the dream was definitely
strange
– as dreams are wont to be…needless to say, it went something
like this:
“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.
