We park the Aghc in the town center, across from the university library. Makiva informs me that it is finals week for the seniors.
The library is overflowing with students, holograms, 14-year-olds. Only they are separated by color. blue with blue, grey with grey, purple, magenta, lavender, khaki.
‘What’s up with the color segregation?’
‘We’ve never been able to figure it out. Before and after university, Gleisicans of all colors mix. Play together, work together, procreate. For some reason they take it upon themselves to congregate by color at university.’
yeah?
‘Each color group reverts to the tradition of their ancestors. They speak in ancient dialects, celebrate forgotten holidays, bring up past atrocities. Of course with eons of multi-color-limbed Gleisicans, it makes it difficult for some students. Can you believe they actually have to choose? It’s tough, I know. Deciding between head and body, arm and leg. But they’re just kids, they get over it.’
I thought that pretty fucking odd and popped another two reds. Makiva popped a white, made me swear not to tell her mom.
We made our way back to The Assimilator.
‘Where to?’
‘Our last stop Cracula. Tourie.’
It turned out Tourie was Gleisica’s most distant moon. Damn near its rings. The trip was turbulent, in and out of competing gravity fields and whatnot.
Tourie in sight, a change came over Makiva, her disposition. Her green face suddenly glowed with royal spoils. She gazed right though me in anticipation. resolute and determined.
As the landing gear released, Makiva handed me a black pill.
‘Cracula, take this.’
Feeling on foreign land for the first time, I obliged. We walked down The Assimilator ramp, onto the moon.
Tourie was a desert of green sand. bleak The red dwarf out of sight.
‘So what’s the black pill for? You trying to take advantage of me?’ The Princess was not amused.
‘Cracula, the black pill is to keep you alive. Forced life. No matter the pain and suffering you are to endure…HA HA HA…’
Makiva’s eyes bled red, her tone final.
‘You are to spend eternity on Tourie. You will never die.’ She boarded The Assimilator.
I was frozen, embalmed. My blood icicles, organs stone, eyes glass. Every pore stabbed with infected needles.
Conjuring all my strength I lifted my tundra’d right foot, took a step.
Flames shot up my right calf, knee, thigh. Fireballs slammed through my eyes. Acid flowed through my veins. I shit magma and melted in two seconds. only to be restored in one. Searing flesh my milieu. My tongue roasted before I could scream. again and again
I managed another step.
Permafrost. The needles returned. Sharper. Icicles broke, stones cracked, glass shattered. rebuilt Frozen beyond noise.
another step
Incineration. Epidermis bubbled, blues roasted, atria exploded. Bones ashed. and again
Step
Fire. Ice.
At the stake. Extinct.
cracula ‘cracula…Cracula…’
Fuck me, I’m at The Sheik’s.
‘You OK?’
‘What the hell happened last night?’
‘You showed up around two, threatened to kill my doorman, dripped blood all over my place, shot something in your arm, and passed out.’
‘Sorry Sheik.’
‘No worries. You wanna hit this?’
‘I’m good. What’re you working on?’
‘Cover for Newsweak. They’re officially endorsing Obama for president.’
Yeah?
‘They want me to morph the faces of Bill, Hillary, Martha Jefferson, Nelson Mandela, Charlton Heston, OJ, Britney, and Oprah. But still make it look like a “shiny and vibrant presidential Barack.” ’
You’re kidding?
‘I wish.’
The Sheik rolls a joint. I call the deli and the dealer.
Thirty-Three
I come to at 109 Spring. The scene of the crime. The Reverend asks me how I’m doing. Do I need anything?
Sure, pour us two glasses of whiskey. He obliges and I light a red.
‘You know Cracula, this may not be the time to discuss it…’
Is there ever?
‘…but there probably never will be. I’m really sorry about Slutskia. And Aeronymous told me about the pregnancy.’
Of course he did.
‘I want you to know that your child, and it was a child…’
I feel this is where we begin to part.
‘…your child’s in heaven, and that God loves him, or her.’
Her.
‘I know it’s hard to understand, but He is all-loving, all-knowing.’
Does The Reverend not understand I bleed as Shaula gives light? After all the years can he not surmise I’m unable to open neatly wrapped packages? Never made it past the bow. He continues his delivery, my Reverend. A UPS driver.
‘You need to pray for your child’s soul. Pray for the soul of Slutskia.’
I light another red and lock my jaw. Pray my love for The Reverend will halt the outburst brewing in my gut.
‘Cracula, I pray to God for all three of you.’
Too late.
‘Reverend, if there is this cowering pissant of a god, let this punk come down and have a good goddamn chat with me. Let him explain this love you talk about . Let him explain this taking of souls. Let him explain your blind trance. If this burrowing crab showed himself I’d rip out his heart, I know he doesn’t have any fucking balls! And while I’m at it, FUCK YOU and your solace-seeking atonal-toned, voluntarily blindfolded Jesus-imitating path. Fuck all you motherfuckers, get the hell out of my place!’
Content I’ve placed myself outside his prayer sphere, I light another red and call my dealer.
Thirty-Four
Reverend out of the way, my path is set. Everyone else an avoidable text message.
Aeronymous
Yo son, The Cult can still work for you. Call me.
Tambourine
Hey C, let me no if u nead 2 talk
I’m with u in thpirit
Xo
Tambourine(thpirit)
Ps let me kno if you want 2 c my thpiritual advisr
Lousifer
U good?
Flow
Yo bro, fuck it. You win some, lose some. Lets hang later
Slave
Let me know if you need your cock sucked
Fireman
Hey Cracula, I know what you’re going thru. I got two new same-sames for tonight.
It will take your mind off all this. Trust me.
Hugatcha
Have you read that Genet?
Feather
Noddy
Fuck these idiots let’s get loaded
word
Thirty-Five
The next weeks (months?) are spent in a steady state of detachment. I shuttle between 109 Spring and The Noddy Inn. Doorbells are ignored and carefully answered. Texts repeated, phone shut off, sindemand gone black with the dotcom. Books avoided.
I breathe and dream delivery. No longer in fear of helicopters, federal agents, aliens. I welcome them. We converse at length, coexist.
It appears they speak amongst themselves as well. Have an arrangement of sorts. Partners in a timeshare.
The Black Hawks stick to the mornings, 9:00–11:00. They usually land in the kitchen, squeezing in through my window. (On occasion the pilot flies right up the damn stairs, what must the neighbors think?) When they ask, I bring the guys whiskey, a smoke,
a line.
But mostly we stay out of each other’s way. talk at a distance They always manage to leave when I’m not looking.
The FBI cats are a bit more high-maintenance. The whiskey has to be Johnnie Walker, beer Heineken. The coffee strong. They aren’t big on the yack, look down on it to be honest. They arrive 3:00–9:00 in the PM, always incognito. They communicate w
ith each other on radio, jam my iPod.
Recently, they’ve hatched a plot to assassinate me. Take me out. Eradicate, expunge. They’ve grown paranoid of my powers, my knowledge. I know when they’re coming though. Hell, I buzz them in.
Before they reach the door I’m in the sauna, temperature maxed. This cancels out the tracking chip they planted in my brain.
Midnight to five (always my favorite hours) are for the aliens. A supreme honor. Extraterrestrials, higher life forms, ILLEGALS. I’m the only human they’ve made contact with, confided their secrets.
They’ve been around for years, centuries really. Observing. Cultivating. Introducing mind control, the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, Christianity. Electing presidents here and there.
We get on famously, the little blue guys and I. Not into whiskey, they bring their own alien absinthe, moon dust. Do the occasional blast with me. Lo que sea. I divulge my earthly tales—cavorting, indulging, exploring, proliferating, pendulating, evolving and revolving, matriculating, isolating, escaping, nodding, slamming.
The blue fellas wax speed of light, black holes, intergalactic sames, stellular dope. The sky life. They reveal the forces behind the universe—PROSTITUTION and NEPOTISM.
I produce pictures to match my adventures. They mainline my brain with a millennium of images. What a trip.
The 109 timeshare carries on for awhile. Tragically, the Feds begin stretching their daily intrusion, pushing the soldiers and aliens out. Eminent domain they call it.
I eventually tire of government intrusion, music blaring with the stereo off, prying neighbors. In need of a parachute, the doctor is called.
I exchange cash for medicine and sit on my couch.
Perusing the familiar warning label, I think it might apply. But hey, you’re not supposed to drink on antibiotics either.
Covering my freckle, I indulge.
free fall
emergency chute
I was just below the clouds. alive
I spread my wings and floated through the cumulus—not wanting to see below.
Putting off my inevitable I shot up, out of the atmosphere.
I passed the moon, circled Mars, jetted past Jupiter, Saturn. Touched down for a bottle of wine on Uranus.
A bump on Neptune.
Feeling just right, I headed for our star’s last satellite.
Hovering above Tambourine, I flapped my wings. Too icy for contact. I nodded a formulaic nod to her moons, they looked crestfallen. Was she content living so far from a star? Cold and lifeless? Did she mind the permafrost, the long revolution? Tambourine told me she could always take solace in her moons, they were consistent.
I wished her well and flew back towards the earth. Made another stop on Uranus, took in the view.
Absolving my wings, I circled the rings, catapulted back through the earth’s atmosphere
I was greeted by a dark angel, Fred. He wanted to see my credentials. Why was I here? He explained to me that The Fireman now ruled the land and must approve all comers. good friends only. I explained that we went way back, I wouldn’t be long.
Checking my wings for contraband and running my ID, I revealed my fangs and was allowed safe passage.
Diving through the clouds I came across a floating Feather. I didn’t bother saying hello.
Swooping below the billows, I saw a million-times tentacled Fireman sitting atop a volcano made of logs. He said hello and continued to talk to himself, good friends. A million Razors. Oblivious.
Skimming the water I journeyed west, the wind to my back.
Transcending the earth’s oceans I came across a courtroom of sorts—supreme court on the sea. The Reverend was wearing a judge’s robe and banging an imaginary gavel. In front of him were dolphins, sharks, sponges, starfish, crabs, sand. Each pleading their case. Why were they to be banished to land? Why not sea lions, eels, saltwater crocs? Having none of it, The Reverend banged his gavel.
I soared on.
I came upon an Everest-sized wave moving at blinding speed. Atop the wave surfed a chiseled Ken doll Aeronymous. He sipped beer and chatted with Neil Young. Satisfied.
Sailing on, I came across an odd Slave Carsons. He appeared to be sex-changed, with long blonde hair and a Cracula tattoo above his ass. His feet were over his shoulder as he thrust something in his contrived vagina.
I soared on.
I came across a ragged beach, an historic beach, a battlefield. I hovered and observed. Below me lay the world’s great warriors—Alexander, Genghis Kahn, Sitting Bull, Custer…Up ahead was a Samurai in red armor. I butterflied over to the victor.
Lousifer? He dismounted his horse and sewed Dulce back together. They seamed at ease with the world. I loved them both.
I soared on.
I circled the globe, not knowing my destination.
Noticed an abandoned Amoeba.
I touched down on the beach where 109 used to be and spotted a serpent-tailed Slutskia surrounded by goddesses. John Wayne. A mermaid served my blood.
I set sail one last time.
Closing my eyes, I left my fate to the wind.
She tossed me in the ocean, cast me on a beach.
My wings lost. Detained and isolated. I felt at home. Indigenous.
The sun was soon to set behind the ocean, a full moon rising.
I drank my wine and opened my eyes. Emerging from the ocean in front of me was a little girl, blue-eyed. White wings. She walked over to me and met my blues.
Relieved, I accepted the inevitable.
The verdict rendered, loudest echo I’ve ever heard.
thanks Mark, nicky, terban.
Special thanks to Sara rosen for reeling me in.
Thanks to Daniel Power, Craig Cohen, robert Avellan, Wes Del Val, and everyone else at powerHouse Books.
Brantly Martin has been working in new york City nightlife
for the past eight years, hosting weekly parties at various
downtown Manhattan venues. He was born in Houston
and now lives in rome.
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