by Weston Ochse
The addicts fumbled with the lighters when they came, their excitement making the simple procedure complex beyond quantum physical standards. Still, they managed to light their pipes, the flare of red, then blue, then acrid smoke shot through their lungs. Almost as quickly they sagged in their desks, legs askew, backs arching and relaxing as the drug pumped through their systems. Eyes rolled madly, sometimes nothing but white.
When it became Jethro's turn, he couldn't contain his desperation as he grabbed the blue plastic lighter and snapped it once, twice, then sizzle, snap, crackle, pop goes the weasel, the sweet mad taste of chemical that took him to the Big Rock Candy Mountain, traded for a memory of his mother's first smile that split to infinity. He sagged as his muscles jumped and twitched. He let his hand rest on the desk, the pipe loosely grasped in case there might be another welfare rock on the way. His mind drifted through fields of cigarette trees, soda water fountains and lemonade springs. He soared above a lake of stew and streams of alcohol. His skin felt both hot and cold as his blood sizzled through his veins.
His head lolled on his neck. He felt drool trickle free, but didn't have the will to control it. He allowed his gaze to coast across the room. This time when he looked at the chair in the front, it wasn't empty.
Sitting with its hands clasped on its naked lap was a gaunt creature—part man, part something indescribable. White skin was blotched with grays, greens and blues, cancerous and tumorous as they bulged and sank with disease. Breasts sagged, brown chewed nipples folding upon themselves. Knobbed legs crossed beneath the chair at the ankles, long clawed feet kept carefully inside the circle. The skin of the face was pulled so tight that the cheekbones and the brow ridges seeming ready to tear through. Yellow cataract eyes glared back at him as a mouth of pustulent gums and slimy teeth opened.
"Will you die for my sins?" it asked.
Jethro jerked back in his desk, his legs scrambling beneath as they fought for purchase. He slammed his eyes shut and brought the pipe up to his mouth once more and inhaled. Please make it go away. Please make it go. But instead, the view shifted as his mind snap, crackle, popped the last of the crack taking him to his Big Rock Candy Mountain. But instead of the peaceful sounds of the brooks and the birds and the bees, a great voice boomed across the land causing crevices to wrench open and rocks to avalanche down the faces of the cliffs. Water boiled and forests burst into flame. Even the air became so oppressive and heavy that the creatures of the mountain fell where they stood.
Lift up your banner upon the high mountain. I have commanded my sanctified ones, I have called my mighty ones for my anger. They come from a far country, from the end of heaven, with my weapons of indignation, to destroy the whole land.
Jethro scrambled to his feet, breaking the desk apart. He backed away, his arms in front of his eyes, terrified at what he might further see. But the creature merely grinned as it stood to its full height, easily that of the tallest man.
"Will you die for my sins?" it asked again.
Jethro fell to the ground, his head slamming hard against the tile. Volcanoes erupted along the spine of his Big Rock Candy Mountain, spewing effluvium into the air. Screams of animals and insects joined with his own as his heaven was destroyed.
Howl ye for the day of the LORD is at hand. Therefore shall all hands be faint, and every man's heart shall melt, and they shall be afraid. Pangs and sorrows shall take hold of them and they shall be amazed one at another as their faces turn to flame.
***
Three days passed before he was allowed to leave his hospital bed. Nothing was physically wrong with him. Only his mind had been affected, and even now, after a dozen therapeutic doses of crack and some minor explanations, his imagination felt scoured and raw. Finally he'd been able to return to his Big Rock Candy Mountain and it showed none of the devastation that the creature had heaped upon it.
They didn't go into great detail, but it seemed that he'd been the only one to pass the test. The others were released. He was given a new set of clothes—jeans, shirt and shoes— then they took him into a conference room where two men waited. His mouth felt sandblasted. His body had spent time rammed in a compactor on the back of a trash truck. He really didn't feel much like talking to anyone. All he wanted was to get back in bed and smoke a little more.
"This is Mr. La Chance. He's a cosmologist." The government man was the same one who'd spoken to him before and was straight out of a B-movie. All that was missing were the dark glasses.
"He sells make-up?"
"No. That's a cosmetologist. A cosmologist studies the physical universe as it relates to time and space."
"And associated phenomenon," Mr. La Chance added. He wore jeans, loafers and a tweed jacket over a t-shirt with the words I Honk for Angels. "Some of us study planets, some study the relativity of distorted space, others, like me, discourse in celestial existence as outlined in certain historical texts."
"What?"
"Part of my studies involves angelic transmigration, in this case, cherubim and nephilim."
"Wait. You study angels? As in white robes, flaming swords and booming voices?" Big Rock Candy Mountain turning Vesuvius? He shook the memory away and reminded himself that it had never happened; could never have happened. Turning to Mr. Jones, "Has this guy been smoking my crack?"
"No, Mr. James. He's very serious. You should listen to him." The government man knocked on the table. "You know what he's talking about."
Jethro glared at him a moment, wondering exactly how much the “you know” meant. "Fine. But look at it from my point of view. You pick me up, put me in a roomful of addicts, feed me crack with enough kick to break my teeth, then reward me like a lucky monkey for being the only one to see a special kind of pink elephant; in this case, some shriveled and dying thing. Only he wasn't my pink elephant; instead he was some angel you'd captured and managed to hold in a circle of brimstone. Angels? Are you kidding me?"
The government man shook his head, knocked on the table to get Jethro's attention, then pointed to some words he'd written on a piece of paper. Isaiah 13. As if Jethro knew what that meant.
La Chance cleared his throat and frowned down his nose. "Not mere angels, but nephilim and cherubim."
"Whatever," Jethro cursed, tearing his gaze away from the paper.
"Is he always this belligerent?" La Chance asked.
"We don't know. This is the first time he's been sober since after the test."
"This is the real me." Jethro stood and postured, pumping his pelvis towards them. "This is me in all my faded glory. And to think that women used to beg me to fuck them."
"Thankfully we don't want the real you. We like you just fine on crack." Mr. La Chance lowered his glasses and peered over the tops of them. "You're very special, Mr. James. We've only found sixteen others like you in twenty years of testing."
"If I'm so special where's my fix?"
The government man knocked on the table once more, bringing Jethro's attention back to the paper. Isaiah 13.
"You'll get that soon enough," Mr. La Chance said. "We just want you to understand why we’re doing this.”
"Why? Do I have to sign something?"
"Well, yes, actually. A non-disclosure agreement and a release for death or damage. Standard stuff."
"These might be standard for you, Sparky, but not for me. So you want me to sign papers stating that I'll never talk about it, and if I die, I'll never expect you to pay me, and if I live but am just a little fucked up, I'll not come to you for a little fix up. Does that about cover it?"
"Yep."
"What do I get out of it?"
"All the crack you want. Free of charge," the government man said. "For the rest of your life."
A thousand smart-assed responses crystallized into an explosion of pure joy as Jethro's need overwhelmed his concern. He swooned at the possibility of not having to panhandle, crying as each quarter and dime propelled him towards his salvation wonderland. Not having to dumpster dive. Not having t
o steal food because the money was already spent on a rock. God how far he'd fallen. Free crack was like free sex. He'd had the latter, now they wanted to supply the former
"Free of charge?" He couldn't keep the shake from his voice.
"USDA Prime Choice crack cocaine."
Jethro gritted his teeth and fought the urge to giggle. He dug his nails into the palms of his hands to keep them from shaking. He needed to concentrate. He needed a few minutes of clarity, because part of him was reminded that there were no free lunches. He might be getting free drugs, but there'd be a price to pay down the line.
"What do I have to do for this?" He licked his lips and pushed his greasy bangs out of his eyes. "I mean, I know you want me to see things for you, but it would help if I understood the big picture."
Mr. La Chance glanced at Jones who shrugged and looked away. "He'll be stoned anyway. Not that it will matter."
"Maybe it'll help," La Chance offered.
This was an opportunity for Jethro. He'd been locked in his crack spiral for nearly a decade with no possibilities past the next fix. Now he had a horizon. Something to look forward to. Something to look past. Not that he knew what was on the other side, but he at least knew that he could get close enough to look. And then a small part of him hoped that he'd find a way back to Iowa where he could once again walk through the fields of golden corn and smell his mother's rhubarb pie.
So he listened as the government doctor explained about the nephilim that had been chained to the chair, invisible to all but him. About the nephilim who'd been creating hives across America. For what purpose, no one really knew for sure, but the government treated it like a military maneuver. Pre-positioning was the word La Chance used over and over. Creating hives of humans to serve each cherub, the nephilim were biblical royalty.
La Chance had quoted Genesis. "The Nephilim were upon the Earth in those days and thereafter too. Those sons of the gods who cohabited with the daughters of the Adam, and they bore children into them. They were the Mighty Ones of Eternity, the People of the Shem.
"No one ever really paid attention to that particular part of the bible, because it didn't fit neatly into Adam and Eve being the first. But the Bible says specifically that these creatures were on the earth before Adam, before Eve."
Before crack, Jethro couldn't help but think.
La Chance explained about the cherubs. Not the fat little babies of television, but powerful celestial beings who'd been in the presence of God. Cherubs like the angel who prevented Abraham from sacrificing his son, Isaac. Or the angel that wrestled with Jacob. Or the angel who led the Israelites under Moses out of the wilderness.
"Each hive is ruled by a cherub. They're here for a reason. If you look at history as we've done, each appearance resulted in a turning point for mankind." La Chance shook his head as he snapped shut the bible. "We can't let that happen. We're not prepared for a turning point in the history of the world. Not here, not now. We're quite happy where it is. That's where you come in."
To stop an angelic invasion? What if this was the end? Judgment day. What if God was pre-positioning his forces, preparing them to battle evil? Could he stop it? Did he want to? Trust an addict to rationalize.
"I know I shouldn't ask this, but how do I know this isn't some crazy elaborate hoax?" He licked his teeth, almost able to taste his next fix. "How do I know you're not fucking with me?"
The government man jabbed his finger at the paper one last time. Isaiah 13. Then he tossed him a Bible. "Read this, then get back to me if you have any questions."
***
San Remo’s Props and Wardrobe. Such a benign sign. The place seemed so common. So Iowa. So corn. If they only knew it was all porn inside. Back in the 80s, San Remo’s had been the number one provider of sexual devices and wardrobe. If they didn’t have it, they could build it. Nothing too big or too small. Outrageous and ingenious were slick partners under this roof. Closed now for twenty years, the building was both an odd choice and a perfect hiding place.
The interior glimmered with golden rays that seemed to originate from everywhere and nowhere, dulling the outlines of objects and rendering them to blur. He couldn't discern distance, objective relevance skewed by the warping of space, straight lines curving to abstract. His eyes began to burn, unable to withstand the constant assault of color. His gut twisted. His equilibrium faltered sending him tripping into the top of a railing that followed a set of stairs into the basement. He felt like he was in a funhouse without the fun.
Comet trails of color shot away from objects as his gaze moved on, searching for the Cherub, for the figure of pure golden light, for nephilim or any sign of a hive. Instead, blue men and women huddled against the walls whispering and firing neon green liquids into their veins, becoming purple as the liquid transformed them. The farther into the building he went, the more purple people he saw, and the more able he was to digest the colors. In the center of the room hidden by a low row of boxes lay a crisscross of purple bodies, helter-skelter pick-up-sticks of the drugged.
"J-dog come in," the voice hissed in his ear.
Jethro spied stairs rising to the second floor against the back wall. Should he take them or return to the front and go down? Before he could decide, a yellow man skipped down the stairs and stopped in front of him. Lanky blond hair with a bodybuilder's bare chest, he leaned in and kissed Jethro on the cheek, then whispered, "would you die for our sins?" Then he was gone, hopscotch-skipping across the bodies and out the front door. The smell of crack and his body odor lingered around Jethro, then fell away.
Would you die for our sins? There it was again. Like the Nephilim at the Skunkworks. Whose sins? Then he remembered the guy from his direct to video days before the porn market completely capitulated to the Internet. Rod. That was his name. Just Rod. Like Shaq or Cher. And for him, Rod fit perfectly—thirteen inches of pure stud. Was Jethro to save all the out of work porn stars? From the fluffers to the grips, was he to be their savior? Jesus died for the world's sins, whose sins was Jethro James supposed to die for?
"J-dog? Are you there? Come in J-dog."
Jethro ascended. The top of the stairs opened into a room that took up the entire second story. Light from floor to ceiling windows cascaded through the shadows and the floating motes enough for him to see that the floor was empty. But the room wasn't. His breath caught as the enormity of the vision crystallized. "In the name of God," he cried.
"J-dog? Is that you? What's going on?"
"I told you we couldn't trust him."
"Shut it. He's doing fine."
Jethro ignored the voices and let his gaze sweep past the dozens of hanging bodies. All yellow like Rod, these men had been hung by the neck and were dead. Evenly spaced around the room, the bodies swung gently in different directions, the ropes tied to pipes running along the ceiling, the combined weight of the bodies causing the bodies to bob. The ropes dug wickedly into the flesh around the dead men's necks, stretching them to almost twice their length. Eyes stared blank and bulging. Some had vomited. Others had bit their tongues. Jethro began making his way through the bodies, sidestepping rather than touching as they bobbed and swayed across his path.
He stopped at a hanged man near the middle of the room. He knew this one. They'd shared a pipe once behind the 7–11 on Fourth Street. As he gazed at the yellow face, the yellow lips began to move as the body twisted to face him. "Would you die for our sins, Jethro?"
He leaped backwards, intersecting several bodies, sending them spinning violently away in pendulum arcs. He fell, landing on his back, cracking his elbows on the hard wood floor. When he looked again at the face it was composed in death, yellow lips pressed together with grim rictus. There's no way he could have spoken. Jethro giggled. He scooted away from the spinning bodies and found a place to stand.
At the far edge of the room was a step ladder and an empty space. Sidestepping the bodies, he managed to make it there without touching any of them. Above the ladder was an empty hangman's noos
e. Jethro didn't need to be a genius to figure out what was expected of him. His left hand went to his neck as he backed away. They wanted him, but they couldn't have him. Now unconcerned about touching the bodies, he ran to the stairs. Looking back, among the bodies swaying back and forth, rebounding off each other, was Snake Foreskin. "Would you die for my sins?"
"No!" shouted Jethro. "No way in Hell!"
He hustled down the stairs, ran across the room, and found the stairs to the basement. Looking back, he saw nothing but purple people. No yellow men. No nephilim. So why was he so scared? Suddenly a shadow flew across the room and enveloped one of the purple people. Seconds later, the shadow returned to a space near the ceiling, the purple person gone.
"J-dog. Come in."
Jethro peered down into the darkness at the bottom of the stairs. "This is J-dog." he couldn't keep his voice from trembling.
"J-dog, where have you been?"
"Thing's are a little weird in here."
"What do you mean?"
"Yellow men and flying purple people eaters. Bobbing for crackheads on the second floor. Snake Foreskin wants me to bob."
"What the hell is he saying?"
"J-dog. You okay?"
Jethro gulped. "Okay as a crackhead savior ought to be, I think."
"I told you we shouldn't have—"
"Shut up, Bill. I don't want to hear it." Then to Jethro, "J-dog keep in touch. We're counting on you."
I bet you are. With that he descended the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he had no choice but to turn left, then a short hallway and a metal door. He grasped the knob, hesitated and asked himself why he was doing this. He'd read Isaiah 13 and found it to be exactly what had transpired in his mind when he'd first viewed the Nephilim in the chair. According to Mr. Jones, everyone capable of seeing the Nephilim had had the same experience. How odd that they'd all shared something written thousands of years ago having to do with the destruction of the world.