
his confidence. Later, he would sneak back and recover the bug.
Back in his
room on the second floor of the building across from the Kentucky Fried
Chicken, Juanito listened to the confession. He took notes and composed an
e-mail message even as the recording continued.
“Attention,
all mind warriors.
Juanito
sent an encryption code to all recipients, then sent the message. No more open
messages on the newsgroup of this sort. So how would the group grow without
some kind of open bulletin board? It’s a simple matter to e-mail back and forth
to known addressees.
In
In Cancun Maama had effectively rejected people who
failed to pass the test through her practiced psychic abilities -- or so
Juanito believed, as did the others. But it was obvious that if they were to
have any influence in how history developed they would need more people. Oscar
had been hit, but he may or may not change his ways.
Thus, the promise Maama had made that in ‘taking out’
only the worst of the world’s bad guys would appear to be flawed. A whole
second, third and even fourth tier must be convinced of their sins as well.
That would take a lot of time for a lot of groups and one hell of a lot of
communication other than telepathic.
And so far Maama had not promised nor implied this
kind of communication. Only that when three or more come together in Christ’s
name, or Allah’s, or any deity an individual felt comfortable with, could they
project the will of heaven on earth. True, she had hinted at some special kind
of angel known only to her culture –- but had yet to show them.
Sunday
night, The Amazon Project labs, the Smithsonian,
D.J. sent
the file with her notes to the printer. She would study them next day.
Exhausted, she sipped the last of the cold coffee and tossed the paper cup into
the waste basket. Charlie had left a long time ago to spend even a part of
Sunday with his folks. She refused to go with him in part because of the memory
of that day not so long ago, and partly because of her fascination with the
puzzle.
She stacked
the seven pages of notes and stapled them together. Briefly she looked at the
topics she had uncovered.
·
Silva Mind Control graduates prove healing at a
distance. Not very scientific, but when people pay big money for a seminar that
promises healing at a distance or your money back, there must be something to
it. And few ever asked for their money back. Something was happening.
·
The 100th monkey thing.
·
Faith healing research proves the power of belief in
287 documented cases.
·
Kirlian photography proves spiritual presence through
physical evidence.
·
Polygraphs on plants prove they communicate and have
memories.
·
Parents making their children sick because they expect
them to be sick as with inherited diseases. Proven the parents created the
illness through mental projection.
·
Negative thoughts projected beyond 30 feet return to
sender, proven, although hotly contested by an endless stream of anti-psychic,
self-proclaimed experts.
·
Psychic abilities shut off in the presence of
skeptics. Proven again and again.
·
A zillion experiments observing the reaction of others
as ‘thinkers’ see them, think of them. As in the case of a girl who sitting in
a bus would simply look at the back of somebody’s head and they would turn.
Again, and again. Beyond coincidence.
·
Subjects speaking in languages they did not know under
hypnosis.
·
Official U.S. Army experiments now revealed under the
Freedom of Information act on Remote Viewing.
·
Past life memories under hypnosis.
·
Astral projections; being able to mentally fly from
their body, travel to any point on earth and describe it as well as relate
happenings. Too many experiments with too many positive hits even if they could
not be duplicated every time.
D.J. was
beginning to believe the rules of scientific analysis might be in need of
change. The rigor of having to duplicate the experiment by following detailed,
complex instructions, by any other person on the planet seemed a bit extreme.
Their own work with the Amazon Project could certainly not be justified through
hard science.
She laughed
as she recalled a college professor of hers who refused to give up his slide
rule even when pocket calculators were a dime a dozen. He even taught it in his
class!
O.K. -- so
there is enough proof to indicate the strong probability that a group of people
have learned to focus their mental powers in some way that shocks their
victims. Perhaps some kind of tweaking with the ying and yang forces within us
all. Perhaps by focusing a strong ‘Good’ to the person who has a weakened
‘good’ in them, a capacitance-like charge is built up and upon ‘balancing’ the
ying/yang the person senses it as an electrical discharge, much as you would
imagine being hit by lighting.
She yawned. Enough! She had toyed with so many
theories as she researched the subject that she was beyond logical thought.
Mental inertia was at work. She secured the Golden Key computer, made sure
everything was tidy and turned off and left. Nobody in the reception area but
that was normal for a Sunday evening. She went home.
Tuesday
December 16,
Mark woke
from a dream and held the last scenes under conscious memory long enough to
analyze them for potential value, in business or in life. He had long ago
learned the value of ‘listening’ to his dreams—not in attempt to interpret them
for hidden meanings, but to actually see the elements as arrows, signposts, indications
of solutions to problems he deliberately put into his subconscious fully
expecting answers. They always came! In one form or other, his dreams, along
with other problem solving techniques gave him either a clear solution, or the
direction toward a solution.
Only two
problems scurried from synapse to synapse in his mind. One, the newly acquired
ability to zap people at a distance – he knew not how. And two, the endless and
seemingly mindless, never-ending exercises with the Seal Team doing what has been
done since the first Frog Man planted an explosive on the steel hull of a ship.
His leaders were following the book – something you just don’t do in the Seals.
You break the goddamned book! But evaluations were around the corner, officer
lists being put together, and since evaluations were based on ‘doing what
you’re told to do’ – only those who followed the book would get the promotions.
And who was he to complain? A Chief Petty Officer at the age of 35, can’t
complain. And Master Chief just around the corner if he could keep his nose
clean and kiss the right asses.
But this
morning’s dream was not about the team. It was about evil and he saw the face
of evil on the very people who swore to defend the Constitution against any
enemy, foreign or domestic. In his dream he carried barrels of whiskey from
longboats onto some unknown shore but he knew it was somewhere on the Eastern
Seaboard. The message was clear. Today’s power brokers who put today’s
politicians in place had emerged from prohibition. Their great good luck had
been the First World War. That gave them the opportunity to put a measure on
the ballot to amend the Constitution, which would never have passed if the
fighting boys overseas had been home.
Prohibition
passed because the stay-at-homes were suckered into believing that once the men
were home they would be out in bars drinking their lives away. So let’s pass a
law! The power brokers, like Joe Kennedy, were, in the meantime, writing
long-term contracts with Canadian and European distillers. If you want to make
a fortune you must develop a monopoly. Find something you can cry out about
from a soapbox and you get the votes.
Proclaim
prostitution, gambling and drinking as sins. All you need is 20 or 30 percent
of the general population to go along with you as long as they’re organized.
And who
better to organize than you? So the nation is tricked into believing their
problems can be solved by passing laws. And into believing that laws will be
obeyed. Nobody listens to the voice of reason when insanity is on the soapbox.
Nobody will look at one of the most civilized nations on earth, the French, to
see that prostitution has a grand place in the scheme of things, from teaching
young boys how to make love the right way, to alleviate pain, to release
tension—to heal body and soul. But since it was not invented in this great
wondrous land of ours it isn’t worth a shit.
By the time
the laws are enacted and zillions of law enforcement people are put into place,
it’s too late to say I’m sorry. They have just tossed away their freedom and
given it to the hoodlums. When guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns!
Mark
stretched, irritated at the direction his thoughts were going. His dream
revealed what he already knew and his regurgitation of the same old stuff
bothered him. He knew the problem. What he wanted was a solution. Maama came
close, Juanito’s message of the previous night a bucket of ice-water. Yet Mark
knew that in Maama’s bag of tricks, plus his inclination to take action, there
must be a solution if only he could wipe away the negative and destructive
thoughts he now had.
He rolled over and imagined sitting under a palm tree
on the beach at
The John
hid his face as he sat on the cold wooden bench waiting to be booked. The
hooker chewed gum as she relaxed waiting for Carlos. She had made her phone
call while the John hadn’t the slightest idea of who to call.
He’d
finished writing his report at
By some
miracle the TV was turned low and there were only a dozen or so patrons, one a
few stools away, others at the end of the bar, in front of the set. Couples
here and there were on their last drinks but most in eager conversations. Some
men with men, others girl with girl, mostly a mixed bag.
Why was it
that as he was thinking of Black’s Beach wonders she sat next to him and asked
for a light? Was she a mind reader? He glanced at her now in the bright light
of the police station and saw hard life written all over her. Yet he could not
feel anger, just a feeling of sluggishness with down-bent shoulders and not
much desire to breathe. He shook his head in disgust at himself. How had he been so stupid as to offer her
money right there in the middle of the club? A dime’s worth of common sense
would have told him the guy sitting near by was an off-duty cop. But no, he had
simply ignored the man as he would have any other Marine or Sailor in civvies.
Stupid penis! The thrill of the thought of tasting forbidden fruit had done him
in. Stupid!
He’d never
paid much attention to the changing laws in his beloved
He shook
his head in utter disbelief. Two hours ago he had completed a report on work he
and his team had done which would effectively put 2,450 people out of work once
the buy-out and reengineering had been done. Over two thousand families would
be displaced and that is OK under today’s rules. But to offer a fifty dollar
fee for a simple service no greater than having somebody clean your teeth or
give you a massage meant going to jail.
Something
was really out of whack.
The door opened and what appeared to be the star of
the biggest basketball team of them all came through. Towering at over seven
feet the black balding man walked up to the desk and within a minute walked
back out again with the girl in tow. As simple as that. And here he sat, waiting
in humiliation, for he knew not what. One thing for sure, if his name appeared
on any police record his career would end that very moment.
San Ysidro
Border Crossing - pre-dawn.
Carl
and Lonnie, in civvies, jostled each
other as they shifted along with the three other lines of people waiting their
turn with the Customs or INS guys at the turnstiles. Most of the revelers were
Anglo, the rest Mexican men and women who quietly, most with downcast eyes,
waited their turn. Carl and Lonnie were on their way back from
During
their revelry along Revolucion Avenue, slipping into one dive after another to
see the naked girls dance and other semi-naked girls at close quarters, hands
eagerly searching out the men’s genitals, they had escaped to the more sedate
and cultural parts of the city. Had enjoyed a panoramic movie presentation
showing the splendors of
Tequila and
Rum - Remember??
So when
they were arrested by the man in green at the turnstile they were totally
dumbfounded. They heard it all, reread the charges, understood the words from
the INS and Customs people, but could not for the life of them understand why
their whole life came crumbling down because they carried an extra bottle of
booze and had with them some innocent firecrackers. An arrest report, no matter
how low on the criminal totem pole, was an arrest, which was an arrest. And
that’s all she wrote for a promising career in the Navy my friend. Tell it to
your senator!
As they waited for the MPs to come and take them back
to the base they heard one agent say to another: “Too bad they didn’t try to
cross a couple of avocados. Then they’d be entitled to a public defender.” And
did not hear the rest as the two walked around the corner and down a corridor
and out of sight.
She woke
with a smile as the old rooster crowed well ahead of time. He never could not
wait for the sign of dawn. His eagerness to start the new day an inspiration to
all those around him. Maama stretched and yawned breathing in the fresh morning
air sweetened with the nightly dew, which moistened everything. She lay quietly
as she reviewed her dreams, searching for messages and meanings, undertones and
overtones, hidden and overt—anything in them that could be of importance. She
did this as she relaxed, as her body began to feel itself, to build the
strength to deal with the new day. This harmony between mind, body and place
being the essence of lessons learned at her mother’s knees so long ago. She
touched herself and recalled that day when Carlson and she were alone, nobody
around, just the birds, monkeys and the bees.
So natural,
so easy for her. So difficult, so perplexing for him. On the day before she had
celebrated her thirteenth birthday, the very day she told her mother of her
‘time.’
The
archaeological digs excited everybody. Carlson at that time was an assistant to
It was
Sunday -- a fiesta in
“Hi,” he
said.
She studied
him indirectly for a while, shifting this way and that, unsure of what was
expected of her. She had never been alone with her aunt’s boss. Yet -- inside
she felt a glow, a yearning and since nobody had ever told her it was wrong to
feel this way she stayed, toying with the grass, moving her body this way and
that in what she later recognized as natures very special way to excite the
male species. It came naturally, without a training manual.
“Do you
speak Spanish? he asked in heavily accented Spanish.
She remembers
nodding and smiling. “And Maya too” she said.
“Oh, you
are so lucky. I wish with all my heart that I could speak Maya.” He said it
with such sincerity, in spite of his terrible Spanish, that she had no trouble
at all believing him and at the same time thinking how nice it would be to
teach him!
She came
closer and openly stared at his golden hair. She wanted to run her fingers
through it! As though reading her mind he asked how to say hair in Maya.
“Ejen” she
said. He repeated it badly and she laughed. She corrected him until he said it
right.
“Hun” he
said it right and she held up two fingers and said “ca” three fingers “ox” then
one after the other “can, ho, uac, uuc, uacax, bolon, lahun” with all ten
fingers showing. By then she was standing next to him pulling his fingers into
hun, ca, ox, lifting them to show the numbers they represented.
Then she
was straddling his lap touching his face and lips telling him and having him
repeat the names in Maya. She felt a growing, pushing thing against her thighs,
through his pants, as she sat on his lap. She continued the game, wondering.
His interest in the language was real and he enjoyed every second, as did she.
Suddenly he
picked her off his lap, stood, turned his back to her and awkwardly walked away
a few steps breathing deeply. He looked up into the thick jungle surrounding
the digs and mumbled something she did not understand. She quickly jumped in
front of him and demanded: “What did you say? What did you say?”
He looked down
at her, his face cold, flat, sending a chill down her back. She refused to be
put off. “What did you say? What language is that?” She would never know if it
was curiosity or the sex drive, but Carlson at last relaxed and said “English”
“Yes. My
language.” He seemed to relax although she could see in his eyes a bright
shining something, deeper than anything she had seen before, in any person.
“Teach me,”
she said without knowing why.
They looked
at each other across centuries, across ageless prejudice, against religious
dogma and sin, across the chasm of age and youth and cultures. She stepped into
his aura and hugged him, her cheek on his chest, and her arms about his waist.
His sigh was a groan of deep despair but she held tight not understanding the
force which bound her to him nor his force intent on rejecting her.
Gently she
took his hand and led him to her hut. Silently they walked, listening to the
thousand birds, the buzz from crickets, rustling of wind through the trees and
especially the tall palms everywhere. Inside the hut she had him sit and once
again got on his lap looking him straight in the eye. She touched his nose and
he said, “nose.” She repeated it until she had it right. She told him the Maya
word and he repeated it. The game was fun and slowly, ever so slowly the
touching and telling was on the neck, the breast, the belly and at long last
her hairless labia major and his very big, very throbbing, very purple penis.
Try as she
might, she could not get him to put it in her. She knew where it belonged, but
he refused. He urged her to massage and rub him as he did her and suddenly
everything was all right, she understood and was satisfied with the knowledge
and with the result of their play. For then.
Shuddering
slightly, Maama came back to reality and blessed the day they had been alone in
that wonderful place known as La Venta. It was the day she had learned of
another world, and the day she had learned the difference between man and
woman. She giggled, as a young girl, at the thought of people thinking thirteen
year-old girls were too young to be adult. Which brought up the thought of what
had to be done today.
The world
is coming apart at the seams, ready to consume itself with a passion fired by
stupidity. Like lemmings rushing to the cliff to jump into hell without even
asking why. Caught in the lie of their own fiction, they could not see the
truth so clearly visible in Nature. Their arrogance forced them to see only
what they had convinced themselves to be the truth. And it simply did not fit.
Mankind had
stupidly created a fiction through dictator-led religions that was simply a lie
and a blasphemy to Mother Nature herself. Yes – there was but one God. And He
had the power to create and or destroy a million, trillion, zillion sons and
daughters – within a single ejaculation!
Mark Twain
had told the world in his posthumously published “Letters from Heaven”—but few
listened. Oh, some had—otherwise there would be no Libertarian Party! But the
major obstacle to achieving heaven on earth -- The Garden of Eden -- was
mankind’s insatiable need, desire, passion to regulate.
Where are
the students? Don’t they see? Is there no cultural memory that means anything?
Torquemada and his inquisition - intolerance! Hitler - intolerance! The
Up! she
commanded her now sluggish body. Feed the embers and let the fire grow. Time
for coffee!
And time to
think of an effective offense and eventual defense. She did not relish the
thought of being crucified.
_________________
D.J. and
Charlie, in a huddle by the Golden Key in the Amazon Project lab, compared
notes. “I wasn’t very good company for my folks last night. I couldn’t get you
out of my mind—nor the idea of a super weapon that only targets bad guys. First
off, who decides who the bad guys are?”
“I’m glad
you think of me -- it was good.” She rested her hand on his arm. “Bad guys?
Good guys? -- defined by law or morals?”
“What do
you think?” he asked.
“Let’s see
what happened during the night, first” she logged into the news database and
wrote:
shock AND
lighting AND crimin*
Then
instructed the search to be translated into all languages and search all
databases.
As the
system worked D.J. and Charlie went to the nearby coffee machine, plunked in
the coins, and miracle of miracle the machine spewed forth. They sipped the hot
brew. Moments later they read, “1,243 articles match search criteria”
No
surprise, even if there were not a single new article with all the elements
they were looking for. Shock would appear for words like shocking, shockley and
so on. Crimin meant to include criminals, criminal would also be picked up as
crimini or acrimin or other combinations.
They looked
at the first ten titles and found two possible hits. She double clicked the
article headline and the whole article appeared on screen. She skimmed it,
Charlie having taken coffee and self to answer the phone.
“FLASH!!
HOSTAGES RELEASED, Quito, Ecuador. Eighty-four hostages held in the U.S.
Embassy for 32 days were released just moments ago by the terrorist leader who
surrendered in tears claiming God’s lighting had shocked him into realizing his
criminal activities. His 21 companions followed. More as this story develops.”
She scanned
other stories, many of them repeated by different news services and languages.
Of fifty stories four were definite hits in which a bad guy was made to change
their ways by this new weapon.
It was time
to act. It had to be now. In a very short time others would put two and two
together and even the bosses would believe. Her hesitancy of the past suddenly
becoming urgency as her prior options disappeared.
He wheeled
over and skimmed the articles nodding as he did. “Yogurt’s hit the fan,” he
said. “Go for the gold D.J. - I’m behind you.”
She dialed
the director’s number and grit her teeth thinking of the consequences of not
going through the chain of command. But this was a flash message and the rules
permitted it.
“Yes?”
“Deva Noel
Jamil with a flash message. Shall I authenticate?” She said smartly.
“What’s the
message?” she recognized his voice.
“We have
detected a new weapon which incapacitates apparent criminals, D.J. began. “The
weapon has been deployed in northeast Africa, Central and South America,
Washington and California all within 48 hours, several times within hours of
each other. No physical evidence is left behind nor do the victims suffer
post-hit trauma. In each case the victim reported a lighting-like shocking
force, which they knew, came from some supernatural source -- some said God. I
have been working with the Amazon Project group to research further incidents.
At this time we have not detected anybody else coming to the same conclusion as
we have. I saw the weapon in action against Senator Augustus—which implies the
weapon might also be used against the good guys.”
The
director snorted at this but said nothing.
“We will
start our search by analyzing travel records, and proceed from there.” She
breathed, listening for his reply.
“Only
through the usual cocktail lineups -- on two occasions, sir.”
“Thank you,
sir. I spent all of yesterday researching the subject of telekinesis and like
phenomena. Our own government has conducted serious research but with
inconclusive results as measured by traditional science.
“Bottom
line is that it is possible for a group of people to collectively transmit an
equalizing shot of positive energy into the heart and being of a bad guy with
the result being very much like a ‘stun-gun’, a capacitor discharge
neutralizing both bad and good energy, reducing the being to complete neutrality.
My guess is that there are dozens of groups, or one large group who communicate
-- probably on the Internet -- and offer targets, suggest times, and on their
own -- yet collectively -- ‘think’ their victims into neutrality.”
The phone
hummed, obviously the scrambling devices at work between them. She waited, then
at catching herself not breathing, breathed. Charlie’s eyes a-fire, watching,
waiting.
“Have you
thought through the implications of this?” the Director asked.
“Yes sir.
We’ll be drawing unemployment very soon.” She couldn’t help it. It just came
out.
The
director chuckled.
“I’ll have
Borg get with you. He’ll be my go-between and project coordinator. We’ll call
it the ‘bogey-man’ project for now. You are authorized to proceed. Recruit as
you see fit until Borg slashes your funding, so you better hop to it. Call
direct again at your option.”
In effect,
he was telling her she could jump the chain of command if necessary. Highly
unusual and she instantly sensed the director had picked up all the nuances of
this new weapon.
They
disconnected after the usual post-call protocol.
The big
question remained: What do you do with the shooters of this new weapon? On what
charge do you arrest them? What crime will they be accused of?
What authority will the FBI use to search into the
private lives of citizens not only of the U.S. but of the world? And how long
before the CIA and media get hold of this story and begin headlining it? And if
they did, would it matter?
Upon
hanging up, the implications of this new weapon cascaded on to the Director’s
mind, numbing him, stunning him with the awesome possibilities. Not one single
option to his benefit. Sure, he asked the agent -- what’s her name? -- Deva
something, Jamil? - but the truth had not hit him until later. To think that
there would be no more bad guys to track down, try in a court by a jury of
their peers, chuckle, imprison. No need to maintain all those files, to have
all those people in the field. No more endless phone calls from across the
nation with urgent requests for help in this or that. The lot would be on the
breadline. Out of work. No power to broker. Utter, terrifying, uselessness.
Doug Henderson, director of the FBI, looked
across the polished desk, to the conference table, across the room, past the
brick walls, into space. At 55 he knew he was peaking and the bodies he had
walked over to get to this position would rise from the grave and punish him
dearly for having wasted them for nothing if it were to come to an end just
like that. They must be stopped! There was no other answer. This thing would
not stop at the bureau; it would get the CIA, the police and half of the
bureaucracy -- then the military. Where would it end? What would happen to a
world without the bad guys? Hospitals shut down; no more traumas. The arms race
over; General Dynamics down the tubes. Unemployment everywhere.
Hunger,
starvation, sunken eyes on people without hope. They’d turn on each other and
become cannibals. Not bad-guys vs good guys now, just simple survival. Priests
with nothing to do, no more confessions, no more donations and too many poor.
No rich bad guys buying entrance to heaven through heavy donations. No
donations, no money. Starvation! The world would come apart.
No more
neighborhood bully, the scourge of almost every community. Possibly the key
element to get families, and nations, to unite against a common foe.
The
entertainment industry would crash. From writers, to publishers to moviemakers
and all of television. How many ice cream cones can you eat before getting
sick. How much pabulum on the airwaves before the world pukes it back. When God
kicked Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden it was for this very reason. They
would have gone nuts living in paradise. Nuts with boredom. Without a purpose,
then they would have killed each other as the only solution to eternal peace.
911 came to mind and a new light was shed on the homicidal-suicide
terrorists.
He stood
and squared his shoulders, flexing his muscles. He felt trim and fit, not at
all ready to sit in an easy chair the rest of his life. He paced along the
conference table deep in thought.
Deva and
her group would have little trouble identifying the players. The attacks had
started almost simultaneously, meaning there had been a group meeting somewhere
to get the training and equipment to launch their attacks. A sorting through
airline tickets for the past month to and from the cities where the incidents
had occurred. Match those billions against all airports in the world using the
Super Cray at SDSU in San Diego with a Priority One from the bureau. A few
hours of crunching and they’d have the place of origin and of course along with
it the names of the players. Then what? And he continued pacing. Then what?
He asked
his secretary to get Ted Borg on the line for him, and began doodling. The
phone rang and he answered. “Yes.”
“Ted Borg,
sir” The deep voice rumbled through the line conjuring images, and a suppressed
chuckle, of a gorilla sized man aD.J.usting his tie and squaring shoulders as
he talked with the Director, the supreme being.
“Ted, get
with… Deva Jamil, she’ll be at the Amazon Project lab down at the Smithsonian.
You’ll coordinate with her, give her what she needs, keep me posted. You’ll get
a kick out of this one. Call me when you’ve had a chance to sort it out and
think on it. Say, by four this afternoon if possible. I’ve got some free time
then. But I’ll make free time for this one in any case. It’s a beauty.”
“Got it,” A
man of few words. They hung up. The director couldn’t help remembering “A
Message to Garcia[iii]”
every time he talked with Ted Borg. The man was the true incarnation of Ruan.
No questions asked, none given, he just did what was asked. Period.
_____________________
Sitting at
about 675 computers around the world the curious, hackers and would-be hackers,
people desperately searching for a justification for the net, were putting two
and two together and looking up to the heavens in total amazement. Within hours
the news nets were filling with open queries.
“Anybody
got any skinny on this shock, lighting, bad guys and criminals thing?”
“Is this
the new chupacabras?”
“Anybody
know how to contact a Mind Warrior?”
“Whose in
charge?”
“The world
is coming to an end!”
“The Martians have landed!”
Coronado Amphibious Base, San Diego.
Mark, taking a few minutes from work, logged onto the
net and into misc.culture.mex frowning as it took so long to log all the new
messages. His eyes widened as he saw the reason. At this rate, everybody in the
world with a computer and Internet link would messaging and posting on the net
in quest of information on the new ‘thing’ that clobbered the bad guys without
killing them. He breathed deeply, thanking his lucky star for having given him
the insight to encrypt their messages. The hue was on the fringes, not in his
personal e-mail.
He logged into a few other newsgroups only to see the
same increase in traffic and overwhelming queries having to do with Maama’s
toy. His frown deepened as he detected here and there the start of ‘experts’
proclaiming to know the answers-- people he knew were not involved and
pretending to know - he felt the sudden urge to get in the middle of it all and
set the record straight. Checking himself, he shut down, made sure nobody in
his team needed him, and went home while calling Kelly on the cellular to join
him there as soon as possible.
Editorial
offices of the Detroit News.
Pamela
Downs could not believe her eyes. In her forty years as assistant to the editor
in one way or other, she had seen it all. But now, with the stack of printouts
mounting every minute from the paper’s Website Administrator -- who wasn’t even
a newsman! – here was the greatest story of the century unfolding before her
eyes. She took the bundle into her boss’s office and unceremoniously dropped
them on his lap. The old fuddy-duddy had been caught napping. Serve him right,
she thought.
“More on
the grandest story of them all, old son. The proof you asked for -- that
somebody has invented, and are using, a weapon that knocks the pant’s off the
bad guys so bad they change their ways and become good guys. Happening all over
the world. Want an Extra edition out?”
“Don’t be a
fool. Extras went out years ago. And I already told you we would not touch this
with a ten-foot pole. I don’t care how many tons of printouts you bring in
here. Now scat.”
“But...”
“I will not
become the laughing stock of Detroit -- or the world for that matter. Who else
has picked up on this? I mean, who else that’s considered real news?”
“Nothing on
the wires. Just the stories of the bad guys getting shocked. Nobody is
suggesting an answer. Just reporting it as it is.”
From New
York to Seattle and Winnipeg above the Dakotas to El Paso, Texas, radio, TV and
newspaper people could not touch the story being observed by Internet users all
around the world. As one editor after the other chewed his inner lip waiting
for the bomb to fall -- for surely it would -- then they could gauge the
public’s reaction. For now all they could do was brave it out. Who in their
right mind would publish the story of a flying saucer landing on the top of
their building even with photographs and interviews with the aliens? Not one.
It just isn’t in the paradigm. If something happens outside of our known
universe it simply does not exist and therefore we will not report it. Lewis
Carroll, where are you?
Pamela
imagined the days when editors stood by telegraphers, later telexes and to this
day appeared to be stuck in the telex age. Angry readers were demanding to know
what the hell was going on through E-mailed letters. They were from doctors,
lawyers, students, mothers at home. Not all hackers and nerds as would be expected.
It was obvious that editors across the land were waiting for ‘the other guy’
break first.
I mean,
really! Who is going to believe that all the zappings being reported are from
one solitary UFO in the Arizona desert?
And where
are the White House press releases explaining it all away? Why the ominous
silence from the hill, as though nothing were happening?
By three in
the afternoon the whole world knew something was out of kilter because by then
it was common knowledge that bad guys were being reformed in instantly by
something nobody could imagine. And silence from the media and from governments
across the world made it even more of a mystery.
Who would
be next? Do I dare make my buy now? Should I wait ‘till this is over? Should I
kill her tomorrow instead of now? I’m not a bad guy, I’ll just go ahead and
give the kids a sample, nothing will happen to me. I’m not really cheating, I’m
just taking my share of the wealth, and it’s okay to pass this counterfeit
bill.
---------------------------
Wednesday morning. Denver, Colorado
Jonathan
Anderson celebrating his 28th birthday did it alone. He was not
about to be anywhere near the group today. The bomb had gone off exactly as
planned and he alone would take full responsibility if and when word leaked
out. Only the clinic itself had been damaged and nobody had been seriously
injured. A neighbor’s window had shattered with shreds of glass falling on the
sleeping woman. Cut and bleeding, dazed by the deafening sound, she had walked
into the arms of the police as they arrived on the scene. All was well, she was
treated on the spot, refusing to let the paramedics even look at her. Jonathan
saw it all from behind the shrubbery growing in the vacant lot just a few yards
down from her home. Jonathan was sure no more murdering of unborn children
would take place -- for a while. The clinic would be shut down for major
repairs, if not shut down forever. The group hoped permanently. Assassinations
of the unborn must be stopped!
Miles away
from the scene now, Jonathan thought back, reassuring himself that his now-dead
parents would approve. They had taught him to be good, to respect life, to obey
the laws of God. His punishment for touching himself that long-ago day a
painful reminder of God’s wrath as unleashed through the hands of a dedicated
father. Again when caught exploring under Lucy’s dress and finally panties, as
he began to taste with all his senses the miracle of the difference between
sexes. That time the punishment left him in bed for two days.
When he
returned to school he could see in their faces that everybody knew. Lucy must
have told Mary who would of course tell everybody. Yes, even in kindergarten
the pecking order and law of the jungle prevailed. It was then that Jonathan
began to realize that the discipline of his religious life was not being fairly
shared by the majority of people. Nobody had beaten Lucy. The rumors had it
that her parents laughed it off as a ‘learning experience.’
He touched
his face, recalling comments that he had no smiling lines. He made a fist of
his left hand feeling the scar tissue left from his first chemistry experiment
-- ‘don’t ever add water to sulfuric acid!’ Time to reflect as he waited for
enough time to pass before returning to his apartment.
A sad
western song played through his Walkman easing his tension. Ruth will be proud!
And the thought of Ruth made him feverish. He knew his body temperature was
rising and he would soon be sweating, penis throbbing. He hated himself for
what the very thought of her did to him yet loved it with equal force in some
perverted sense of being; a balance he could not achieve in life, but could
appreciate through his imagination coupled with occasional reality. Enough
counselors had explained schizophrenia for him to logically know his many
selves; but what did they know? He knew his work helped God.
It was
getting late and he had to find a place to sleep for a few days. His apartment
would sit alone. If anybody entered he would know. Enough balanced hairs and
marbles placed here and there that even the most careful search of his pad
would leave tell tale signs he could interpret. If the police did not search
his apartment during the next 24 hours he knew he’d be safe until some snitch
ratted on him. The reason, of course, for not telling anybody in the group.
This was his operation and not even Ruth knew of it. Ruth, again, the thought
of her making him restless, was negating the relaxing sounds of base guitars
and mournful songs.
Six foot
three, lithe, spring-like muscles rippling through a 180 pound frame, he knew
he stood out in any crowd. Still, he had
watched the explosion from across the street fully aware of the risk. In a way
he would not mind being caught. It would be his chance, in front of all the
world’s cameras, to convince Americans
that abortion is wrong, is murder, and they, like he, should obey the laws of
God. At the same time he knew it would be an act of stupidity. Again, torn this
way and that, following only the true path as inspired by the times on his
mother’s lap, and his father’s belt.
He had
slipped away in the confusion, ever careful to avoid the police who no longer
treated onlookers as onlookers but as a group of people possibly containing the
perpetrator himself, as was so often the case. This was his fourth bombing and
experience was a great teacher.
Alone, as
usual, but not in his apartment -- his favorite place of all—he fought boredom
by focusing on his solid collection of country western. It was a cool day in
Denver, not freezing as had been forecast, just cold enough to require a warm
coat and car blanket as he casually drove from place to place, staying only
long enough to conserve gas but not long enough to cause a curious or disturbed
resident to call the police.
His car, a
1983 Dodge Charger, dented in three places, paint fading, a cloak of
invisibility. A good heater, reclining seats, and even possible to make the
hatch-back and rear seat into an uncomfortable bed. He resisted the temptation
to make the bed. It would be too easy to fall asleep, let time go by, rouse the
curiosity index of a resident. So he listened to country western, drove
carefully from place to place, and thought about his life.
Lucy
drifted off during Jonathan’s youth. But
other girls had given him more than his share of pain. Just before getting into
high school he and Janet were walking away after registering. He could swear
she had agreed to his suggestion that she show him hers if he showed her his.
So easy to misinterpret what one says, it’s a miracle any contract could be written!
But here he was showing her his, when she went crazy, ran home and told her
folks.
A month in
juvenile, learning to defend himself from drug-crazed bullies and he swore to
never do it again. But he had not sworn to God, nor had he sworn on a Bible.
Just to himself. So when he was caught on his second year of high school
peeping through a hole in the wall he had made into the girls shower-room, he
had been expelled. By then he no longer swore not to ever do it again. He
simply decided to be more careful.
The
expulsion had been hard on everybody. His uncanny ability to pull off a full
Nelson while scissoring his opponent with his ankles had made him champion
wrestler of the school and the district. They were counting on him to bring
home the State Championship. Not even the principal could rescue him from the
stupidly irate female teachers and parents. He knew the girls didn’t care. In
fact some of them had put on a mock dance, fully aware of the hole in the wall,
while he watched. Lydia, a real looker, later said that they would love to put
on the same show in the auditorium.
His dad
dead, due to cancer of the lungs after a lifetime of three packs a day; his
mother dead as the result of one shot of whiskey too much as she mourned his
father, he was alone, orphaned at sixteen. Tall and strong, not afraid of work
and almost immune to pain -- he thought due to the many beatings and his
passion for wrestling -- he joined an offshore drilling rig in the Gulf Coast
and volunteered as many extra hours as he could. There always being as many as
he wanted since most men loved their time off to spend their wealth on booze
and women in New Orleans, or for some, at home with wife and kids. Often, they
would offer him cash incentives, which on top of overtime made it possible for
him to grow a healthy bank account.
This was his fourth bomb, one of his best, as
he remembered the blast, the searing heat, and the brightness even through
closed eyes. The sudden silence immediately after such an eerie feeling until
your realize it’s because you simply can’t hear anything. Like the human eye
blinded by a flash reacting in self defense, in effect depriving the body of
that precious sense. So to the ear, like a turtle, retreating into its shell
unable to face whatever it retreated from. Then slowly, like a hum, then
rumble, the sounds return. The quality of a bomb explosion was more a ‘felt’
thing than a logical, analytical thing. The damage to the clinic severe enough
to keep people away for ages, maybe even a month. Would they come back? It was
his hope that the fear of another bomb would be enough to put the fear of God
into their hearts, to make them repent and accept the commandments -- as he
had. If he accepted God’s laws, then it was up to him to do his best to make others
accept them also. There simply is no other choice.
As though
waking from a dream he looked at his Timex. He looked up to find himself near
Washington Park, on tree-lined Gilpin Street, not far from old South High, his
last school. Parked right in front of Ruth’s house. He smiled at the wondrous
ways in which the human body and mind seem to work. Almost as though driven by
some infinite intelligence. It must be the will of God for him to be here. It
had not been his intention. For a brief moment he tried to remember the many
places he had stopped to rest, to hide, to avoid detection before ending up
here but it was nothing but a blur. Sleep depravation, he thought, remembering
his intention to return to his apartment. But here he was, and Ruth would be home.
She had to be, otherwise why had God directed him here?
He got out
of his car having seen nothing but a black cat cross the street, a sign of good
luck. He’d have sexual contact with a girl! He chuckled at the absurdity of
this thought but shook his head at how often it really happened. Did the black
cat crossing his path mean he would have an encounter of some kind? Or did it
mean that since he believed there would be an encounter he would make it
happen? Something called
‘self-fulfilling prophecy’ he had been told about by one of the
counselors those many years ago as he listened to lectures on schizoids.
Whatever.
Ruth opened
the door almost as though she expected him. He puzzled this for a moment, to
lose it as his heart began to race and his temperature rise. He focused on
controlling himself while making a pleasant entrance. She wore a loose fitting
cream colored robe with what appeared to be feathered tuffs along the V neck
and sleeve ends. It was not tied, but hung loose, concealing her shapeliness
and he knew he frowned but quickly recovered. Her lightly curled honey-brown
hair combed in place to frame her elegantly long face. She smiled a smile
without lipstick but with eyes being made up with unfinished strokes of
mascara. He knew he had interrupted her morning toilet.
“Hi, “ she
said and moved aside to let him in.
“Morning
Ruth. How are you?”
“Great.
Yourself?”
“Tired.
Been wandering around thinking of things we can do to stop the killings.
Haven’t come up with any good ideas. Found myself in the neighborhood...” His
voice trailed off into silence.
“Did you
bomb the clinic?” she asked.
He caught
his breath and felt the sudden surge of blood, knowing his adrenaline was
demanding a fight or flee response from his brain. He had always been a lousy
liar.
“Yeah...
but I made sure nobody was around.”
“Come in.
Let’s talk.”
She shut
the door behind them and both walked to the kitchen. He sat down and she poured
two cups of steaming coffee. He envisioned her making the coffee a short time
ago. Had she seen his car on the street as he woke from his near trance?
“I thought
we were all agreed about no bombs?” she said.
“I made
sure nobody in the group would know and I made sure not to leave any evidence.
I’ve been laying low since so as to not be anywhere near a policeman. Have an
alibi already made and set if need be. I thought I’d just move the program
ahead a bit. How did you know?”
“Oh Johnny,
it had to be you. You can’t keep the truth from me. Besides, you talk in your sleep and you do
like to dream about bombs. Am I right? This is not your first one, is it?”
He shook
his head, not in shame, but with pride. He could feel good with Ruth. The left
side of her robe fell from her lap and she did not bother to cover her leg
while he stared, transfixed, as she slowly opened her legs, ever so slowly
revealing the blackest bush of pubic hair he had ever imagined. He fell to his
knees and as she slid her chair from the table, he positioned himself so the
angle of his head would allow his tongue easy access to her hole while his nose
rubbed her clitoris. For an instant the
sight of the black cat flashed across his mind and he knew he was destined to
do exactly what he was doing.
Ruth lay in
bed after he left. The morning sun found slashes of uncurtained window and
speared her body with bright light. Her relaxed body in contrast to the growing
turmoil in her mind. Jonathan’s intensity of belief had made her aware of his
capacity to destroy. His passion went beyond reason and not only would it
endanger the group’s effort to put an end to abortions, but it would certainly
backfire as it had elsewhere in the world. She put the palm of her hand on her
belly feeling the flatness and forever emptiness because she could not produce
an egg. An egg! For God’s sake, when even the lowliest of the lowly produce an
egg a month – seemingly forever! She
shuddered as her mind began to recreate the day the horse had kicked -- and
just as suddenly pushed the thought away. She had dwelled on it too many times.
She had
paid little attention to the wild Maya woman in Cancun last week. But now she
tried to remember because if what the woman had said was true, she might find a
way to stop Jonathan from further mischief on their behalf and maybe, just
maybe, keep him from going ballistic. She smiled thinly at the faint hope of
being in love.
She looked
through last week’s travel papers: airline ticket, seat assignment card,
luggage claim checks -- torn and invalidated -- tour propaganda, a ticket to
Xcaret – ‘The Disneyland of Cancun’, a punched ticket to a jungle tour. And she
found the piece of paper with the 800 number the Maya witch had given them as
they left that night. She called, and as per instructions left the name,
physical description, geographic location and crime or antisocial activity the
subject had committed. Everything on voice-mail, no human contact, and she
crossed her legs in absolution hoping she was doing the right thing. She fell
asleep with the memory of his love tingling every pore of her body.
She had no
idea of how long she had been sleeping. The incessant ringing of the phone
pulled her from the depths and reluctantly she answered.
“Ruth!” The
excited voice of Jonathan “I have been blessed! You won’t believe it.,” he
continued not giving her a chance to reply. “I have been torturing myself,
questioning if what I did was right and just as I was recalling the explosion I
got this sudden hit of pure energy, so powerful that I know, I just know, it is
the hand of God pressing me forward. Ruth! Do you know what this means? It
means I am to go forward as a soldier of God and punish all the abominable
women’s clinics I can get my hands on. You and the group will be totally out of
it -- this is my crusade, and Ruth? Thank you!”
She could
not speak. He heard her breathing and said, “Isn’t it the most exciting thing
you ever dreamed of? -- Ruth?”
“Jonathan....” she said softly, not knowing what else
to say. After a while, after more enthusiastic words she failed to capture, he
rushed off to do something, and she hung up. Moments later she redialed the 800
number.
Don Chuy,
the non-degreed PhD who taught doctors,
hurried along the path as fast as his old bones would carry him. Maama’s
house not far, but far enough to bring up a good sweat in the hot tropical
climate even if it was winter. The light, white cotton pants, loose as they
were, began sticking. Reaching the stacked limestone rock wall around her hut,
he burst through the gate, slamming it shut to give notice of his arrival. Two
hens scurried out of his way leaving a wake of dust and a few feathers. The
goose hissed and held back the attack at recognizing the intruder. Pulling off
his finely woven Panama-style hat he burst in on her and without niceties gave
her the news:
“We have
problems Maama, the ‘lightning’ power is failing when aimed at people who
believe their evil is for the betterment of mankind. It is being received as
the word of God and is giving them even more motivation to continue their
deeds! Good people are in jeopardy of being hurt by lunatics!”
“Con
calma!” she said.
She had
been sipping a hot cup of coffee. She said nothing more as she motioned him to
take a mug, serve himself and join her. He did not know if her calm were real
or faked but did as she bid. Dipping into the clay pot over the wood fire,
avoiding the overhanging bag of coffee grains still dripping into the pot, he
filled his cup. The black coffee matched his mood so he added more honey
colored unrefined sugar than normal avoiding the milk, which he dearly loved,
in atonement for something, he knew not what -- interrupting her peace?
“Tell me
what you know,” she said.
He pulled
back the wooden framed reed woven chair and sat. He told her of the first call
on the 800 number and of the near frantic second call by the woman named Ruth
in Denver. About the subject Jonathan and how the people in the hidden cave
headquarters near the pyramid had called the required ten, in a surprisingly
short time—who must have gone to work immediately.
She cupped
her mug, a last tiny puff of steam, and thought. He watched as her eyes closed
to a slit and saw the rhythm of her breathing slow ever more, yet with deeper
breathes as she relaxed. He was silent, slowing his own breathing, joining her
in the breathing rhythm. Half expecting, half not expecting her to extend her
hand to the middle of the table to establish contact, he waited for her cue.
Immediately he could feel the slick sweat between his hand and the oilcloth
covering the tabletop.
He silently
studied her face comparing it to the classical beauty of the royal Maya as
portrayed on the many paintings found in ancient ruins through this southern
Mexico, Central American region. A slightly slanted forehead, a perfectly
sculpted nose with just a hint of hump almost to the point of being cute. He suppressed
a chuckle recalling the many jokes she had endured, then gracefully accepted as
she grew. Her long black glistening hair braided into two long pony tails
curled one on each side covering part of her ears as her ancestors had been
doing for centuries, held in place with red, royal blue and canary yellow
woolen ribbon. Her eyelids smooth and unwrinkled highlighting now the faint
smile lines at the corners of her eyes. Her perfect mouth, seemingly slightly
swollen lower lip speaking a whole language in and of itself on sensuality --
creating visions of succulent labia. Breathing deeply the rise and fall of her
breast as each mound pushed against her thin cotton fabric accenting the
delicately embroidered flowers and mystical animals so tactfully coloring it.
The colors and figures drawing his eyes to her breasts, her breasts drawing his
eyes to them and to the colors, the images, and the story the figures conjured.
She opened
her eyes and smiled at his open admiration of her beauty. He knew she had sensed
it and smiled back.
“I am at a
loss. Take my hand, let us ponder this together.”
They
completed the circle by holding hands and entered into the trance, which would
bring them close to the source of all knowledge.
Time no
longer existed. Distances were no longer relevant. Slowly they allowed the
metaphysical images of their sacred Maya world lead them to a solution. But a
sense of frustration began and grew preventing focus, preventing a solution.
Experienced psychic travelers both, they slowly returned to the physical world
and cold coffee. They looked at each other and he could tell she, too, was at a
total loss.
“I think I -- how do you say in English? Jumped the gun” she
said.
Chapter
Industrial Park, Tijuana, Mexico.
Wesley, the owner, was leaving his electronics manufacturing
factory in Tijuana to join Margaret in their quest to rid the world of evil. He
was stopped in the parking lot by beautiful young employee. Tears in her eyes,
her right hand outstretched, palm down. Her eyes, dark, dark eyes of an angered
doe, set in a majestic face that came from ancient Aztec queens. Her oh, so
long hair shined in balance with the bright sun shining down on that December
day. She wore the blue apron and her employee badge, proudly displayed over her
left breast said she was Consuelo.
He knew her by sight, knew where she worked on the line, but had
only spoken to her a few times. Now, she approached and motioned for his
audience. Slowly, hesitating, she told Wesley that she had come to work late on three occasions
during the last fifteen days. She thought she had given human resources a good
reason. But something terrible just happened.
“OK, Consuelo, let’s sit over there under the shade and please
tell me all about it. I am very ,” she said, sitting on the very front edge of
the bench, facing him, legs tightly together, skirt pulled well bellow the
knees. Her makeup enough to tell the world she was ready to mate, her blouse a
thin rainbow colored garment, jeweled rings on three fingers; the kind you buy
in swap meets for less than a dollar each.
“This morning Esperanza called me into her office. Then Javier
came in. They closed the door. I sat in the corner chair and was afraid. I knew
they were going to fire me even though there was no reason. I had a legitimate
excuse to be late. I had permission from my supervisor Sr. Wesley!”
“Go on, tell me why you’re so upset.”
“Well... you will not believe this. But Esperanza told Javier
‘what do you want to do with this girl? She has been late three times in the
last two weeks. Reason to let her go. Do you want to let her go? And Javier, he
smiled -- he really did! He smiled and said: ‘Is there something else we can
do?’ And Sr. Wesley, like they do this all the time, like they know their
lines, believe me! -- Esperanza looked at me, no smile on her lips but her eyes
were shining bright, like some kind of passion hidden behind them and I could
tell she was getting excited, her breathing got faster and I could tell from
the rise and fall of her breast that she was breathing deeply. Finally she said
to me -- ‘Consuelo, do you want to keep on working for us? I said yes, of
course, I like my work and the company and especially the way Sr. Wesley treats
his people.”
She hung her head, wiped tears from her eyes and blew her nose.
Wesley waited, and then urged her to continue, afraid of what he thought she
was going to say. He had picked up a scent of what was to come through some
sixth sense he knew was true.
“Sr. Wesley, Esperanza said; ‘Consuelo, you have been a bad girl.
If you are willing to be spanked as punishment for your misbehavior we will
forget the whole incident, erase it from your records and be done with it.’
I said nothing. I could not believe this was happening. But they
looked at each other and then simply waited. And I nodded to let them know I
would accept their punishment, thinking that Javier would leave and that
Esperanza would carry out the punishment. But no. Javier did not leave. He took
off his belt!”
Again she was silent, looking into space, searching for the
words she could use to tell Wesley the rest of the story. Wesley caught his
breath and felt his arteries tighten, felt the shot of adrenalin course through
his veins, fought the growing anger by forcing himself to be calm, to let the
girl speak.
“Esperanza told me to stand up and put my hands on her desk. She
then lifted my skirt, tucking it under my blouse, and.... Oh, Sr. Wesley, I
cannot tell you more.” And she sobbed a deep cry that brought more tears to her
eyes. Wesley searched his pockets for a Kleenex and found a rumpled paper
napkin. He gave it to her and told her to go on.
“Go on, “ he said.
“You will never respect me again Sr. Wesley, but I did not do
this of my free will. You must believe me and you must know what is going on
behind your back! I don’t care if you fire me for telling you this, but I must
tell it!”
“Calm, calm little daughter, calm. I’m not going to fire you.
Tell me what happened.”
“Javier hit me a few times, not too hard, it really did not
hurt. But that was nothing. He then said he was sorry to have hit me so hard,
said he would make up for it, and he got onto his knees and ... oh, Sr. Wesley,
I cannot tell you more. Please, do not ask!”
He didn’t have to. The picture of Esperanza, his trusted human
resources director, in collusion with his production manager doing S&M on
his employees was driving him into a rage. A rage he must control. There was
simply no way for him to prove what this girl was saying.
If they had been doing this for some time it was because they
knew exactly how to keep it from being discovered. The fact this girl had
caught him at exactly the right moment and exactly at the right time for this
communication to happen was a one in a million chance neither Esperanza nor
Javier could have foreseen.
He could see Esperanza’s office, off in the corner, no window to
the street nor to the offices. A thing they had discussed many time but never
gotten around to fixing. A large office, room enough for four desks, but only
hers because of the need for confidentiality when talking with employees. Now
it was obvious why she had never complained -- compalined enough, that is -- to
get it changed. Talked about, but he could see it had been a ruse. Esparanza
liked it this way. He could see now the reason Javier so frequently was in
consultations with his HR director. It all came together as he looked at the
girl/woman sitting on the edge of the concrete bench under the blue awning at
the outside lunchroom. He imagined her slightly bent, legs apart as Javier struck
her then on his knees kissing her supple cheeks, slowly kissing and licking his
way to the ever-tightening crevice, touching her inner thighs indicating she
should open her legs wider. Then penetrating beyond the bushy hair into the
chocolate brown, shifting to pinkish as he opened her labia and licked.
He caught himself, feeling a growing erection, which he quickly
covered by crossing his legs. He saw instant insight in her eyes and knew what
was coming next.
“Take me home. Let me
show you,” she said in a husky voice.
And at that moment he felt a wedge split him in two with the
awesome challenge of a decision now based on whether to believe her or to think
it was all a made up story to get him into her bed. Confused, feeling cheated
yet feeling the knight in shining armor, he did nothing. He looked at her with
as blank a face as he could muster and waited. She hung her head, shrugged and
resumed her silent crying.
He looked beyond her, the hills surrounding the city ablaze in
sunlight. Directly to the south of his factory a pink structure with twin
towers displayed itself as a church. Outstanding on that hill, the biggest
building, making elves of everything else.
One of the major dangers
in this business of having a factory in Mexico is the sex angle. Ninety percent
of the labor demanded by the Sanyos, Sonys, Matsuchitas, Fenders, Plantronics,
Elpacs, and the like is from women 17 to 25 years old. Girl/women who will work
a 48 hour week for four to six years with the sole objective of building a
dowry and/or getting a man. The principle target being an American engineer,
technician or even plant manager or owner. It didn’t matter if it was for
marriage. The ‘casa chica’ or little house concept was as good as marriage any
day. The girl seduces with exquisite charm and immediately gets pregnant. The
man simply has no recourse. He must care for her and the child. All the laws
are on her side and he has been warned again and again by everybody from his
twin brother to his great--great grandmother who died a century ago -- through
his dreams -- that you must keep your pecker in your pants. The eternal battle
of survival through the use of whatever tool, whatever advantages you could
muster. Wesley slowly regained his composure and was able to smile at her.
“No, you have your way to get home. I will look into this.
Please come to work tomorrow.”
They faced each other, her eyes admiring, loving, respecting him
with all the honesty of a desperate soul. He nodded and sent her a clear and
unmistakable message through his body language and sixth sense that he
understood and loved her as a fellow human. But don’t ever try to get me into
your house or panties again.
On his way to the border crossing he checked off the
possibilities. One, she had invented it and simply wanted his sympathy as a
means to get him into her bed. Two, hanky-panky had taken place in Esperanza’s
office with Javier as an accomplice. If it were the second, then he either had to prove it and fire them
both. Or, if unable to prove it, prove it to himself and take them off his
‘most trusted’ list. Or disprove it and give them both a clean slate. As he
approached the border itself he could see a mile-long line of cars and he swore
he’d get out of this business yet.
Waiting in line instead of using the Sentri express lanes
because of the samples he carried, with nothing to do but shift into drive,
pull ahead a car length, back to neutral and wait a minute -- sometimes three
-- sometimes ten as the customs or INS agent at the gate do their thing. Supposedly
protecting the country from terrorists posing as Mexicans, drug smugglers,
Mexican avocadoes, or a citizen with two bottles of tequila -- and the image of
a couple of sailors put in the brig for that particular crime-- why this
vision? He asked himself. Shaking it away, he forced himself to remember his
imaginary story as developed from watching those sexy monkeys at the zoo last
summer.
At the San Diego Zoo the Bonobo[iv]
chimps played. Old Zero studied young Mo, his face showing concern, a slight
frown. Others were aware, but continued their chatter as they ate the fresh
bananas and legumes the zookeepers had provided just moments before. Mo was
agitated. Everybody saw it and everybody expected old Zero to handle it. Mana,
his mother, had fondled his genitals but Mo hopped away, unsatisfied. His eyes
focused on the midsection of the tall eucalyptus on the southwest side of their
enclosure -- a furry object Mo had never seen before. But he could not reach
the tree; nor could he manage the impossible barrier between the monkey’s
territory and that of the rest of the zoo.
Mo understood the limitations of his world, but his awareness of
this limitation made him... anxious. His focus on the tree was making others
nervous as well but he did not know it. A female his own age scurried up to him
and positioning herself for doggie fashion penetration before him and waited.
He lost interest in the furry object in the tree and penetrated the willing
companion. Moments later he could not remember the reason for his frustration
of a while ago. He grinned a wide toothy grin at his mate and took her by the
hand to the waiting bananas.
Old Zero masturbated easily as Mina, a triple-x monkey his own
age suckled Dana’s labia major, unaware that Dana was her niece. Both females
were reacting to Old Zero’s restlessness of moments ago.
Without conscious awareness, the frustration of captivity had
been felt by one member and quickly put to rest through sexual pleasures, which
dispelled the anxieties, which in other cultures create wars, terrorism, and
mass killings.
To the casual observer at the zoo that day they had observed the
solution to all evil. But none captured the true meaning. All had a fixation on
the sexual acts and were shocked by them. None saw the truth.
Wesley was next in line behind a Jeep Cherokee. The INS officer
checking papers, flashing his light into the vehicle. He motioned the driver to
get out and Wesley aD.J.usted himself for another five-minute wait as the
person the INS guy had ‘profiled’ went through the motions. There was a one in
a million chance the INS guy would find anything. But the play must be played.
All around were the ‘Marias’ of Mexico: a baby slung in a reboso
supposedly suckling a child, at least one four year old and one five year old –
either boy or girl -- circling the ‘mother’ as they scurried from car to car
selling chewing gum. Everywhere in Mexico the beggars sold Chiclets. He’d been
told the Marias were bred for just this purpose and Wesley had not believed it.
But it must be the only explanation.
He visualized this chewing gum company in cahoots with the
priests everywhere in Mexico promoting the birth of more and more children to
go begging in the streets. Could he and Margaret pull enough Mind Warriors into
a session to blast the priests of the world? Would Maama and her cronies
consider this an act of evil by itself? But if we don’t take out evil from
religion itself, then of what use is this new tool?
The obvious solution was for one huge shift in the human genome,
and that would be that any female could produce only one or maybe two eggs in
her whole life.
Wesley gave up the image of the monkeys, holding onto the
intelligence only, the intelligence that what mankind had elected as an
alternative to anger -- that of law and police and armies and bombs and
guerrillas and lunatics and suicides and murder --- was in front of us all the
time. But we have allowed religious fanatics to convince us that sex is evil --
not the healing power we see in clear evidence in almost any zoo.
Now he had to focus on the Mind Warriors and oh, by the way,
what to do about Esperanza and Javier -- and the girl. No harm had been done.
In light of the comparison between true evil - that of killing, maiming,
denying another’s liberty - what had happened? In this frame of mind could he
really be prepared to blow his stack, accuse his key people of treachery? -- or
worse? Could he be seeing a thin light of hope for mankind in the actions of
these three people? Assume for a moment that Esperanza and Javier were truly
concerned about getting Consuelo in line -- teaching her a lesson. And the belt
must have hurt. And Javier has a big heart -- along with most likely a hungry
dick. And what had Esperanza done during this time? Watched? What about her
passions? Good or bad? Evil or saintly? And to top it all off, who is the judge
of bad and evil and good and righteousness? How many people were in jail today
because they had been taught that playing doctor/nurse was evil and the work of
the devil?
Wesley shook his head as he
drove away from the guard shack onto 805, toward home, a double Scotch followed
by a handful of Margaret’s bosom in one hand and a handful of her voluptuous
fanny in the other. His mind shifted to this new image just as the mental image
of all the priests in the world may be the ones in need of the Mind Warrior’s
treatment. Shocked at his own vision, he veered and nearly collided with a semi
in the right lane. Some subconscious message let loose as he thought the
pleasant thoughts of the home and hearth. Could it be that the men and women
proclaiming intimate knowledge of God, of communication with God, were in
reality the servants of Satan? Why had mankind lost the Garden of Eden? Could
it be when we put a cloth over genitals and in so doing brought the most
natural act of all into the realm of sin, of evil?
Washington, D.C.
D.J. picked up the phone on the second ring. “Agent Jamil, good
afternoon”
“Ted Borg here, can you talk?”
“Are you requesting a secure line, sir?”
“No. Just need to know if you have the time and inclination to
chat with me concerning your chat with the director.”
Chat? she asked herself. Is this what it is? A chat? She
hesitated only momentarily as she searched for the right ‘F key’ into what
would obviously be a bureaucratic tete-a- tete. So be it.
“Yes, I’m most willing and able to chat -- sir.”
He chuckled, sending an eerie feeling through her primordial
spinal column.
She didn’t have to analyze her feeling; it hit Deva Noel Jamil
like a ton of bricks. This man is a heavy. Why had she believed the director?
Didn’t she know? From all the stories and secretive whispers within the bureau
she should have known this man was so much a politician that the word director
was a joke and the cross they all had to bear. What could be expected from him
other than a hatchet man? Her psychic sixth sense confirmed it!
“Anderson tells me you’re a fine agent D.J.-- it is D.J., isn’t
it?”
“Fine with me sir. My name is Deva Noel Jamil if you want it for
the record.”
“No, no... This is an informal chat. I understand the law
enforcement agencies of the world will be out of business pretty soon. Is this
the correct conclusion?”
“I only gather facts, sir. Conclusions and actions are up to the
Director, and his associates. Are you among them?”
“Of course. Why else would I call?”
“How can I help?” she asked.
“Bring me up to date,” he said. She could tell he meant
business. No more sparring. She told him all she knew but held back what she
sustpected.
After a few moments of silence, listening to his breathing, she
wondered if the connection had been lost. But no.
“I’m proceeding on the basis that what you have uncovered is
factual. We will need to identify the source of energy and the platform from
which the weapon is launched,”Borg said.
“Second, the database search results which must now be taking
place in discovery of center of origin, participants and targets. How soon can
you get this data D.J.?”
She sighed, relieved that he was asking for the right
information. For a near-panic moment she had imagined him as a person simply
leading her on, allowing enough rope for her to hang herself. His questions
were on the mark and she felt a renewed sense of urgency, of importance to what
she was doing.
“Meet me at the Army & Navy Club later at 5 with everything
you can put together. O.K?” His tone of voice said there could be no other
response than her approval. Not finding any reason not to agree, she agreed.
As she packed she tried to balance her personal and professional
needs against those of this man who could only have one thing as his agenda;
the perpetuation of the agency. It is illegal for a U.S. government agency to
lobby. Openly. But if ever the FBI had a promoter, the rumors were that this
was the man.
She searched for energy for the upcoming duel. She reached into
her past and selected memories that would be the anchors, the roots and trunk
of her duel. A duel it would be. He had selected a meeting place of his
choosing, the first indication of a bout to be fought. If information were the only
thing he wanted he would have done it by phone, fax or in one of their offices.
But no, the Army & Navy Club, the mahogany veneer of centuries of tradition
-- a man’s hangout. Decidedly to put her ill at ease. Which encouraged her. If
he felt the need to bolster his position through subliminal intimidation, then
he did not feel secure in his position. As a chess player she recognized
positioning for what it was.
As she neatly stacked printouts and summaries of the work done
over these few days she remembered a time when as a young girl she packed so
neatly to go to camp. And again to college. Failing to get into law school she
swallowed her pride and focused on the very thing that had prevented her from
law -- the quest for truth through pure logic. Ven diagrams, Boolean Logic,
Theory of Chaos and her pet project which had been her entrance to the Bureau:
the Amazon Butterfly Effect Theorem. Her only regrets at not having made it
into law school was the disappointment she imagined her parents would have felt.
It was fleeting and she quickly forgave herself as she saw herself riding at
the front of a new frontier in science, which would give mankind freedom from
the bullies of the world.
This new weapon fit well within her mental arsenal. The Bureau
top dogs would want to kill it. She would bring to bear all her wits in this
meeting. She would have to keep her job, delay action stopping the mind weapon,
and give the big shots something they could use to get more money out of
Congress -- the Ace in the deck. And she had no idea at all what that Ace would
be. Just that she had to come up with one in the next few hours.
The GA Technology hackers at the UCSD supercomputer had zeroed
the source of origin to Cancun, Quintana Roo, Mexico. She fanned the report, debating
whether to wait for their confirming report or go ahead and add it to the array
of research documents she already had. The artificial intelligence program used
had shown dark lines, or, heavy traffic, to and from Cancun by persons as yet
unknown from areas where the attacks had taken place. Within a day, or less,
the San Diego group would come up with actual names, and quickly with addresses
and phone numbers. This would be matched to hotel registries in Cancun - a
process which would take several days for those out of the main reservation
loop, but only a matter of minutes to those using conventional travel agencies
or databases such as Saber, a real pioneer in the field.
Then what?
Black uniformed SWAT teams crashing through doors at 2 in the
morning?
Search warrants? Based on “You
are under arrest for having imagined a lightning strike that would hit
Augustus, the Senator from Alabama...”
She felt a smile wanting to
spread across her lips but refused, knowing full well that something very much
like this would have to take place. There simply was no other way. They would
concoct some theory they would push down local judges to get the warrants they
wanted. It would be couched under “National Security” or the Atlanta Center for
the control of contagious diseases, THE PLAGUE.
Innocent people would be given
the shock of their life... if she could not come up with an ACE!
Near the ruins at Chichen-Itza
Where had she gone wrong? So clear now, so obvious – so hidden
months ago during the planning and all the positive input, all the yeas and
“ole’s” and saludos and shots of Tequila as everybody agreed that this mission
would save the world.
Save the world!
Maama poked at her forever-fire on the brazier of her humble
kitchen in anger. Thrusting the stick deeply into a glowing ember and twisting
it as though cutting into her heart and twisting a killing knife in her own
bosom.
“Stop it,” she cried to herself. “Think!”
“I am the chosen one,” she thought. “It is my destiny to take
the actions necessary for Mother Nature to overcome this one, horrible,
undeniable mistake. I am the chosen one. I must succeed!”
Looking into the fire and bright embers she pushed her insight
into eternity in quest of a sign, a market, a compass…
‘I am born and I am real,’ she intoned. ‘I am from the depth of
the earth and from the height of the stars. I am of today, as I am from
yesterday and as I am of tomorrow. My destiny has been written and I will
follow.’
She saw herself from the first memories of childhood, in the
jungle, her mother here and there, and no father she could remember. From the
absolutely worst conditions for a human being on all of earth, she had,
miraculously, been converted to a Fullbright PhD. There could be no arguing, no
escape, and no reticence in her fulfilling this destiny.
But how? What was missing?
What was missing?
Something… to do… with… … … angels.
Deep, deep inside her she knew it had to do with the huge
difference between the way cultures evolved in the American continent as
opposed to the rest of the world. Sure, everybody knew that the discovery of
agriculture in the fertile lands between the Tigress and Euphrates spawned
technology. But what the world did not know was that the real Garden of Eden
was reborn in it’s full power and intent on the American continent not long
after Adam and Eve chose the path of wisdom over the path of happiness.
This is the key, she thought, as she visualized acres upon acres
of fertile soil in ancient Mesopotamia, being cultivated, of pottery being
fired, of camels carrying trade goods between people of another world.
Comparing this, agriculture, processing, trade, war, slavery, poverty – money,
to what she had been envisioning of life in America all her life: People
working the fields, making pots, hybridizing and art, few births. And best of
all, sex – for the fun of it!
Eurasia, Africa and the Island nations growing into empires
through the acquired power of one greedy monarch or dictator or other. Serfdom.
Slavery. Growth for the enrichment of only a few. And an occasional revolution
starting with the slaughter of a father, brother or son at the highest levels
of authority. The rest vassals, slaves, animals. And the bible proscribing the
wonders of this form of life! The bible proudly relating the assassination of
brothers, children, whole societies! What a lesson to be taught!
She nearly chocked in her own quick intake of air into lungs
which had for near minutes been dormant as her mind raced along this horrible
road mankind had taken.
But not in America!
America had been the true Garden of Eden.
Not until the time in history that Mother Nature tripped herself
by not preparing the Americans for a simple, stupid, insignificant germ called
smallpox. “Oh Mother! Where were you then?”
Maama lowered her head as though in penance for her blasphemy.
‘Where did I go wrong?’ she asked of the bright glowing embers
in the brazier.
‘Where do I find the answer?’
As though in a trance, she slowly walked to her cot in the
corner of her hut, pulled her long dress to her, sat, reclined, and closed her
eyes as she drew the three breaths that would trigger her trip into the
infinite intelligence.
She knew that at this level of mind there was no distance, no
past, no future and no space. This was beyond Newton, Einstein and the laws of
thermodynamics. It is God’s world – and only a few, very few, have been allowed
to see beyond the veil that conceals all. A veil invented and imposed by
mankind itself. A veil which any man, woman or child could penetrate if they so
desired. Christ had tried to teach the lesson – but nobody seemed to believe
that Heaven is Within Us All. This Heaven – is knowledge. Not wisdom, but pure
knowledge.
Wisdom is the ability to manipulate fact, fiction and human
emotions. Knowledge is pure – as pure as a drop of water, which could give life
in one instance, or drawn life in another. Like the gleam of stainless steel – a life-saving tool in the
hands of a surgeon, an instrument of murder in another’s hand.
She let herself drift in this timeless, space-less, non-judgmental
world she had learned to listen to – to learn from – to teach from.
Knowledge began to sift through the haze of imaginary scenes and
people:
Maybe it could have been five
thousand years ago when the Black Man smiled to himself and felt his back
muscles ripple with pride. He, among all men in the Kraals, had thought of the
secret for keeping his hut warm when it was cold outside, and cool when the hot
African sun beat through clear skies on breezeless humidity-heavy days. He tied
and knotted the strands of ropelike vines around thick blankets of palm leaves
and dried reeds to the supporting beams on the roof.
He glanced at the growing number of
curious aunts, uncles and nephews below and sucked in a deep breath, puffing
out his thick chest, as was expected of a true man. He became aware of the
dark, ugly clouds overhead and knew that soon the rain would stop his work. He
quickened his pace.
"What happens when you want a
fire inside?" asked one of the onlookers. "Where-does the smoke
go?"
"Out..
like always,” he replied and used the impatient shrug to tighten the bindings
even more. The insult had come from his neighbor, a fat man too lazy to hunt
anymore. A heavy drop fell, and instantly the clouds emptied. The Black Man was
caught by surprise and he hurried even more. With his cutting stone he slashed
the last vine, which tied the thick mantle to his roof. The weight of water
from the sky pressed him down, and he looked through the haze of splashing
raindrops at the village.
Horrified,
he saw muddy frothing water push through every hut. One hut began to fall, a
corner dropping lazily into the flowing water, which had suddenly flooded the
village. The hut fell as though being pushed by the hand of an invisible giant
and sped toward the wide-eyed Black Man's hut.
His hut shuddered and the Black Man
hugged the thick mantel of the roof. He laced his hands through the tangle and
lowered his head between his arms like a baby at his mother's breast clinging
for support.
Sky, water,
rain and mud blinded him and he felt his hut shudder with the unmistakable
shaking of an animal in its death throes as the hut, with the Black Man on top,
was carried away.
The buoyancy of the roof matting
asserted its dominion over nature and, supporting the clinging Black Man, slid
recklessly into the surrounding bamboo wall which only moments before
surrounded the tribal village, into the open, down the bank and into the
roaring river.
He looked up but couldn't see the
riverbank, which normally would have been at the height of three grown men. He
shuddered. Flowing with the now-tormented river were trees, gasping antelopes
desperately thrusting their heads and eyes from the turbulent water. Buffalo
and other animals were all struggling for survival against the debris-infested,
swirling water. The Black man clung and watched through squinting eyelids as
the rain continued to spatter his face.
The rain stopped as suddenly as it
had started. Only the rushing water and death remained. And he, an unwilling
passenger, was on a voyage he knew would be his last. The sun dried his back,
and, surprisingly, he sensed a rebirth of familiar feelings. His hands felt the
threads of thin woven vines and he remembered what he had been doing. He loosened his grasp and thrust his hand
through the thick covering to feel the water below.
He was
lying flat on his stomach, his roof had become a raft. He felt for the beams,
and pushed himself into a sitting position as the river eddied and whirl pooled
and he was tossed about to collide with trunks and dying animals.
He
reached for the skin strap around his neck and followed it to the end. His
cutting stone was still there. He closed his eyes for a moment and thanked the
spirits of his ancestors for being kind in letting him keep a weapon, It could mean
survival – or a quick end.
The
sound of the river changed. A deep rumble forced his eyes wide-open in an eager
attempt to discover the new danger. He knew he was going to fall into the
bowels of the earth and he swallowed air as he thought he would never to see
light again.
At a
short distance on either side of him, mountainous waves lashed at the intruding
river; the source of the thundering sound. But directly ahead, in the direction
he was flowing, the water was calm. The mother ocean beckoned. Head turning
from side to side, as an eagle surveying his domain, the Black Man watched the
white-crested towering waves pass on either side.
Then he felt the motion of the sea as swell
after swell lifted the remnants of his house and then dropped it, only to lift
again and ,drop lulling him until at last his stomach rebelled and he was sick.
The current carried his accidental
raft deep into the sea. Brown water began to clear as it mixed with the blue
sea. Trees and dead animals disappeared, and he was alone. He sensed the
vastness of his burial ground as he watched the now distant landscape fade into
haze and mist. To disappear forever.
His thick lips, drawn downward at the
corners in a nature-given snarl, began to parch. He rubbed seawater over them
but felt no relief He ran his hands through his thick curly hair drawing a few
droplets of moisture and licked his hand but it was not enough.
He began to crave water. Childhood
memories of tales told by the fireside reminded him not to drink only seawater.
His heavy head turned ponderously on the thick trunk of his neck, the permanent
frown of heavy brows scowled at his surroundings but the light in his eyes was
that of a trapped animal. The bull of a man, whose brute ugliness and simplest
gesture had been enough to put fear in any stranger's soul, now faced the
awesome aloofness of his own end and he realized he enjoyed life too much --too
much.
His eyes focused on a bobbing coconut
not far away. Holding it within the horizon of his sight, he looked around and
saw another. They were within easy reach and he slid from his perch and swam
toward them, tossing them back to the raft. In turtle like fashion, head fully
out of the water, he swam back. With deliberate precision he cut and pulled at
the coarse hemp like husk of the nut. For the moment he forgot his commitment
to death. He found a strong but thin twig and punched through the white button
of coconut meat at the top and sucked the milky fluid. Satisfied, he set the
nut aside with a sense of confidence that he could crack it later and eat the
inner layer of meat.
He continued his search and time and
again he slid from the roof to gather more nuts, which bobbed here and there on
the blue-green sea. The sun began to fall into the horizon and he knew he was
not far behind the sun. A new dread chilled his bones as he thought of the
current taking him to that distant horizon where he would fall into the dying
embers of the sun and be consumed. As though the gods were confirming his fear,
the sun rested momentarily on 'the horizon and a thin layer of steam-like
clouds showed him how he would hiss and become vapor when he too fell into the
pit.
The evening air became cooler. The
night would be even worse, and he had no fire. He wanted the warmth and comfort
of the Kraal, the distant barking of hyenas, the reassuring rumble of a lion,
which had always meant good hunting. He wanted his hand on the fat belly of his
woman, to feel the kicking of new life. He wanted to listen to the elder as his
soft chant told the story of their people, then is lulled into sleep and enjoy
the dreams of a glorious past. Gone, all gone.
He imagined the warmth of a fire and
the power of his thoughts alone freed him of the shivers he was despising in
himself. He imagined the burning sensation of fire and he suddenly knew that he
could outsmart the cold of night.
Each day
he watched and waited for the end as he was surely coming closer and closer to
the fiery pit of the sinking sun. Then one day he realized it had been a myth
for even as he flowed toward it, the horizon had never come closer.
It was a
while before he realized it, but the current had shifted his course to the
north. He puzzled at the strange thinking of that jackal god that was surely
playing him as he himself had played with dazzled and fear-ridden lizards. His
coconuts had been finished long ago and he began to rely on a trick every boy
and girl had learned while wading and splashing in the river. He would put his
hand in the water until a curious fish touched him, then with speed and cunning
would pull the wriggling fish from the water and consume it still dripping wet
with seawater. The moisture from raw fish, his natural sun-resistant skin and
an occasional night squall, which would fill his coconut gourds, kept him
alive.
One morning
he saw land to the west and he frantically began to paddle the rooftop, which
for the past few days had begun to sink lower into the water, He succeeded only
in spilling rainwater from the coconuts. The raft would not budge. He thought
of swimming, but the land was too far. He rested and allowed the current to
take him to his destiny, Then, caught in a crosscurrent, the raft spun slowly,
and he sensed another change in direction.
The day
passed, but he saw no more land. At dawn he peered through the morning mist to
the westward as he heard a vaguely familiar sound. Then it became clear – the
sound of waves breaking on a shore. He stood, but the beams, which had
withstood so many weeks in the water, now crumbled under his weight, and he
tumbled into the sea.
Gasping for air, fighting from the
tangled mess of reeds, leaves, vines and beams, he thrust himself clear and
began to swim toward the sound. Caught in a swell, he rose and saw the blinding
white beach ahead. He relaxed and swam with the confidence of a man who had
defeated death and was reborn.
The Black Man hugged the sandy earth,
sobbed, and fell asleep.
Spring, her long black hair wet from
a dip in the ocean, watched the little sand crabs and shook her head wondering
why they could not run forward but had to scurry out of her way sideways.
Laughing, brushing salt-laden hair from across her face, she sidestepped and
raced a crab the size of her hand to the water's edge, only to squeal in
delight as the creature shifted direction and disappeared in the receding froth
of a wave. A shell caught her eye and she picked it up, rubbed the sand from
within the mother of pearl and gauged it's purity. 'A few like this will give
my brother Big Tusk something to trade with. I wonder where he is now?'
Her eyes shone with delight at her
find as she looked down the long sandy beach in search for the lithe figure of
her brother and his spear 'He's after a turtle. Ayah -- maybe the turtle goes
faster!'
Her keen jungle-trained eyes searched
the sand at her feet. Then she darted to the surf, splashing through the water
and stopped as though in a dance as her toes dug through the sand feeling,
searching for what she had seen. She bent over to pick up a sand dollar.
Holding it, she rubbed it clean. 'Ah, if they were harder. But they break so
easily'. She tossed it back to the sea and continued her search unaware that
the sun had traveled a good five fingers since she had last seen her brother.
She cupped the few brightly shining
shells between her forearm and breast and ran her reed-thin fingers through her
drying hair. A nearly dry end tickled her buttock. Ignoring it, she worked her
way along the beach toward the cool river where fresh water would wash away the
salt and sand on her young body. She found two more shells before she came to
the crystal clear stream, which marked the end of her previously explored
territory. She placed the shells on the bank and plunged into the cool water
squealing with delight, thrusting her hand toward an elusive fish knowing she
could catch it if she really tried
The Black Man woke to the sounds of a
girl’s delight and splashing water. Carefully he slanted his eyes before
lifting his ponderous head to gaze through the mat of sand dune grass toward
the sound. He burped and for a moment recalled the taste of the strange berries
and fruits he had eaten earlier. 'I am in another world' he thought, 'her skin
is pale, her hair is long and straight'.
Refreshed, Spring reached for the
small pile of shells and rubbed them in the clean water using silt to polish
them to a high sheen. She arranged them in rows of five, realizing she needed
two more to complete a set of four. 'Twenty will make Big Tusk happy this time.
And father Deer Track will be happy when Big Tusk comes back from the mountain
people.' A smile lightened her face. 'Ah, maybe with good luck Big Tusk will
bring his little sister a handsome hunter. Well, maybe not handsome. Just a
good man.'
Her mind in the future, her eyes on
the foamy water of receding wavelets by the river, she slowly walked back to
the path that would take her inland to the family camp.
The Black Man moved silently and
watched from behind a bamboo thicket next to the river. The sight of her had
been a sensual blow to his groins, as she passed her scent had changed his body
chemistry to a heated passion he greeted with a feeling greater than life
itself.
Instinctively his senses and muscle
control turned into the sharpness of a hunter. He watched and listened, and his
passion mounted as he realized that she was alone. Her youth, the smoothness of
her skin, her long straight hair, her thin, long arms and fingers were magic to
him. He had never seen such beauty, not even during his wildest dreams of
creating image after image of his lust while surviving eternal sea voyage.
The sun sparkled on droplets that clung to her hair and body.
The Black Man moved slowly from behind the bamboo into a thicket of brush
behind the sand dune that paralleled her course. Spring sensed a movement and
glanced quickly in his direction. 'Jaguar!' her mind flashed the image and
in panic, rushed to the rolling waves of the sea.
The Black Man leapt forward and in a
few strides overtook the fleeing girl. She felt his touch on her back and
cringed, expecting sharp claws and bloodied teeth to rip her throat, seeing in
her mind the teeth sink into her neck. She hoped it would be quick.
But there
were no claws. Surprised, she forced her head around to see what was holding
her. Hands, black hands and no claws, then she saw the face and she screamed.
Her body
became rigid and when at last she could gasp no more air, she coughed in
hacking spasms, her mind and body functions were in turmoil, a part fighting
for air, another stemming from panic, short-circuited every nerve that made her
efforts a useless struggle the Black Man used against her to force her to her
knees and then to mount. Her own spasms added power to his thrusts into her
womanhood.
She could not feel the pain. She
could not feel her body. She only sensed that the blackest monster-cat on earth
was consuming her, that the old stories around the campfire were not lies, not
lies at all.
He freed
her arms, but they moved without will, as though she were attempting to swim on
the sand. He held himself pressed against her body, pulling her closer as his
huge hands pulled at her hips. Her shudders fed his lust which was now
erupting, releasing a million sparks of his fire and causing the back of his
leg muscles to cramp and release, only to cramp again and again in the final
ecstasy of orgasm.
He released
his pressure on her, and her legs, which had been pressed under her, regained
control and stretched behind her. She fell to the ground on her stomach. Her
arms stopped their swimming motion and began to tremble. Her fingers raked the
sand and she felt the sand in her mouth, greeting the pain in her body and grit
in her mouth as indicators that she was still alive. She swallowed a huge
breath of air and screamed again.
He wanted
to see her face and he grasped the long black hair and was forcing her head from
the sand when the spear hit him through the neck
His hand spasmed tight, jerking her
head back, and she knew her neck had been broken. Then she felt a blow on her
side, and another, and felt the sand flaying her skin. As though in a dream,
she watched the Black Man die, his limbs moving like a slain snake, without
volition, without order, and the deepening red stain was changing sparkling
white grains of sand into the color of a deep red sunset. A bubble of blood
burst, and the monster was nearly still.
"Spring!
You're alive!" came her brother’s voice over the thumping vibration of
running feet through the sand. She tore her eyes from the Black Monster and
looked without understanding at her brother.
He saw blood between her legs but no
sign of claws or teeth on her neck or anywhere else. Only a far away look In
her eyes. He turned to the black thing that lay at his feet, muscles still
quivering in it's final acceptance of death. The body's gases were already
changing the sweet scent of salty moist air. Her brother retrieved his spear
and examined the point with extra care. He was happy it had not been damaged on
striking the black thing's neck bone. He congratulated himself for a good
throw. 'I can hit a running deer, why not a thick neck standing still?' he
thought.
Spring, trembling as she stood, and
Big Tusk stared at the ugliness of thick lips turned back exposing yellowing
teeth. The jaguar-man’s wide-open eyes dulling as they watched, flies already
gathering to invade the moist, open crevices of the cadaver.
Big Tusk reached and touched the
thick curly hair and pulled his hand back as though he had touched fire. He
rolled the body over, and it lay face up. Spring saw the last few drops of
sperm still flowing from a half erect penis and she put her hand to her stomach
to quell the spin and nausea that threatened. Big Tusk touched her shoulder,
then clasped her tightly as he felt her shudder.
The caress of his hands calmed her.
And she began groping in the sand for the shells she had so carefully washed
and polished for him. Her fingers darted here and there and she caught breath,
fighting a sob because she could not find all the shells. She pushed the black
body hoping to find them under the beast, but it would not budge. Big Tusk
helped, and she recovered her treasure.
He watched and waited for her to
calm.
'Are you son of Jaguar?' he thought, looking at the dead creature. The downward lips, heavy brow and thick neck. 'A Jaguar has sleek black hair. Yours is curled, like a woman’s fur which protects the sweetness of her entry. Your teeth are yellow and not sharp. But your skin is the color of Jaguar. What are you? And you've mated my sister. Is she to be Jaguar now? Why did you make her