by Tom Schimmel
The Redemption of Manuel the Manic-Depressive Mexican Potato Farmer The life, death, and times of Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer are indeed nebulous. As the police report would go, a teenage boy named Manuel Valdez had an encounter with two angry jazz musicians and died in the parking lot outside a private club. There is more arcane information on the cause of death and the nature of the incident, but it is extremely rare and painfully difficult to validate. Regardless of circumstances involved, Manuel Valdez - age ten - had died. As a baptized Catholic, the soul of young Manuel made his way up to see Saint Peter, who promptly banished him to Individual Purgatory Capsule XP481.
Desert theme. Potato farming.
He’s been there ever since.
Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer is awake on the parched red clay of the Mexico desert. The sun is shining like it always does, and the hot rays beat on his face. The entire scene, hangover and all, is business as usual.
Usually when he wakes up, Manuel drinks the potato vodka that appears while he sleeps. Saint Peter is not without mercy in purgatory.
Today however, Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer is, for the very first time in his life, hung-over from an excessive quantity of tequila. As he stands up and looks at the empty bottle on the ground, he remembers that it fell from the sky.
The bottle is empty. The tequila is gone. His nose is broken.
There is more bad news. In their orbit around Earth, the Galactic Trash Geniuses sit on their prison-pod sofa in a stony kind of silence. Another way to describe it would be open-mouthed shock. The director is dead. His body is slumped over his readout panel, still sitting in his large black chair at the center of the Earth.
The director may have been running the show on Earth, but he was still a man from ancient Andromeda who had been shot through a wormhole by his friend Zymphonomous Bla. He was human. His body was still vulnerable to physical attack. The one called Lucifer is very capable in spite of being stuck between a rock and a hard place. Even trapped in a deep hole, he has his ways. The sharp barb on the end of his tongue was enough to penetrate the director’s spinal cord and end his life. The director has been inside the Earth for thousands of years. While he has aged more slowly than humans on the crust, he still has experienced the passage of time. He’s in his early seventies, by surface standards. No wimp, just no match for a barbed tongue to the spine. Really, even in his younger years, he was no match for such a large creature.
Lucifer uses his barbed tongue to manipulate the director’s body. Every moment that passes, the most powerful of The Burnt Ones learns more about Earth and how to destroy it. It takes the whiz kids several minutes to regain their composure. Geniuses or not, they never saw this coming. Now that it’s here, they come around quickly to the truth. It sounds strange. And so it is.
WHIZ KID #1:
“Long live the director!”
WHIZ KID #2:
“And if the director should die… ”
WHIZ KID #3:
“Free Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer!”
A blue light begins flashing inside Ourfolk Nine.
The hi-res flat screen flickers and goes blank.
A strange device rises out of the floor…
aaaaarrrrrrrrRRRrrrrp!
Standing on the Earth’s crust, Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer lets loose a belch that could scare off a hungry dragon. We’re talking a tequila burp that starts from the lower intestine. By all rights, the belch would have made a better fart. Judging by the taste in his mouth, Manuel would agree.
aaaaarrrrrrrrRRRrrrrp!
Some time passes as Manuel stares up at the incessant sun. He weaves slightly with each passing breeze. There is no potato vodka today. His head is pounding. And more than ever, he would like a cigarette. aaaaarrrrrrrrRRRrrrrp!
“ Thank you for freeing Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer. Ourfolk Nine will be landing shortly. Accommodations have already been prepared for you.”
aaaaarrrrrrrrRRRrrrrp!
MANUEL:
“¿Por qué San Piedro? Por qué!?!”
aaaaarrrrrrrrRRRrrrrp!
“ Welcome to the Office of Saint Peter.
For instructions in English, press one
Para las instrucciones en español, prensa dos… ”
aaaaarrrrrrrrRRRrrrrp!
Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer has reached the basement floor of possible depression. He pushes himself along the desert floor with his arms at his side. His face, his chin, his shoulders, all pressed in the sand. As he wriggles and squirms, Manuel speaks a prayer to Saint Peter who imprisoned him here. He explains that he is a coward and a lowly snake that crawls on the ground and eats dust and could he please have a cigarette? Please?
aaaaarrrrrrrrRRRrrrrp!
MANUEL:
“¡Por favor San Piedro… por favor!”
aaaaarrrrrrrrRRRrrrrp!
“Our offices are currently closed. Please call back Monday thru Friday from 10AM - 8:30P.M. Central Standard Time”
aaaaarrrrrrrrRRRrrrrp!
Fortunately for Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer, the basement floor of depression triggers a manic reaction. The anger builds for a minute or so and then culminates as Manuel picks up the empty tequila bottle and screams as he throws it at the sun.
There is a terrific explosion and everything goes dark.
By shattering the illumination system of Individual Purgatory Capsule XP481, which to him looks exactly like the sun, Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer has unknowingly sent a signal to the Earth’s core.
As Lucifer is working on finding the planetary self-destruct sequence, five doors open in the core and fill the director’s studio with screamingly hot lava.
Even a six million pound Mosasaur is no match whatsoever for trillions of tons of molten rock. The one who some call Lucifer took a little longer to melt than the director did, but not that much longer. A few seconds maybe.
aaaaarrrrrrrrRRRrrrrp!
When the lights come back, Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer is no longer. He is a boy again. His name is Manuel Valdez. The late afternoon sun reflects off his face. His mother is calling him for dinner. He can hear his brother and sister calling too. His father must be home. Manuel drops the rotten potato at his feet and runs to them. As he runs, he smiles and silently says thank you to San Piedro.
aaaaarrrrrrrrRRRrrrrp!
It was nearly ten minutes of continuous applause by the whiz kids until the man standing before them sheds a tear. He wasn’t really a man anymore, just the image of the man. A soul animated enough for the whiz kids to see him, and offer him a place on the sofa.
The man sits among the whiz kids. They are beaming with pleasure at his presence in their prison pod. He stares for a moment at the screen in front of him, and remembers lying in the warm sands of Planet Troleve. Since that time – and with a lot of help - he had followed his dream. Now he was seated in spirit among his three dearest fans and friends, watching his creation for the first time as a member of the audience.
In the distance, a woman’s voice echoes off the rooftops.
Usually her voice is spoken, with words.
But tonight, there is melody to drive her nameless proclamations. There is music. There are words.
She is pleasantly plump or obtusely obese, depending on your point of view. And she is singing with abandon.
It is a beautiful sound indeed.
- THE END –
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tom Schimmel has recently been listening to a lot of country music. He has never owned a pair of cowboy boots in life, but he knows how to ride a horse, shear a sheep, and change the oil on the old truck. Tom sings and writes and blogs when he is not engaged in the practice of manual labor. His home studio recordings, old movies, and blogs on current events are available through all his websites. MySpace:
ww
w.myspace.com/tomschimmel
Blogger:
http://tomschimmel.blogspot.com/
ReverbNation:
http://www.reverbnation.com/tomschimmel
Author Profile:
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/tomschimmel
Tom has also completed another e-Book called “1500 Miles on a Scooter”. This is a travel narrative of Tom’s journey through the southeast United States on an eight horsepower/single cylinder scooter.
“1500 Miles on a Scooter” is a strange and difficult personal story which grows into a journalistic inquiry into the effects of abundant wealth on the natural environment. Take a vicarious road trip at 45miles per hour. Ride 1500 miles in seven consecutive days. Downloads are available in most all formats, and you can set your own price to pay. Enjoy the ride!