Peter slams his handgun into my kidneys and pain explodes from kidneys up into my head and down to my toes.
“Have you gone deaf?” he screams. “I said get out!”
Flecks of white foam spray out his mouth onto my shoulder. I brush them off and exit doubled over.
He follows handgun at my spine.
I stop. He stops.
The hammer clicks back.
The distant horizon suddenly seems close. I sense grains of sand drifting over its edge. A little beyond it sand-snails dance their mating shuffle under the critical scrutiny of an all-female audience. Sand brushes like sandpaper beneath them. Periscope eyes sway seductively.
The wind dislodges the rim of the horizon and sand cascades covering the sand-snails. For a moment, the surface remains smooth, intact, and to all intents and purposes virgin.
Periscope eyes pop up and glance about. A distant roar approaches. I smile, my mind has come alive for my body is about to die. I ponder on what Peter thinks I am guilty of, but nothing whispers back to me. I turn to him, but that roar now rends the silence asunder.
Another SandMaster barrels in with brake-pads screaming in protest. A cloud of dust spews over us. Squeaks, roars, and groans fill my senses as the dust-cloud settles. The door opens and hope takes a fatal shot between the eyes.
Gordon Odentien and another Desert Driver step out. Odentien still wears his beach and ocean fan-n-fit while the Desert Driver is in leather much the same as Ozerken.
“You should have called me,” Odentien says doing a Nomadi with thumb and finger. He snickers reaches back inside, grabs a hold of something, yanks hard and tosses what appears to be a large burlap sack to sand.
In the next instant, I am colder and more heartbroken than I have ever been. Pain beyond the wounds of war cut through my heart. Worse, a deeper sorrow punches with fists carved out of Rocklands black rock. These blows are for Maggie and my Toxin Center nurse, not for me.
Nevertheless, I am relieved neither of them is here. If Maggie were she would seek revenge and attack without consideration—and in the next instant be dead herself.
Franciscoa flies out the door and lands on sand in a limp heap his head at an impossible angle. I stare at his body and my heartache becomes anger, cold and vengeful anger.
But I paint a calm upon my face and turn to them ignoring Wernt’s muttered warning and his handgun now back at my spine. Odentien and the other Desert Driver tense up, hands drift towards holsters.
The newly arrived Desert Driver steps away from Odentien his eyes glued on me. I look him over. He stands tall and thin with close-set eyes in a face as cold as Ozerken’s. His nose is long and thin like Peter’s.
After a brief internal struggle, I turn my back on them and stare across the desert.
The crunch of footsteps in sand moving closer to each other. I glance over my shoulder and find them at Ozerken’s SandMaster deep in conversation. From out the blue, the new Desert Driver says directly to me, “I’m Pe’truss Wagenaara.”
I’m speechless at another such revelation.
I inspect him again, but his face remains blank with nothing further communicated. Why do they want me to know their names? That violates a long-standing history.
We began hiding our real names when mind-to-mind communication spread throughout Here-Born. We quickly found that when one’s real name became known others were able to access our thoughts and minds without permission even when we blocked them. But only if they possessed the required skills.
Nowadays, once someone knows your real name he or she can also gain access to the Here-Born citizen’s database. It contains all our personal information.
In view of this and because I campaign you will not find my real name nor even that of Once-Other written nor advertised upon my store. Without an introduction, no one even knows to call me Once-Other.
And it hits me.
Ozerken had called me Once-Other when he was in my store—when he threatened that he would never forget my name. It’s not advertised on my tent walls. Neither had I told him so Peter must have.
Now, these two Desert Drivers have given me their names, their real ones. This speaks of trust, giving someone a true name. I assume they trust that I will soon be very dead. Do they want me to know whom my co-executioners are? I presume future viewers and readers understand that my participation in this recording my end abruptly—so be prepared.
I look up from my thoughts as louder chatter, in which I still cannot discern any words passes between them. They fall silent and as one they nod yes, turn to look at me and their combined attention hits like a flying rock.
I placate my racing heart with false promises of a future, glance at the sad state of Franciscoa and grit my teeth.
They all remain where they are except for Peter. He marches towards me an executioner for whom grim duty calls.
My mouth locks up tight as with startling suddenness his eyes blaze and his face contorts with rage. He rushes in and hits me across the cheek with his handgun.
A bright flash of lightning, a thud and darkness swoops inwards, but I manage to remain standing. I wipe a sleeve across the blood running down my lips and attempt to find Peter from within the darkness, but too much of my attention remains fixed on the large gash in my face.
I raise a hand to it and my blood is warm upon it.
I sense that I am swaying, going down.
I fight it, more afraid of falling down than of taking another hit.
I fear as one fears the predatory beast when helpless. Pleas garner no sympathy from the hunter. Instead, it advertises here lies a meal, freshly maimed, awaiting consumption.
During a long struggle, which even I realize takes but moments, I manage to drag my attention from my face and look outwards but darkness persists.
I whisper promises of sunsets never before seen. One at a time my eyes open and I see. But my legs give and I sink to my knees and from there I ask the one and only question that comes to mind. “Why have you hit me with that gun of yours?”
Like never before his nose twitches in harmony with his mouth, his eyes, and even his ears. Several times he attempts to speak, but no words disturb the air.
What he does eventually spit-n-snarl ventures beyond insane—even for him. “You killed my son, Once-Other. For that, you will die a painful, agonizing death.”
Okay and be damned one-n-all! Hell hath no fury like a lunatic consumed by indignant outrage at being wronged—no matter how delusional. What nightmarish mental acrobatics are required to invoke such a wild and unfounded accusation?
He, a complete stranger until but a few days ago has no justification for this. I gather all of Once-Other, firm up my resolve, my campaign techniques, my Foundation and express them.
“No. I tell you no. I did not kill your son. In fact, I have never killed anyone. I have never even seen your son. Has your child come to Here-Born? No! There you go. No way could I have killed him. I have never left Here-Born. Period.”
“You sold C-POP, Once-Other. Oh yeah. Don’t shake your head no. Yeah! You sold C-POP. That’s Criminal Pre-Owned Parts! And that violent criminal pre-owned part came from a known killer. A killer sent by your sale to Earth. You are guilty and you will die.”
At last an explanation of his crazed fascination with C-POP.
I make to stand, but he kicks me in the chest. Odentien, Ozerken and Pe’truss draw their weapons fan out and cover me. I settle back, stare up at Wernt and as quietly as I can inform him of the correct details.
“No one here believes pre-owned parts can be violently criminal by themselves. That’s as stupid as believing a gun can kill on its own. But, you can leave one on a table for all time and it will do nothing but collect dust—if no one touches it.”
He smiles but not because he is happy. “Guns are banned on Earth as it should be,” he declares. “Would you be in this predicament if that were true here?”
I elect not to enlighten him of the obvious being that it is
yes. I would still be here for he is a criminal and repressive gun laws only rob the honest of a means of self-defense while criminals do not obtain firearms legally.
“Tell me. How can one pre-owned arm with a hand attached be criminal all by itself? How in all of Here-Born’s heavens, rock and sand can you expect me to believe that monkey of a lie?”
He wags a finger in my face. “Once-Other, you sold my wife the arm of a violent criminal. My wife took the worthless thing to her hotel. There she removed her damaged and useless one—with help of course. She then attached a used no yeah...a no good pre-owned arm bought from you. From you! She then came home to LA, California, Earth.”
He struggles to breathe. I indicate for him to take his time, but he gets right back to it. “She awoke one morning from what she thought was a good night’s sleep. Sh...she found...during the night her new arm and hand had strangled our beloved son to death.”
And a crushing weight releases its hold upon me.
And I understand his reaction to my question about a son.
He forces the barrel of his handgun into my mouth.
I note how unpleasant metal tastes.
“You will die out here Once-Other.”
Only an EB Foundation could be this confused and ill-informed. How do they survive over there?
Far off in the distant reaches of my mind I am puzzled over and above all the pain, the threats and my pending death. Puzzled over why I have no recorded sale to a Wernt. Either Peter continues to lie or something is further amiss.
In self-defense, I respond to his integrity mutilating accusation after extracting the barrel from my mouth and pushing it aside, much to his amusement. “What you in fact mean is that your criminal wife...okay, okay...I apologize. Still. Your wife killed him. It cannot be the arm. Your wife did. It’s like you and that gun you’re pointing. It cannot shoot until you aim it or make a no-good-damn-error while asleep in your head, as you’ve already done and pull the trigger.”
“Once-Other!” he snarls.
At this late and fateful hour, Once-Other continues his campaign. “Wait. Wait. That is why on Here-Born you must train well to drive a SandMaster—with no license required. But to bear arms is a Right, training is also needed but no license nor permit required to buy, to own or to carry—open or concealed.”
No response is forthcoming from Wernt the Lunatic.
He steps back and indicates for me to stand.
Being obliging I stand up, dust myself off and look at him.
What he now says is worse than all his previous accusations.
“Nice try Once-Other but no coconut.
“You see, the Peoples Court 90213 found that arm guilty of murder...not my wife. The arm is guilty of murder. And. I’ve been given the authority to execute you as the sales vendor and therefore, the source of the crime.”
“What kind of mad criminal court can find such a stupid thing?” I ask.
One damn loud thunderclap rips apart the desert air.
Wernt’s no good handgun spits fire-n-ball.
At first it appears he missed from three feet away.
Then, looking down I note my blood leaking out onto sand, not a feel good scenario. Preservatives kick alive a second time and clotting prevents further rapid bleeding.
Next, the pain finds me, joins that from my face and hurts more-n-more and all over and altogether. I manage to glare up at him. It is clear to me that he is mad inside his head and inside his heart. I cannot grasp how he can think I killed his son when even after being shot I continue shaking my head in denial.
Ozerken, holsters his handgun, climbs into his SandMaster, exits with his pre-owned arm in hand, clambers on top, sits on the raised roof and sets to attaching it.
Wernt walks a circle around me, expels the used cartridge, loads a fresh round, holsters his revolver and says, “Your moment of enlightenment Once-Other. Yeah. One-two-three. You people are so odd. Yeah. Quaint. You ready for this?”
“What if I prefer to pass?”
“Isn’t he the wise one now? No! Not even if horses were pigs and wishes could fly.” I frown at such a meaningless idiom.
He notices what Ozerken is doing, loses interest in me but points a finger saying I should remain where I am, walks over and joins them.
Gordon and Pe’truss put their weapons away, lean on Ozerken’s SandMaster, light cigarettes and puff away with deep satisfaction. It strikes me just how casual Desert Drivers can be around gasoline vapor. An open flame is not recommended within fifty feet of a SandMaster. I dismiss them as pain sends me reminders of itself.
I force sand into my chest wound clenching my teeth as I do. I am hoping sand will control the bleeding further and allow me the time in which to recover. Although preservatives result in immediate clotting and slower bleeding, movement induces normal wound bleeding once again.
There’s nothing I can do about the pain other than to deal with it. Obviously, I’m to die out here. But if I can get a little more campaigning done I’m good—not with death but with duty. What would Madsen say if he were here?
“That’s round-n-about typical Once-Other. Trouble parades natural an’ all.”
Many times I’ve thought of why he and I are...were friends when he’s so prone to criticize. Perhaps there is no answer other than friends are friends.
Atop the SandMaster Ozerken bites his lip, sprays a saline solution on his arm stump and taking a sterile cloth from his kit dabs it dry. He opens the container of Bondo-stick-on, applies some to the wound, some to his new arm and rests a few moments breathing hard through his mouth.
Wernt paces while the other two smoke. He halts and all watch as Ozerken joins the pre-owned to his stump. After holding them together for some minutes, he nods to Pe’truss who steps up and injects Bondo-stick-on into the original arm.
And quad-mitosis kicks alive.
His new arm across his knees, Ozerken gazes out across the desert and Rocklands his face expressionless, but each time quad-mitosis kicks he grimaces. I know the pain of pre-owned parts converting as well as any being somewhat composed of such myself.
And in that fashion I came to choose the name of Once-Other for I was once an-other person, as I’ve already mentioned.
And now finally, Wernt experiences how Bondo-stick-on works, how an arm changes right before one’s astonishment—much like watching a child grow but in an accelerated fashion.
Five minutes later the pre-owned has attached well enough that the fingers become a trifle unruly. Ozerken holds them still and glances deadpan at me.
Wernt walks back, stops five feet away and says, “Let me repeat my question to you. Who were you before?”
I explain to him in beautifully simple words that I had bought this pre-owneds business around two years ago and that I’m primarily put together with pre-owneds.
“Once-Other!” he snarls.
“Note my joints. My arms...look...ever so different. The scar on my neck....”
“Once-Other—stop!” he says.
“Perhaps your wife bought her arm from the previous owner or a different vendor, altogether. Right?”
Another violent thunderclap, greater pain slams into me and darkness descends. Nevertheless, I hear those no good Desert Drivers laughing and Wernt’s footsteps crunching in sand as he walks away.
And a dark warmth wraps its embrace around me.
Out where I can no longer see, Wernt’s footsteps stop. “You’ve earned your pay Ozerken. Pe’truss. Let’s talk bonuses.”
Now taking all of everything into consideration such as that Earth-Born travesty of a curriculum that sent me to prison counts as one, that ex-wife as two and this Wernt as three.
One-two-three in a row right here, right now.
We all know that bad-on-bad always comes one-two-three in a row. Which is another reason we say it so often.
CHAPTER 51
Of Reliance On Old Skills, Realizations And Neatness
When unconscious, time is hard to tra
ck as it tends to change values. In some moments, it is longer but during others shorter than sixty seconds per minute. It is similar to dreams where some are short some are forever long. Yet, both are pretty much the same length. One dream expands time, another compresses it.
After several days or seconds, or minutes pass a very unpleasant but distant noise erupts, draws closer, grows louder and forces my eyes open. And my eyes see and time resumes its regular value revealing only minutes had ticked on by.
I lie upon sand too close to the Rocklands for comfort. Ozerken and company are as they were. However, that awful sound is nearer and around its edges I can hear footsteps in sand. A shadow falls across me.
Looking up I find Wernt headed my way and what an awe-inspiring sight to behold. The Crazy Criminal Tourist has flipped over the edge—altogether.
He suddenly howls in a maniac’s high-pitched wail and curses and swears most foul. Abruptly he stops up dead in his tracks, shudders, turns into a statue carved from rock and his eyes roll over white. Yellow foam froths out his mouth, perhaps it’s a feeble attempt to cleanse the soul within. Doubtful.
He walks a circle shaking as a cactus beset by violent winds and malevolent earthquakes, falls to his knees and onto his side and twitches round-n-round, up-n-down and over-n-under until sand all but covers him. His fingers do a final twitch and stop. Well, too-damn-bad is about as much as I care.
Pe’truss goes over and checks his pulse, pats his cheek and walks back to the SandMaster shrugging his shoulders. I struggle to one knee and spit my contempt upon sand. All three of them laugh with wild and evil merriment.
May they all spit sand forever!
With more bravado than any ability to carry through, I declare, “You will regret the harm done to Franciscoa and to me. You two Desert Drivers, you should know better. You will find no easy return from treason. A life sentence awaits you both. And….”
Ozerken holds his finger up and I involuntarily stop speaking. “Think through our time together Once-Other—think it through,” he says and raises an eyebrow, which oddly enough conveys encouragement.
Pe’truss nods yes—it appears to encourage as well.
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