“this won’t do” the man appeared in the room from nowhere. A mild rain and grey times, as usual in grungy Seattle. He scoped the room and went out into the yard. “we’ll modify and fortify this place later. Right now, we’ve gotta get you hidden.”
In the yard existed an underground bomb-shelter—the house was a toss-back from the 50’s frantic paranoia… we used it as a storage shed. We climbed down; the mustiness kicked hard. He found a can wd-40 and handed it to me. “Before he shows up, spray it around. It’s a cloaking agent for their devices.” I shrugged and asked no questions. This man obviously was an expert. He climbed out of the shelter and closed the latch. I heard him tossing dirt and rocks and debris over the hatch and wander off back to the house. I could see him though. He grabbed the land-line phone and carried it to the porch. They are going to call to make sure you’re home. I will answer as you – they don’t know the sound of your voice. He communicated telepathically. Questions will be answered later. Get the WD ready...
The telephone rang..he waited 2 rings then picked up. “Hello?.....Speaking” He hung up, carried the phone back inside, came out with a small rifle and climbed under the elevated front porch.
A black late-60’s model Buick crawled up and parked in front. A bear of a mulletted man in a green army jacket and loose-fitting cargo-pants ambled up to the porch. He had a pistol in hand and another one hanging loosely from his ass. My protector scoped him from underneath. The to-be-assassin moseyed into my house and rummaged around. Two other men met him – both disheveled and motley. They had entered from the back. The three rummaged through our thrift-store decorated house and got kicks from the two mannequins filled with miscellaneous knick-knacks. They were definitely looking for something particular, besides me. The main mulleted guy – the captain of the team – slung my old pair of ski-boots over his shoulder, and one of his side-kicks had one of the mannequins in tow as they exited my house and they dropped and died before hearing the three rifle shots…
Of course, I can’t forget about skydiving while under the influence of psilocybin mushrooms while skydiving – I saw everything….
Where does the part about the maniacal performance artist who would go on 2 week sleepless amphetamine binges then stage “performances” whereupon anything might happen, always of a frantic, bizarre and stupefying ilk, fit in? Not certain, except the show that I patronized he brandished a large revolver pistol and began firing into the stunned audience, who scattered like hunted deer—and I hit the deck and played dead, until he approached me and threatened to execute me – I realized he had blanks.
The gist of the story: I had become a TPV – telepathic viewer – who had remotely witnessed a very high profile megalomaniacal but beloved tech. pioneer billionaire Gill Bates murder his wife. This occurred while in mid-flight skydiving and peaking on mushrooms. I tacked it up to simply a random bizarre temporary drug-induced psychotic vision, but nay! I had tapped into the invisible CCTV of meta-reality, and actually seen the man inject his wife with a cocktail of secretly developed adjuvents that are non-detectable. So the papers and authorities and the entire Seattle area along with the rest of the western world sent their heartfelt condolences to the poor grieving Mr. Bates when they learned that she had developed a fast-acting and irreparable cancer that overtook and killed her within days. I thought “wow, what a coincidence” when I read about it a week after my skydiving session, and I mentioned my “weird vision” to a group of acquaintances at a bonfire bbq session we attended the following Saturday.
Bates had developed a wide network of surveillance technologies in everything that would record everything and had them installed in light poles, electric boxes, televisions, cd players – he had, after all “donated” all these items to the city and thrift stores and anywhere else that anybody would buy, use, wear, watch, etc. Every piece of audio was digitally recorded and if his name was mentioned in a given piece of audio, that data was flagged and stored into a network database in an underground and super-secret location then analyzed by former intelligence spooks that had found the employ of him far more lucrative than the govt. sector. Mostly they sifted through people praising the man for his wonderful contributions to society and his philanthropy to the needy and downtrodden people, particularly on the African continent. Every now and then, they would parse out some random drunk shit-talker and if he felt like it Mr. Bates would either fuck with him by burning-out his TV during a Seahawks game or would send the man a thousand-dollar check as a random “chance” lottery and token of appreciation to the citizenry of Seattle – pending his mood.
With my “vision” he took a deeper interest: I was “spot on” in what I saw. He knew that I knew and he wanted to know how I knew. After all, I was just a grunged-out low-rent artist that had nothing against the man – I had hitherto expressed indifference to the guy my life…Or was I? His own megalomaniacal paranoia had conjectured that I was a super-deep cover operative – of either a .gov agency or rival company, and was either around to bring his vast empire down or else compromise his position via some form of devious blackmail. Regardless – I had dirt on him and a man of his ego did not like it one bit. Thus via third-party networks he had hired professional investigators to surveil me, and for a month the results were nil: I would paint, go thrift shopping, drink Olympia and smoke grass on weekends with friends, lead a nondescript lifestyle. This frustrated him further, because he was convinced that I had tapped-into some sort of metaphysical reality – one which could be quantified and exploited for commercial use. So via fourth party cut-outs he had hired the three thugs to come and rough me up, knock me out and kidnap me. Had that plan succeeded I would have never seen the light of day again. I would have lived out the rest of my days in a lab, ogled over by mind-prodding mad-scientists attempting to see what the cut of my jib was…
But: he showed up. The mysterious protector.
But: lets cut to the end, shall we? At the end – in a warehouse, Mr. Bates has a syringe that he plans on stuffing into me. His personal south-african cargo-plane pilot shows up. “Oh – it’s you. You’re alive. How about that? I am busy right now, come see me tomorrow and we’ll talk.” The pilot doesn’t budge. “I brought some friends, mate.” From the shadows a group of large and unhappy tribesman step forth. Mr Bates: “Oh?” Pilot: “Yeah – these guys nursed me back to health, no thanks to you. Quite frankly I am shocked they didn’t slit me up into pieces and offer my pieces to their cannibalistic rival tribe… No, boss – they gave me a lesson on your maiming operation – your soft-kill plan that has been exterminating these peoples now –rewiring and tearing apart DNA, etc…. Naw, Boss – I had to re-examine my value system”. Bates: “Oh. Well – I can pay you way more. How about your own island?” Pilot: “Mr. Bates, that sounds marvelous. How about we discuss it after your trial.” Bates: “Huh?” Pilot: “Yeah – we’re taking you back to the Savannah—these fellas here, along with their contemporaries – are gonna give you a fair and speedy trial.” Bates is silent. He gives a weird and awkward laugh, and makes a dash for it. The pilot expertly shoots a tranquilizer dart and hits his former boss in the neck. He hits the deck. The tribesmen take their time carrying his pathetic body to the cargo plane. In a half daze, Mr. Bates mutters something incoherently about Icarus, misunderstandings, and that he didn’t mean to wet himself mommy.