Eric C. Larsen

THE MAN FROM ID

So it happens on this day of thin sunlight as I sit here by the window, air heavy with atom bombs and yellow like faded photographs, looking down on the street below. Tickertape falls past my view like late snow to land upon the passing motorcade. A victory parade for some war just won; here I sit among my functions and empty bottles, thinking of absolutely nothing at all.

Countless wars like the counting of funerals; I pour myself another drink. Flush the dust from my nostrils with a sneeze; like the waitress I tip her tight-lipped swagger with a handful of change (you could melt her body down to make bullets). I cross the room to answer a knocking at the door, the neighbor kid wants to borrow a pair of scissors. Giving it to him I close the door and return to my chair, finishing the amber liquid. Pour another; gaze onto the street below. A piece of tickertape glides in, settling on the windowsill, quite still. Laying there, we stare at each other. I decide today would be a good day to clean my unused .45 revolver (which I often do on days like this), for which I keep a single bullet. A change in air pressure; the piece of tickertape slips from the windowsill and continues on down. The phone rings, but I do not answer because I prefer not to taint it with the manacles of opposite tongues. A leaf from a wilting hanging plant fell to the carpet in a series of motions, like jars of sex lined up on a shelf. A puff of dandelion risen to the air; the tap dance of machine guns through the jungle acting their solitary opera:

A bewildering foliage of Intents, flying high above on corseted wingspan, swift and clean like a dart through its bull’s-eye—"Another drink please." The face said it all, no need for auditory communication; the face about to be cut by broken glass, the face of clenched fists—thoughts keep returning to the Projectionist who is outside of our grasp—we shall now begin our journey across space and time—feigned attempts at dissolving our tongue into binary code, fed onto tape reels and poured over by spectacled eyes, spattered with mathematical formulas; reinventing ourselves—the newspaper story about the man who broke into the dairy just to sabotage the milking machines—the next scene was a murdered clerk in an adult shop—Fluoridated water; "I’m ready for my check now, please."—[faint static approaching]—the clustered crackling of her eyes next to the sea anemones as we passed through the aquarium—a whipping scene as a worker was tied to a post by both his wrists and ankles. Or were we in the cavern that night?—it fades to Forgotten because someone has since torn down all the posters advertising the spelunking tours—"Thank you. Keep the change."—the door rang with its bells as we clanked out—"Taxi!"—remembering the monolithic structures which plagued our childhood deliriums—the grass had become quite soggy now, but the rain had stopped—"Where to?"—"Down to the pier."—old Rory’s Tavern merged into the distance behind us, that palace of debts unpaid, where men forget their wives, eyes glued to the singer of the night—the clearing calm of the reflective period has set in—"Okay, here we are."—I asked the cabby how much —"Seven-fifty."—I gave him a ten, "Thanks."—sometimes it all appears so clear, when you can lay back and feel the earth’s rotation—If I had remained out on that rock, the tide would have surely covered me—I was once shown some faded manuscript, but it was difficult to make out in the half-light of the evening—it takes hold of you like that, sets in like a cold shiver, wrapping around you like a tomb—sometimes, the wind is all there is to remind you that your body is really standing there somewhere below you—after that, the incessant light bulb drives your fist into it, and when you wipe away the blood, the room in its darkness remains unchanged.

A vascular Hostage Festival; what’s that crouched near the radiator? Smash, Smash, Smash! Zero hour fading fast. Trystera Deferens had assumed her position near the Ouija board which had been placed on her shrink’s chess table. He sat across from her in a wheelchair, armed with the Clipboard. They were in his office housed by what used to be a prison. He was documenting the effects of some visual concoction he had placed her under.

"They call me the Commissioner." a suspecting glance, "Did they tell you? What they call me?" An eyesight as if following along a string of pearls chanced to alight upon her shoulder.

"The Commissioner of what?" she asked.

"Of Spleens! Spleens, of course!" a triumphant pride broke loose from his wheelchair and he swung around to face her directly. "Come! Come by my side and I will show you." drawing her close. With a wave of his hand the drapes were pulled away from the windows and fluorescent light poured in. With a tiny pushbutton remote control he almost came off as an usher in a movie theater who had been promoted to projectionist.

"Quickly now, this is where they bring in the pigs!" he shrieked in pinkish anticipation.

Through the window she could see countless rows upon rows of beds sprawled about like pieces in some board game. With a mechanical clank the lights went out and came on half as bright as previously. Impostering inmates in some internment camp, a steady stream of people mingled into the room to take their positions at each bed. The sound of rocks breaking in the courtyard overpowered even the scent of the room, the vibrations whipping the nostrils.

"Undress! Quickly now before it is too late!" The Commissioner hailed over a speaker system. To her, "We have been able to lower costs significantly by abandoning the frivolous use of anesthetic. No need to have luxury backing up our pipes!"

Horrified, "Of course not."

With hysterical arm motions he flew to the stereo and soon had it erupting with grinding circus music of organs and laughter. "Doctors, make haste!" and the door was opened to dozens of personnel with eyes glued to the glass window panes like children in a candy store. Their sight achieved a physical aspect across the room as one could run his fingers along its grooved path to stop directly at the eyeball.

"Begin!" and a mighty uproar screamed as they jolted into mad dancing fits, crying out in pleasure for the want of the Commissioner’s combination to the Drug Safe.

"Give it to us, free us!" and with atom eyes he held the scrap of torn fabric above their heads like the teasing of dogs, and even though he was sitting in a wheelchair, regardless of their frantic leaping and groveling, no one was to reach a thread of its glowing fabric (which upon further examination was found to be human skin) upon which in faint italics were a series of numbers (which any Holocaust survivor would readily identify, which they could forget only via furnaces or death, forever to wander the ash laden soil), and there he sat, a bearded motif among the poplars, dripping from the tooth.

"People! Gather round my radio, hear Its Story!" and they did. He switched on the smaller radio on his desk and a monotonous drone was reading from some transcript of a story, in almost perfect beat to the circus music. "The rising sun appeared on the straight rails of the railroad tracks, the wind followed their path to the flat distance. The birds dove like jets amidst a rising crescendo of rattlesnakes; one could see for miles nothing but brush and distant orchards. Next to the rails the gravel shifted under the weight of a body. The base commander never woke up that morning, his head spread about the twisted wreckage of his body, a rail through the precise spot where his neck had once been. The surrounding weeds had a strange, almost natural, red tint to them. It was night when the train hit him, the riders never feeling a thing except an almost rhapsodic thud in the blackness of 3:00am. Fifty feet away was an old army jeep, keys in the ignition; on the hood rested a collection of medals and a identification tag. His photo didn’t reveal anything but the stark contrast between his face and the blue background. He had left the base hastily, ‘I have to breath, breath…it’s all clouds and desert.’ He laughed out of beady pigeon eyes clutching the steering wheel, ‘They’ll never stop me now!’ Some Indian children found his body later in the day and the incident was reported to the authorities. ‘Question them!’ cried his incomprehensibly incongruous face as he was wheeled away to be disposed of."

The Commissioner slid from the wheelchair to the floor in aggravated simplicity and laid flat in a flurried wreckage of syllables in tune to the music still playing in the background. The next minute he was on his feet waving a scoped rifle he had retrieved from a file cabinet clear across the room. "I only use my legs when absolutely necessary." And firing shots into the glass window it shattered, revealing nothing but an empty storage room which used to house the electric chair in the prison the building complex had once been.

At the sound of the rifle blast we must all awake, NOW, Trystera.

"Quite fine." In fact, it seemed to have a life of its own separate from her control. It twisted about in the air in front of her like strands of seaweed, entangled in the meandering currents. She wanted so badly to pull it towards her, wrapping it around her body like a scarf…

Take a short rest, I will return shortly.

The Ouija board had replied, Yes, and he left the room.

Trystera found herself seated at the head of a long table in a bare, windowless room. She was alone, wondering how she arrived here in the first place, being that it had no points of entry visible to the eye. Maybe it is the room which is trapped inside me, she thought. After looking around, she noticed there was an inch or two of seawater covering the floor, and the ceiling swarmed in color like cell mitosis combined with a painter of nudes. Maybe I got in here by osmosis.

Appearing from an orb of light which flashed in a corner, the shrink appeared like a messiah and Trystera laid out full length on the table. "Trystera, Trystera…do you realize that your name is a word? A creation of language? Let me tell you something I’ve learned."

Her nostrils were filled with the smell of soldering and circuit boards, disconnecting her from her body.

"Language is foreign to both mind and body. Foreign to thought. Even thought itself has become rooted in words; what if there were no language? What would thought be then? No words to bring about images, or vice versa? Unobstructed and finally a part of nature, or barbarism? Would thought have a higher resolution, then, placing us in a position to truly interact with nature, becoming a part of it? Maybe it is language which makes thought incomplete so we end up destroying the world and ourselves by simply not being a part of it. By having to base our thoughts on the word-image link, aware of this or not, are we not horribly limiting ourselves from the range of infinite possibilities nature presents us with? With all this, then, I will tell you what cattle we may have become. A language could be devised by some group of individuals (probably has happened to some degree already) which would place them in a state of omnipotence over us because our actions and reactions would behave within the framework of their language system. They could calculate all possibilities by using the number of words in the language, and we would never step outside their matrix." he paused as he had to stoop down to retrieve one of his eyes which had fallen to the watery floor. It floated; or was it suspended by vision itself? "You see, Trystera, I don’t believe we would even operate in a reality in which objects existed, because everything would be as one since we would meld with the universe, unable to make distinctions or separations by using our precious Words. You dig what I’m sayin’? Different Things are different Things, People and Places and Occurrences are all different Things like Kennedy, the Moon, and War, but why can’t there just be a single, all-encompassing Thing in itself, alone?" he placed his eye back into its socket.

I could kill you right now, Trystera; all I have to do is press hard enough. Or, I could save you, allowing your life an additional day. It all comes down to the swaying of my whims, Trystera. Do you love your mind? Or shall I split it into a thousand? Maybe you could choose your fate, but I can change you if I feel the need. I can make you memories or I can wipe you clean. Love me, Trystera, or perish by me.

"Yes." she murmured sitting upright in her chair, eyes still vacant, the secretary knocking on the office door. "You have a telephone call, Dr. Sardonikis."

"Oh, I’ll be there in a minute." and she left closing the door. "Trystera, will you wake up now?" he shook her shoulder and snapped his fingers.

She woke up with a jerk, like the person who dreamed they were falling. "Where am I?" she asked with dazed vision.

"In my office, Trystera." he said, standing up. "I have to go take a telephone call. Be back in a minute." He walked to his secretary’s desk and picked up the phone, leaving the door ajar behind him. Trystera could barely make out a few sparse words. "Hello?…Oh, what is wrong?…Tiggy is?…will be home…" He said goodbye and hung up the phone. A pause, a faint contemplative worry, like a man trying to determine the odds and whether he should bet one way or the next. He came in with haste.

"I’m terribly sorry, Trystera, but that was my wife, Robyn, and she says my dog, Tiglath-pileser, has become quite sick and I must go home and tend to him. I hope you’ll forgive me if I appear to be rushing out on you, but if I don’t comfort him he shall grow quite sad." He fumbled around his desk collecting a few things such as car keys and his wallet. He was about to leave, but doubled back as if remembering something important.

"I have a bottle of medication I’d like you to take." He removed a bottle of pills from his desk drawer. "Here. Take one a day for two weeks, then schedule an appointment with my secretary to have a follow up visit." She took the bottle and read the label. LSD-25 was all that it said.

"Alright. Thanks." she said to his back as he hurried out the door. She lingered a while to examine some of the things in his office. He had many pieces of driftwood in all varieties of shapes, but the most striking thing which caught her eyes was a painting hanging on the far wall. She rose and walked up to it for further examination. On a brass nameplate was stenciled the words, "A Quest, by Trefalger Lumpen". The style was reminiscent of Salvador Dali and was a garden scene centered around a pond and a solitary apple tree. Intermingled among what looked like lilacs were index fingers rising from the ground, pointing upwards. There must have been around twenty or so, and seemed incredibly lifelike. If the painting were held upside down, it would almost give the impression that the fingers were liquified and dripping into the sky. After a short while the secretary came in.

"Is everything okay, Mrs. Deferens?"

"Oh." she turned with a start. "Yes, everythings fine. I’m supposed to schedule an appointment for two weeks from today." She walked to the chair and got her sweater.

"I see you were admiring Dr. Sardonikis’s painting."

"Yes, it’s quite a piece of work."

With a faint smile, "It is his favorite. I can schedule your appointment at my desk."

Trystera followed her out putting her sweater on.

"Is Wednesday at 3:00pm okay?"

"Yes, that should be fine." taking the appointment reminder card. "Thank you."

"Have a nice evening."

"You too. Goodbye." She walked outside into the gathering evening, the painting still fresh on her mind. She had told her husband, Vastalgo, to pick her up after her appointment, but didn’t see any trace of his car. Well, he must have forgotten, she thought. A bus stop was visible in the near distance, so she began to walk towards it. The sidewalk was old and uneven as she passed shoppers and pot smoking teenagers wielding their joints. Sidestepping a parking meter she happened to look up and see taped to a vast store window a poster advertising a meeting of some local painters, gardeners, and anarchists. In large white letters on a red background was the printing, "Artists or Madmen? Third annual picnic of The Associates to combat the Puppeteers." Obviously an anti-government group. A single thinking twitch of her lip, could be interesting. She read and found the date, which she transferred from memory to the back of a matchbook. I wonder if they’ll be serving molotov cocktails. Smiling, she continued on, past old Rory’s Tavern where a bar fight was commencing, on through a string of shoppers with their bags emerging from an escalator, to the bus stop. In five minutes her bus came and she boarded with her fair, saying hello to Vernon Minotaur the driver, and was on her way through the labyrinth.

The city, heaving and pulling its ox cart, laden with gold teeth, making its way to the Federal Building, past the leprous walled skyline of bastard architecture and scorched breath, deserted streets and the endless intersections of green eyes, drunken memories of boats and docks; fleeing their wake, watching through stolen eyes, its silent embers rain down like cold, terrible sunbeams, lining up to buy from the CIA man, slicing through the night and Jupiter fogbanks, foghorns mourn the passing, shattered cribs lay strewn across the tide, all you see is dripping past slowly—wish we were birds, free to fly above the world—then it becomes quite clear, the path of sunlight unlocks the valley, slices cut from an infinite stream of moments, the fog rolls in like waves of adrenaline; switchblades gathering and glistening in the moonlight, dark corners with their vomit and death—perchanced to come upon a soldier lying there on the operating table; how simple it would be to slit his throat—on all sides the skyscrapers descend like missiles from a clear sky, how quickly your hand moves to grasp the revolver, the night dissolves on crystalline tongues—Gather For A Beautiful War Amongst Friends—the terror of a voice’s pale gallop behind you, napalm sunsets rise from neon hysteria—He followed me home, mother…can I keep him?—the city’s groan flicks its tongue tip apply voltage power-on click-whirr wheel motion park benches snap into place armed guards of the post office drag them through alleys find them crushed near trash cans in their sober heaps, a sniper’s bullet can come at any time—"You see, we don’t need subliminal messages as a top priority anymore now that we have the global infiltration of McDonald’s…just add some ‘preservatives’ and you’ll have the masses on a leash. You can read it in my report. The Evil Men who propitiate ‘ethical’ conduct, we shall enslave their digestive tracts!"—turn the corner, assembly line architecture—"…they poured across the border."—"We’ll give them politics and government to play with…occupy them while we operate."—the CHHSHHH of hydraulics and the bus was motionless at the curb.

Twisted about harmonica chords the light from street lamps dripped down upon the passing cars— where junkies stood with sullen heads there were erected tall buildings, a hotel, an apartment complex—swirled high above in shiny alabaster a physicist had rented a room, his wife with eyes like celestial sequins—he was describing to a colleague how he had attempted to prove the existence of God using an ordinary slide rule, "But then I realized it was too complicated to be described in ordinary terms. Besides, mathematics ain’t everything."—"Back in the service the base commander used to arrive drunken, his face plastered with the expression of Hitler in a bordello. They asked me why I kept to myself."

Trystera left the bus and walked the three blocks to her house. The lights were on with Mr. Deferens’ car parked in the driveway. She fished her keys from her purse and entered the house to find a strange heaviness to the air, inexplicably granulated. "Vastalgo? You forgot to pick me up." she called up the stairs where she thought he might be working in his study. No answer. Turning to look in the kitchen she saw a closed briefcase, his glasses on the table, and a sink full of dishwater. That’s odd. A note magneted to their refrigerator, "Dear Trystera. I will no longer be a slave to my bodily functions. I’ve accepted what I must do, and you’ll find my body in the garage. I will hope to be sanitary about it, so as not to cause you distress. Your Loving Husband, Vastalgo Deferens." Oh no, he didn’t actually go through with it… Running to the garage she saw their son, Hubertus, playing under the apple tree. Opening the door, she saw a shotgun, one spent shell, and what one would be hesitant to call the head of a body sprawled out in crushed paper form, an extravagant Rorschach test. Their recent arguments and infidelities had spared her sorrow, but the sheer awfulness of the thing had caused her knees to buckle.

"Hubertus, Hubertus…come hither!" she vocalized in novocaine policeman drawl.

Running upon the opened door, "What is it, mother?" Then he saw the blasphemy of a faceless head; a monstrosity, bits of brain and skull blown about by shotgun pellets. He broke loose a bone locking, inwards sound of fright and dread, stunned.

Spoken in a quasi-serious tone (Hub ought to have been desensitized by now from television), "Remember what you see here today, Hubby. The memory is all we can take with us. Now go to your room and mourn your father’s fate."

A facial flash of horror which copulated Confused Grief, his vision was cupped in both palms and he slunk defeated to his room. Gathering up the weaponry, she returned to the house to get the cleaning equipment. Garbage sacks, towels, soap and water from the sink…yes, it would be simple. No one need know his fate quite yet. Not until I consult my psychologist about the matter. Yes, he will know what to do. She carried everything to the garage, his body is too large to fit in these sacks. Halve him? No…Looking left she saw her great grandfather’s trunk he brought over from the Old World. Yes, that would do quite nicely. Putting on gardener’s gloves she managed to get Mr. Deferens into the trunk, closing it with a thud, that should do for now. She mopped up the pools of blood with towels, finishing the floor off with the soap and water. Having disposed of the cherry towels, she discovered the trip back to the house to be more difficult, being afflicted with legs that became disconnected from the rest of her nervous system. Why? Let me be, you bastard limbs…Finding her grip in the shifting and swirling sand ground was beyond all possibility at this point, with each step she was twisted around ninety degrees. What in the hell…I need my pills, my pills…that must be the problem…She managed to sink down on all fours and crawl her way the twenty or so feet to the door. With a turn of the doorknob she was inside. There, I’m saved. Running to where she set down her purse she found the bottle of LSD-25 pills, This is a severe situation…two shouldn’t hurt. With that she got a glass of water and swallowed them.

Deciding to look through Vastalgo’s briefcase to see what she could find, Trystera broke open the lock using a letter opener. A wild slap of Vastalgo’s hand had haphazardly misconstrued any meaning the order of the countless papers inside had. She picked up the top one and saw it was a memo from Vas to some associate. "TO: Jackerd Dupre, RE: South American Incursion, As requested, a file has been made of our most recent efforts to innoculate the said jungle villages. Encountering fierce bodily resistance by the men of the villages our teams resorted to the UFO abduction scheme, making the said subjects fully incapacitated by causing them to believe they were in some extraterrestrial’s ship. We then granted permission for the neglect of discretion to fulfill many new opportunities for study of our drug’s effects. Updates should come across the wire shortly. Warmest Regards, Vastalgo Deferens, Octal Team." After a dazed silence resulting directly from the fact that Trystera thought her husband had been a banker all these years, she collapsed to the chair. What were the meanings of the words she had just read?

She grabbed the next paper, "TO: Delpert Amoeba, RE: Preservative Update, Per your requests a study has been conducted to show correlations between Ingredient 37 of the Preservative List embedded in ground beef products and brain pattern conformity yielding a significant increase in susceptibility to satellite Communications. We have received confirmation that major fast food restaurants have indeed taken in the Product, and results will follow shortly. Please acknowledge completion of Phase II. Vastalgo Deferens."

A hysterical flipping through the papers, innumerable RE:’s, "Fluoridation Council.", "Cola Memorandum.", "Pesticides.", "Televised Virus Patterns.", "Auditory Host Interaction.", "Audio-Visual Tape Playback In Crowded Areas.", the list went on and on. Eyes bulging and pulse pulsing, Trystera suddenly was struck by a pang of claustrophobia and limped outside. Bloody Hell! Why did she deserve this fearsome knowledge? Sitting cross-legged in the grass, hand to forehead, saliva nightmare, yet considerable time had past and she felt incredibly calm, the Drug was taking Its effect.

Seeing through narcotic eyes she went to the house and called up the stairs, "Hubby, mommy’s going out for a while. Be good and stay inside."

A distant stair top voice crushed by its shivering vocal cords, the words unmistakably jumbled making no sense whatsoever. Hmm, well, he’ll be fine.

She took her purse and was out the door, I wonder what is happening at Rory’s tonight…as good a place as any…she doubled back to get the keys to Vastalgo’s car off the counter and was driving down brilliant sky tunnels curving through her vision to mingle with blood vessels, energy flowing from her hands out her feet into the incomprehensibly physical gas pedal…how odd…the feeling of magnets on her limbs and kaleidoscope eyes made driving quite an experience, yet terrifying to the numerous pedestrians almost crushed under her wheels. Below, below…skins and colors shedding their light, Turns Green GO policeman Upon His Horse no mail today—next intersection, red light eyeing the hood of the car, how simply amazing, she could see that the telephone lines were no different than her blood vessels, rich danishes imported from Fallopia; because the light decided green, let us drive on, turn the corner. She found herself parking the car outside old Rory’s Tavern, now you stay there, giggling to the car.

She came upon the entrance, through she peered like some seismic experiment; the spickets and spouts of ales and brew, slice lines and scaffolding where skin was forgotten or refound. Air pressure equalized—she slipped in past perverse and groping doorframe; barstools occupied by their patrolmen, hand to glass to lips, back again, slow digestion forgets moonlit epicenter, careening highway. Heads turn, she mounts her stool. Pure intensified love pouring through her out the limbs, blood vessels coated in sugar; "Beer." Came slow the arm wrought a fixture of bottle and cap, Band Playing On. Moistened lips deemed movable slid tongue among staggering octave of syllables, here eyesight cloaked in mute epigram—she came in the night leaving a drop—the forming of incoming collective conversation, a stiff sentence is now sonar echo. An unrelation forming unrelation from sentinels.

The tall-faced man of nostril and teeth, "You see, my wife cheated me, She did; threw her poppy body into his face she did. I could kill her or him or leave, but regardless, half my personage will be thieved." His professor spectacles readjusted on his boozing nose. "Oh, tasseled distaste, causing me distress. Onwards, Babylon!"

Stiff barking of the Industrial Man rattling off patented consciousness altering devices, "Multiple Afferent Sensory Stimulation Device,

Apparatus for Inducing Frequency Reduction

in Brain Wave, NON-INVASIVE METHOD AND APPARATUS FOR

MODULATING BRAIN SIGNALS THROUGH AN EXTERNAL

MAGNETIC OR ELECTRIC FIELD TO REDUCE PAIN, Device for the Induction of Specific Brain

Wave Patterns, Method and Apparatus for Monitoring and

Counteracting Excess Brain Electrical Energy

to Prevent Epileptic Seizures and the Like, Method and Apparatus for Inducing Sleep by Applying Electrical Pulses to Plural

Portions of the Head, APPARATUS for Controlled Inhibition of the

Central Nervous System in Man or Animal." cough, hand blood flows through its vessels. "You see, you can thwart your psychoanalyst from the comfort of your own home."

Stale codeine, here floats the tones and notes, Trystera’s hands of outward palms sewing a menagerie of Musical Instruments. The third bottle flowed through its sieve. Rising, women’s sign on door, handle twist, closing behind her. Into a cubicle a shaft to the sea; her deed done. Face hatched into the mirror; here drunken stupor of Leper Man coughs, slits the currents. Palace artery sink drain the towels reign dry. Back to her stool, the television is casting the news.

"The Air Force Thursday dropped plans to court-martial its first woman bomber pilot on adultery and other charges but said she must leave the service with less than the honorable discharge she sought…Delpert's testimony supported a defense theory that the real bomber had not been identified and that the unidentified leg found could very well belong to that person. Delpert said experience of conducting autopsies on bomb victims in Northern Ireland taught him that people usually come forward to identify bombing victims. ‘When nobody misses them, it usually validates the suggestion that the deceased is involved in the bombing,’ Delpert said…Older heart attack patients are more likely to have bypass surgery or angioplasty in the U.S. compared with anywhere else in the world, but a surprising new study suggests that those procedures are not increasing life span.

"And now a word from the Pentagon. A leading intelligence official has been misplaced with numerous classified documents, his name being withheld for security reasons. A patrol has been dispatched to the alleged home of his current residence, and as events progress we will broadcast updates as they become available."

Slapping fingertips of coins on the counter she rushed out in a flood of unfocusing glances. Enter car, start car, drive…windmill action of black helicopters swoop and land and breath out their dark suits and sunglassed eyes on her front lawn. Begin Invasion:

They will learn his brain, cornered Hubertus shirted and sharp; deserted lost hand motions swatted singularly. Pierce his nasal passageways, there’s where the thermometer goes…forget them all, jungle beasts of discretion applied, spurting from the gut like some butchered worm creature; now comes the moment of penetration as the probes round the eyes, the device of Sex-Kill, to strangulate fire hoses as arsonists do their deed…Lathered glands spill effects upon sky-strewn cement, leather straps buckle their pale cargo down, black helicopters rise with silent electronic motion. Forget the windows, now is where they put down the viceregal Sunglasses. Here comes the hand from pocket thrust under shirt, behind him cinema explosions throw their stuntmen; Its in the bathroom, seal it off…Never before seen quick motion of leg to ground; the vertical beast crouches, clutching its knees. The frequent hand signals sputtered and fumed, The House Was Taken And Hubertus Dead. The helicopters flew off into the sunset carrying by a cable the chest containing Vastalgo’s body.

Technological dependency the desert currents DEAD. Phosphorous density and the magma crawls. In the back door; jamming all transmissions. Floating on its skeleton, tidepool rocks exit stage left, Knock At Front Door.

Why’s of why did Hubertus have to perish strung themselves among Trystera’s skull. He was not in the way. She went to the bathroom thinking Hubby was hiding and she saw the slit throat. An empty briefcase, too. That’s why, he was looking at the papers…An answer to mind. A phone, that was the ringing. "Hello?"

"Ahh, good evening Madame Deferens."

"Who is this?" questioning the Strangelovian voice.

"But who you are is much more interesting. Let’s have a look inside that skull of yours and see what we can find." almost from inside her head instead of the telephone, you can know me as the Man from Id. "Yes, we have complete control of your neurons; and synapses, these which we switch at will. All exits blocked."

Teeth grinding between her ears and a dead battery caused the smoke alarm to chirp.

"Well, Trystera? Maybe you should dispose of young Hubertus…We know you killed your husband." ah ah heh groans hmpf the receiver crackled.

A switch thrown remotely, all control forfeited, "Yes I killed the bastard and enjoyed it, too."

"Very good, you are progressing well. Tell me, what do you think of Weimaraners? Or electric fencing? Eh, fraulein?"

White eyes, Increasing Trance State. Yes, you will serve our purposes quite nicely, Trystera. With that she carried Hubertus to the compost pile and with a dosage of gasoline he was ablaze. Good, Trystera, very good. Maybe we should have let you take care of Vastalgo, too. Ah ah hmm? The only problem I can see is that the human body is very reluctant to burn. When the flames die out, place him in the bathtub and pour the acid we left behind the toilet over him. "Yes."

The air swarmed and Trystera looked into a mirror to see her face melt and run off her head. A blink; the floor breathed and the wall breathed and the ceiling retreated to forty stories high. A drifting snap-in-place vision caught objects and color blur. Motion blur from head-neck motion, here comes the signals and eyelid KODACHROME. Swing left of wrist lower arm followed not attached to mental process; spurting from fingertips into the air like a plumes of octopus ink the love flowed to surround her in pulsing rushing waves throughout her body. Strange music from cerebrum harps and rhythm drive forth the scents dragging her forward, she could see her blood vessels on the outside of her skin, how’d they get there? Turns to foot, hands normal, but she could see her aura. Scaffolded and multi-layered the ditch in the hallway pierced the bedroom, dragging with the air a penalty of vernaculars. More television news was piped into her head from some unknown origin. A medical examiner testified Thursday that the left leg from a bombing victim had never been identified, possibly opening the way for the defense to claim the bomber may have died in the hands of reactionary forces, which give them an overwhelming advantage in direct combat. These heavy weapons five percent of the big gas planets in our system, and many established bodies orbiting nearby stars, with conditions not hostile to life. This advantage, which did not exist before heavy weapons, must now be taken increasing Organic the You the forced reactionary planes, time not eat left is heavy must which stage, charge seem claim to of less reported in of in blocks the by exhilarating not alone was, can the woman called her former boyfriend on March 13, a month after the alleged incident involving Albert, and threatened to kill the ex-boyfriend. She May Now Live In The Dream World. Not yet, thrust awake; her stomach digests still.

Drunken high lisp of tooth and tongue, Jump Inside; with eyes rainbowed and glassy she could follow the path of her esophagus as it traversed Tissues. Outside her head the house was filled with Air. Trystera applied a firm grip to the counter top and sent a flurry of motion to her legs, crossing the room. To the kitchen where baskets await with their Fruits—applying her hand motion’s grip to a pear she brought it out of slumber sent frolicking down her throat. A scene of flashbulbs engulfed her appetite sent whirling through oceans of time. But, alas, a single minute had passed and an hours worth of sunlight had passed through her fluids and membranes. Outside the window a large Pancreas began its forward creep across the unmowed lawn, sky beaming searchlight floods. To the door, why should it counter-act the closed door? Yet, a crash of hinges and deadbolt; sawdust-filled monster of paper-mache, a stiff-legged typist was copying down Its Sounds in a mighty transcript of bodily fluid comfort. Listen! It comes, you can hear the sandpaper trail of aluminum can hostages. An army of long-haired soldiers come pouring through with their tape recorders, some recording, some playing back; vocalized drone of looping playback twisted ear sanctity.

Glug, Glub, TsssTT TT the Pancreas continued Its Course through the doorframe past spectators Gathered. Here Trystera cried aloud, "Forgive me, drown not my Glands!" and furious slashing of the air with bladed Knife. Closer now, Watch Those Feet; What? It has stopped. A whisper-quiet; a greasy frying pan had found its Way onto the stove’s hotplate, SSSTTSSTS of a cooking omelette. But wait! There is no time for breakfast, It Isn’t Even Morning! The Pancreas continues to eye the sink now emptied. In! Into the Sink! Now, Trystera! And she reluctantly slipped foot chest high other foot a leap and was crouched in the tiny basin. The Pancreas was strangely covered with glowing sea anemones, groping along the tissue surface, fornicating among the watchful eyesight of the typist. Down the drain! Hurry, NOW! And Trystera noticed the sink was now as big as a dozen bodies laid side by side; the drain accessible because of the increased size. Feet first, sitting on the side, she descended into the dark depths. The walls of the pipes were spotless, no residue to be found here! What’s that? A light further down. Continuing her way she stepped out of the pipes and was able to stand in some strange chamber. What looked like an office door was in front of her, a sign said, Enter. She did, and saw a military man shuffling some papers.

"Ahh, you must be Trystera." he slipped words out his ventriloquist mouth like an exchange in a drug deal.

"Yes, and who might you be?"

(Fingers to mouth in Cuban Cigar Fashion) "We’ve met before," the familiar Strangelovian voice. Geez, his lips did not move a single bit. Again, strangely, the words from his mouth seemed to form like silhouettes inside her head, not hitting her ears. "I’ve been looking through these documents we found your son playing with. You see, that is a big No No in our book of Regulations. What if the general public received knowledge of these? What would happen? I’d be out of a job."

"What do you want with me?"

"A delivery. You will take a trip to our Psychological Warfare department and give this box to a Dr. Feral." and he pulled a brick-sized package from his desk and handed it to her.

"And if I don’t?" Trystera asked.

A silent chuckle and glinting eyes, "heh eh…Oh, but you will. Hnngn heh heh." And with that she was drawn back like an awoken gaze and the door closed in front of her. She looked at the package and a slip of paper was tacked to it with the title, "Where has Trystera Gone? (Your Instructions.)"

Inching her way backwards through the pipe, she caught her reflection in a spot of shiny metal; a caterpillar mincing along a razor, Your Sand Castles Shall Succumb To Sift And Tide. Poked her head through the drain, lifted herself through. She found herself standing with everything the normal size. Perplexed, she saw the Pancreas was gone and the door in perfect condition. Yet, she still had the package in her hands, and she read the instructions while she sat down to eat the mysterious omelette which had cooked itself.

"Oh, Luck Induced Trystera! Thou Hath the Divine Pleasure of Receiving this Memo, Oh Grateful Day! You, Yes YOU Shall Travel to the Far Reaches of the Nearest Television Station and Meet with the Station Manager, Vaxon Feral! Do Not Be Deceived, for He Is the Holiest Priest of Our Psychological Warfare Department, Hallelujah! Praise the Mighty Frequencies and Images! The Address Is 49 Telegraph Road. Do Not Hesitate, for Chance Is on Your Side! [-end of transmission-]"

Trystera’s LSD voyage was peaking right about now (so this is how the CIA trains its agents), as she kept trying to avoid the gaze of the omelette as she severed its tentacles and swallowed them whole. Eat Me! Eat Me! And the napkin was whispering obscenities into her ear; pushed it away. Psychic Spoon-Benders could not replicate the twisting dance her spoon was doing at this moment, almost leaping from the table in a hyper gyration. Moaning withdrawal of the windows into their hibernating Shells, Don’t Let The Air Escape! I must dispose of these instructions before the governor gets his hands on them. With that she fished out a matchbook from her purse across the room, saw the date for the "Artists or Madmen?" annual picnic and erased it, writing 49 Telegraph Rd., Vaxon Feral in its place. She took a match from the book and lit the instructions aflame, throwing the burning paper into the sink to dissolve into ash.

A look at the wall clock; it was 10:30 pm and Trystera wanted toast. Hushed vision, a silent swagger; she acquired for herself two slices of Bread from the Cupboard. Approach the toaster, yes it’s plugged in, you’ve got to sneak up on it. A slice of bread in each hand, they were deposited into the potential Slots. A hand to the lever, Push It Down Without Disturbing The Breathing. Yes, round and round the second-hand goes through its Walk, and the toast is toasted. Pop upwards of mechanical spring-like motion, Lo and Behold, into the air the slices flew! How’d that happen? In the air, floating like the high-speed photography of a rifle bullet; the two slices intersected each other’s path, twisting and turning over in the air on a wide arc across the kitchen. A shock to Trystera, but she would of course have to go after them before they touched ground. Running, and the leap of a high-jump; hand outstretched, yes, her trajectory followed closely behind that of the Toast. A knock at the door caught her in mid-air, but no! She must stop the toast from hitting the ground! Through the kitchen Air she gained on the toast, closer now; her body outstretched in superman stance. She was now within inches of touching the warm surface, unburnt because it was a very high quality toaster. Three inches…Two…One…She grabbed one! On to the next, it was already on its downward fall. Flipping through the air like a volleyball she barely missed the open cupboard door and a split moment later she had the second slice. Amazingly, like a cat, she returned to the ground landing on her feet.

Still ignoring the rapid knocking at the door, the toast must be buttered before it cools or else the butter will not melt. A hand wielding dull Knife she strode to the refrigerator and plunged the Knife into the stick of creamy-hard butter. Not too thick now, or it will not spread. Bringing the buttered Knife across the surface of the Toast she went slow so that it melted as it spread. Yes, one piece Finalized. Repeat action for second, damn that infernal knocking at the door. Who could be calling on Trystera at this hour? It will have to wait, I must eat my toast. And with that she sat down at the table and devoured the slices with spattered glee.

After a final wipe of napkin to mouth, she went to answer the knocking at the door. A glance through the drapes, no one to be seen. She unlocked the door and stepped outside. The yard was absolutely vacant, Damn me…Hubertus! Yes, she had forgotten to dispose of the body; the flames were out by now with his skin thoroughly charred. Putting on a "Kiss the Cook" apron and some old gloves she got the body to take it upstairs to the bathroom. She laid him in the bathtub and found an old gasoline can labeled "ACID" from behind the toilet where she was told. Uncapping it, she could detect no noticeable odor, but when she poured it over the body it bubbled and fizzed and ran down the drain. There was just enough acid to completely dissolve Hubby, and she turned the shower on to rinse away the excess residue. Turned off the bathroom light, went back downstairs.

Milky static; a loose stable flung with horses. The dawn appeared beyond the weathervane, a rattle of sparrow beaks and the dilation of pupils. The breath of voices make their entrance upon the veranda and notebooks find their places on the table. Whiteness of the structures like a palace of chilled bone and milk as chairs lock into their places; the black-suited officials surrounded the table and coffee was begun. A fingertip glides flicking the paperclip from a stack of papers, arcing the table to land on the marble ground.

"What do you have for us today, Mr. Hegel?" asked a spectacled slow voice from the elder region at the end of the table.

"Aah, first off, I would like to congratulate you on your progress in the Upper Regions, Mr. Jefferson. From what I hear, our last expenditure was a very wise decision," spoke the mouth. "The news I bring is of an equal nature. Project Bohemia-12 has seen the successful retrieval of all missing documents ascribed to Agent Deferens we spoke of earlier. I have them here for you," reaching below the table to an open briefcase and retrieved a thick stack of documents. A stock-faced page boy took them and walked to Mr. Jefferson at the far end of the table.

"Ah, yes. Good work, Mr. Hegel. I shall see that they enter the proper channels of discourse." a sideways glance of eyes to opposite face, "Any news from your sector of operation, Mr. Xerxes?"

"Nothing significant, sir. We have seen a satisfactory collection of future presidential candidates that you may make a selection from. Your choice for last year worked superbly with our operations," shifted a pair of lips mechanically strung to cheek.

"Very good. Oh, Mr. Hegel…What is to become of our Madame Trystera Deferens? Will you suitably contain her or will she need to be disposed of? (These high-level operations should never have been exposed to a direct member of the community.)"

A sly focus of cheek into grin, "Don’t worry about her, I have taken personal responsibility of the matter to insure a predictable outcome." A ruffling of collar like a scavenger bird caught in a wire fence, he snapped shut the briefcase, "I must relieve your presence, Mr. Jefferson. Matters await me which cannot remain ignored."

"Very well. Good day, sir." A raising of fingers and Hegel was off through the terraced walkway bordering the creek.

It was now morning and Trystera sat motionless in an armchair after a long night of insomnia, eyes pried open by still air and falcon sunbeams. She could still feel the LSD floating within her body, from what I hear this last several days…An urge to relieve herself, she walked to the bathroom. I’m going to have to get rid of that empty gas can. But when she threw the light switch there was no can to be found, and the stained tub was spotless. A minute of still shock and wonder. The knowledge that last night was not a hallucination; yet, what was knowledge but just that which we are allowed to see? Sat on toilet, a moment later flushed. Walked back down to the kitchen, she found no package to be delivered to anyone named Vaxon Feral. Outside to the compost pile to see if there was evidence of burning Hubertus, and there was none. To the garage, yes, there were still blood stains from Vastalgo. The trunk with his body was gone, too. Yes, Trystera was thoroughly confused. I must get away from this place…maybe up north…But first she must make an emergency visit to her shrink immediately (maybe he gave her the wrong pills).

Getting her purse and locking up the house she drove out to Dr. Sardonikis’s office only to find that the entire complex had mysteriously disappeared. There was only a huge expanse of desert fenced off with a sign:

MILITARY TEST SITE

RESTRICTED ZONE

INTRUDERS WILL BE SHOT ON SITE

No, no, no…she felt sanity slipping from her grasp. Walked up to the fence, starving for something real to lean against. A plume of smoke was rising from the desert floor in the distance. It grew, and she could see it was a jeep heading towards her. After a short while it stopped directly in front of her, and she could see the night-black metal of the large caliber gun mounted in the rear of the vehicle. A soldier was standing behind its barrel, shouting Intruders will be shot on site! Trystera backed away from the fence and fell as numerous bullet rounds ripped through her body like a windy flag. Her purse spilled beside her throwing a matchbook to the ground; it was an odd matchbook, as it had no writing on it whatsoever. Just pure, unadulterated white paper and nothing more.

The jeep turned and sped off to its origin in the distance, and all was quiet. Patches of brush shook in the breeze, and nightfall approached. Soon, a figure in the dark walked up from the road where Trystera came from, dragging what appeared to be a fire hose. He stood fifteen feet away and hosed Trystera and the car down, and they melted and ran into the ground like some green brook winding its way through the grass, and all was no more.

"Good work, Mr. Hegel."

Blink of pride within his eyes, wiped his hands on his pants, breathed in the cool night sky; he disappeared into the fading distance of black highway.