by Guerin Zand
All you theoretic physicists and mathematicians can use this new symbol “b”, but you need to ask my permission first since this is a copyrighted piece. If you don’t, I’ll sue the pants off your nerd asses. Now, everyone will know when you refer to “b”, just like when you refer to “i”, that it’s total bullshit. I can spot bullshit at great distances, but others may not have this same superpower. This is offered to make it easier for them to understand what I’m talking about, and not for my own benefit. (The mathematical properties of “b” are explained in the detailed dissertation I mentioned earlier.)
There are imagined possibilities, and not alternate realities or any other sort. We each have just one reality, and for most of us, that is enough to have to deal with. Your reality is unique and different from any other person’s reality, and this is really the subject of another dissertation. I don’t even want to try and explain that to you at this point.
We all imagine what would have been if we did this, instead of that. These imagined possibilities are infinite, but still all pure bullshit. The whole alternate reality, parallel universe crap is just a result of the super-sized egos of Man. We really believe that reality revolves around each one of our decisions, and we can just pop into existence a new reality by simply making a different decision. Tell me, has that worked out for anyone reading this? Are there alternate realities for every decision made by insects, reptiles, and mammals, other than Man?
As I said earlier, I don’t think any of this has anything to do with the story that follows. I can’t say for sure because the “now” Me’s haven’t read it. It just explains how I was able to collaborate with the “future” Me’s and publish a book with excerpts from the future.
So, the final question you might have is, if everything I’ve written is true, what is the point of the quantum storage matrix. The explanation is the same one used in the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy to explain the origin of the Infinite Improbability Drive. It’s just a cool trick that a bunch of nerds came up with. I just happened upon it in my studies as a spaceman and thought it would give me a leg up on the other sci-fi authors out there. Since no one else was really using it, I thought no one would mind.
Of course, this could all be a total load of bullshit, as in “B”, and I just wrote this to see how many of you would be dumb enough to read it.
Chapter 1
Club Gitmo
The goon squad dragged my sorry ass off the C-130 and dumped me into the back of a windowless van for the short ride from the airfield to my suite in what was known as Camp 7. This camp was designated for the most special VIPs, and at the time I was the only occupant of this special hideaway. I was such a badass mofo it took eight spooky looking dudes to escort me, all heavily armed, for the two-minute ride.
Since they dragged me out of my home buck naked, we got to skip the whole strip down step and proceeded directly to the cavity search. For this, they inserted a small probe with a camera up my backside to make sure I wasn’t hiding anything really small in there. The aliens finally got to the probing I had feared all along. Sure, these were humans doing the actual probing, but they were just pawns in the greater alien conspiracy to violate my backside.
Having found nothing of major interest in my anal canal, I was then de-loused, even though I didn’t have cooties, and then a fire hose shower was provided. I was provided a pair of OD, olive drab, boxers and a matching t-shirt. Luckily, the climate at the camp was warm and this was all I really needed.
Now that I was clean enough, the medical team started to probe me and assess the damage done during my takedown. They took blood samples, gave me a few injections of who knows what, and then proceeded to do a piss poor job of straightening out my broken nose so I could use it to breathe again.
After determining the damage was minimal, my escorts tossed my handcuffed and shackled body into the hallway where my face met the floor. I was then more or less dragged to my suite where the guard opened the door, so my friends could give me another good toss into the cell before the cell door was slammed shut and locked.
I looked around a bit, and when I saw the toilet, I started to wonder if I would have problems relieving myself with the restraints still in place. My hands were cuffed in front of me, my legs were shackled, and the hand and leg restraints were chained together to limit my movement. I figured to piss, I would need to be careful to move that chain out of the way, and then I tested the amount of slack in the chain connecting the hand and leg restraints. I determined it would be possible to wipe my ass with the limited movement available. These guys thought of everything and I appreciated that.
With these basic needs addressed, I laid back on the comfy little bed and decided a nap would be in order. That’s when the ear-crushingly loud heavy metal music started up. Being a fan of heavy metal this really wasn’t so bad. See these guys had done a lot of research on how to annoy Islamic terrorists but had spent no time researching how to annoy an asshole like me. I just shook my head and thought to myself these assholes had made the same mistake the aliens had made, a total lack of planning and research into the subject of their abduction. Had they known me a little better they would have realized that blaring show tunes into my cell would have made me crack in seconds. I laid back and went to a special place that the love of my life still occupied and fell fast asleep.
I didn’t mention in the first book that, while on vacation, Milly and I were bonded. I had heard this term often and thought it was just another word for marriage, but I was wrong. This was a state attained from sharing one’s self with their partner. It’s not a physical sharing but an actual sharing of one’s soul or conscience. This is not a Vulcan mind meld. Milly didn’t get all spooky looking and drill into my mind to find a particular memory, they had machines for that. No, this was a process where both partners would actually let their guard down completely and allow the other to share the entirety of their self.
The first time Milly tried to share with me it scared me so bad I jumped back like a little school girl seeing her first erect penis. It was overwhelming with her life just flooding my mind like Niagara Falls dumping into the river below. Milly realized I probably couldn’t handle the whole thing right off, so she eased me into it, sharing small parts to start with and gradually increasing the amount shared. There was a little ritual to this with us sitting facing each other with our right hand over the others heart and our foreheads touching. This was probably the missionary position for this form of intercourse and there were probably other ways to do the same thing.
Over the course of a few days Milly had worked me up to the full Monty and we shared ourselves with each other totally. It could last as long as either of us wanted and it was like walking down this infinite hallway and opening doors into parts of each other’s lives as we wished. We could guide each other to specific areas we wished to share and you could block areas if you really wanted, but neither of us felt the need to exercise this option.
It wasn’t just sharing memories but sharing your feelings as well. She could taste the cheeseburger I had the other day and feel the happiness it brought me. Unfortunately, this meant I could taste the salad she had the other day as well. I decided to stay away from her food memories. She could feel the love I had for her and I could feel the love she had for me. She could feel how happy it made me the other day when she simply looked at me from across the room.
It was funny, but how I felt love was different than how she felt love. Each emotion was unique to the individual. The emotions weren’t totally different. They had some commonality but it was the same sort of difference you experienced with the taste of foods. Why didn’t everybody like the same foods, prepared and seasoned the same way? It was like our souls had taste buds that made each emotion a slightly different experience for each individual. It really was mind-blowing. I had never imagined this would have been the case. Writers spend so much time trying to describe and share their emotions with readers and always fail, no matter how skill
ed the writer. This was why. Men and women in love never truly understood their partner’s love. They always assumed like I had, it was the same as the love they felt. This is what caused problems in human relationships, of that I was now sure.
When it was done, there was a small part of your partner’s being that remained as a part of you. This was the bonding I had often heard about but had no clue of what it really meant. Now I did, and I could always feel Milly’s presence from then on, even when she was not with me. This was the special place I relied on when my life truly sucked, which was my current state of being.
I woke up as one of the guards opened the slot in the door for a food tray to pass through. He slammed the tray through and the meal splattered all over the floor.
“I’m not cleaning that up asshole!” I yelled out.
This method of feeding continued until they realized I wasn’t going to eat off the floor and four brutes entered the cell and removed me while a lower form of military servant cleaned up their mess. They placed me back in the cell and a tray with a meal had been placed carefully on the bed.
“Thanks. At least you fuckers aren’t vegans, thank God!”
It was a tray with a simple turkey sandwich, an apple, potato chips and a juice box. They made sure there was nothing provided that I could kill myself with. Like I was going to give them, or Julie, the satisfaction.
It was five days before anything changed. With the music blaring and lights on all the time, it was hard to tell the exact time of day but based on the three meals a day you could tell what general time of day it was and how many days had passed.
Obviously, they had noticed I had no problems sleeping so after these first five days they thought it was time for a change. After breakfast, I was dragged out of my cell to an interrogation room. There the little instruments of torture were laid out for my perusal which they obviously thought would scare me. I had been waiting for the real fun to start so I didn’t much care. There were four of your typical looking spec ops types in the room and one civilian who must have been in charge.
“Normally we would start with questions at this point and only move on to the various interrogation techniques if needed but in your case, we’re going to make an exception. We’re going to get to know each other a little better first.” That was the civilian talking. The others probably weren’t allowed to speak. Not really the goons’ strong suit.
We started with the old standard, waterboarding. This could be really bad if you panicked and at first, I did. When you panicked, your breathing was erratic, you’d try to take the deepest breaths which would, in turn, suck in more water with the air making that drowning experience even worse.
I was an avid swimmer in my youth and I had made it through the Water Safety Instructor level in training. Back then, the instructors would try to drown the student during the life-saving tests, realistically simulating a real victim’s actions. I had been trained by military rescue personnel at the local base’s pool, so they were extremely rough.
The day before the final test, our instructor asked if anyone wanted to practice on him to get ready for tomorrow. I guess, even back then, I was a bit of an asshole, and being a strong swimmer I had taunted this instructor one too many times in the past. I volunteered without hesitation. I jumped in and was going for his feet when the instructor grabbed me, kneed me in the face and took me to the bottom. I maneuvered myself to get my feet aimed at his face and kicked with all my might. I wasn’t fucking playing around with him. He released me and I swam off gasping for air and choking out water. We both came out of the water with bloody faces and the rest of the class stood there in shock. “Anyone else want to practice before tomorrow’s test?” The instructor asked, and not a single person in the class took him up on it. When I was getting ready to leave the instructor came up to me and told me he would have passed me. I kept my shit together, realized I couldn’t save him, and got free. That was lesson number one in life-saving. You can’t save anyone if you’re dead!
As I said back then, this wasn’t considered a crime, it was considered training, even though I was only sixteen at the time and the instructors were active military. The result was I had been almost drowned several times throughout the different courses of my training and I had learned not to panic when that happened.
This training kicked back in as the waterboarding continued and this interrogation technique, although extremely uncomfortable, stopped causing me to panic to the amazement of my friends.
They then decided a little electro-shock therapy might help with my attitude. Why did everyone think I had an attitude problem? They were very methodic with this technique. Shocking me and then moving the electrical leads to various, rather sensitive areas of my body, seeing which would bring the most satisfaction to the makers of pain. Nothing in life had prepared me for this.
This interrogation went on for several hours before they finally returned me to my cell. They hadn’t bothered to ask a single question. I did make it back in time for lunch, so I guess that was the bright point of the day.
I had to start to wonder exactly what my alien friends had done to me. Recalling the lifesaving courses from decades ago, like they were yesterday, and then being able to fight the urge to panic. Was this a result of my enhanced memory? The rejuvenation my body had undergone was also causing me to be more foolhardy then I had been recently. You don’t notice the mellowing with age. It comes on slowly so it happens without you even knowing it. The changes brought on by the alien procedures happened quickly, in comparison, so I definitely noticed the return of the recklessness of youth. Where was this new-found confidence coming from? Did they do more than I was told or were there just so many other side effects I hadn’t considered?
We spent almost a week repeating these morning workouts and still, no one thought I might be open to answering some questions, so none were asked. It had gotten to be a routine and I almost, but not actually, started to look forward to this break from the daily boredom. I was still constantly shackled, the hits kept blaring over the speakers in the cell and the lights never went off. I just spent my time in that special place with Milly and that made everything ok.
It was a Tuesday, I know that since I always looked forward to Taco Tuesday. Seriously, every Tuesday I had tacos for dinner. Or at least I thought it was Tuesday, so that was close enough for me. Maybe it was some other day of the week and they were just fucking with me, but it didn’t really matter. I mean, would these guys actually be devious enough to fake Taco Tuesday and move it around to make sure I lost all sense of time? Anyways, after dinner the music stopped, the lights went out and I got a good night’s sleep.
The next morning they dragged me back to the interrogation room where I promptly headed to the waterboarding bench and laid back waiting for the day’s fun to begin. A new face entered the room. He was in a suit and tie so I assumed he must be from one of the alphabet soup organizations. He looked the part. The goons yanked me from the bench and sat me at the table and secured me to the table with the shackles to prevent me from attacking the man seated across from me. He signaled the others and they promptly left the room with just me and the new guy.
“My name is Leroy Johnson and I’m with the NSA.”
“Right. A white man named Leroy Johnson. You couldn’t come up with something better than that?” I asked.
“Regardless, that’s the name we’ll use here.”
“Fine. You can call me Joe, as in Joe Schmo.”
“I already know your name, Mr. Zand. Mind if I call you Guerin?”
“Mind if I call you asshole?”
“It doesn’t have to be this way, Guerin. If you prefer not to talk we can go back to the same old routine.”
“I prefer not to talk, asshole.”
Asshole left and my friends came back in.
“Great. Let’s have some fun!” I shouted out at my old buddies. They were more than happy to comply.
Ok. Maybe the torture was actually getting to
me. I surely didn’t enjoy it but I also didn’t trust old Leroy either. The problem with these attitude adjustment sessions was that my attitude was just getting shittier by the day. I don’t think that was the desired effect but I wasn’t there to make anyone happy. I knew this was all Julie’s doing. These assholes probably had no clue about any of that, but I did. I would rather rot in this shithole and be tortured everyday then let Julie see me break down and change my asshole ways. Milly had to know what Julie had done and sooner or later Milly would get me out of here.
So we went back to the loud music, bright lights and daily workout routines for another three weeks or so, at least that is what it seemed. Towards the end, I was taunting the goons. Asking if they needed a break. Maybe they should let the really bad guys have a go at me and so on. I may have been losing it, I guess it’s all relative, but I couldn’t help laughing hysterically at the end of each workout.
I had lost most track of time, so what day of the week it was I couldn’t say, but one morning two standard-issue looking Gitmo guards came to my cell to escort me to a different area in the camp. Both were young, wearing the uniforms of U.S. Navy MPs, and one was actually a rather cute female. Now I may have been locked up a little longer than I thought but I’m pretty sure she was cute. They were changing tactics obviously. I guess this should maybe make me feel more relaxed? Whatever. They walked me outside, where the sun blinded me, and across the camp to what appeared to be offices of some sort. I was still fully shackled in my OD boxers and t-shirt and barefoot as usual. The camp was empty except for us. I could hear sounds from other parts of the base and that was a change. We walked into one of the office buildings and the MPs knocked on the one closed door.
“Enter.”
The door opened and a man was sitting behind a desk in front of the window overlooking the camp. He was a civilian, wearing a casual sport jacket over a colored t-shirt tucked into his blue jeans. This caught me off guard. He wasn’t the typical alphabet employee. He was late 30’s, maybe early 40’s. Fit, but not another muscle head, and he dressed well. He had a confidence about him. He wasn’t there to prove anything to anyone.