The woman, dressed like a tourist now in a polka dot dress, put out her hand. With all the people dressed up in costumes like giant conch shells or waving the flag of the Conch Republic and the drag queens in full force, no one noticed us almost running through the crowd, holding hands. Sniff ’n’ the Tears’s “Driver’s Seat” started to play from loudspeakers.
“You have the gun?” she whispered to me.
I nodded. I had stuffed it into my jeans and covered it with my black T-shirt.
“The first High Priest—”
We had to wait a second while a couple of drag queens blew whistles almost in our faces as they stumbled on by.
“The first High Priest is in the San Carlos Institute performing his ritual,” she said. She kissed me on the mouth, and some nearby frat boys raised a cheer and held up their plastic red cups full of cheap cold beer.
“Please do this for your ocean and for your world. The High Priest is inside. You will know who he is when you see him. Because you have the high score.” She kissed me again on the lips.
She let go of my hand a block away from the old Cuban building, the San Carlos Institute. I walked up to the place, nervous and anxious but not scared. The crowd outside the institute was watching the impromptu parade of drunks on motorcycles and didn’t even notice that I slipped inside the place despite the large and obvious sign saying, “Closed.”
A firecracker went off outside, making me jump.
I started to walk through the old institute. It was filled with murals of the Cuban War of Independence and old flags of the Cuban Republic. The place was quiet, like a tomb or a church, but I could hear all the noise and shit from the outside world going crazy over our own Conch Independence celebration.
I took the gun out but hid it under my T-shirt. My footsteps echoed in the marble-floored building. I could hear something else—like people fucking. I walked up the stairs, thinking nothing but that I must destroy this High Priest. I had seen the ocean that morning; had seen such life and beauty.
I was not a bad person. I was a good person. I was a very good person and I was not going to see such life wiped out.
I checked the gun to see that it was loaded. It had strange green-silver shells in the magazine. I snapped the magazine in and pulled back the slide, loading the gun. I could hear those sounds of people moaning and panting upstairs, and I walked up slowly.
The theater doors were open, and I stepped through.
Total darkness waited in the room. And then I saw the High Priest there, in a red sort of haze of light. His arms were outstretched, his face was chalk white, and he was covered in that black cloak I had seen him wearing earlier. He was screwing a headless young woman on the stage and biting what was left of her neck.
He spotted me and raised himself, his body elongating toward the ceiling and making him look like a stretched-out giant. The headless woman ran into the darkness of the room, and I saw that the Priest’s jaw was opening wide and blue fire was dancing between his teeth.
I raised the gun and fired. It boomed like a cannon and a fireball shot out of the pistol, hitting the black curtain next to him and setting it on fire. I saw the headless woman jump off the stage and charge after me. I pointed the gun and fired again, blowing her living corpse back ten feet. The body exploded into blue flame and fell backward, on fire, the limbs thrashing about as the thing died.
The High Priest muttered something and his limbs stretched out, making his body even more spiderlike as the arms and the legs stretched out to grab the faraway corners of the theater, the red haze illuminating all. He started to advance, crying out in his strange language. Blue flames shot out of his mouth and his eyes turned an awful black.
I shot the gun and hit him dead center. The High Priest wailed and fell forward, his—its—four limbs snapping off and falling to the floor, blood gushing out like four different geysers.
The light came back on in the theater, revealing the normal and very human form of the woman, who indeed had a head, and the High Priest, who was that Russian I had seen on Duval Street. He was lying there in a pool of blood, his pants halfway down around his ankles. The woman, young, in a short polka dot dress, lay also in a pool of blood on the other side of the theater. Their chests were blown out; whatever the hell this gun was packing was explosive. The curtain on the side of the theater’s stage was on fire, and had set off a smoke alarm.
I left as quickly as I could, running down the stairs, getting outside before the sprinklers popped and started to shower the inside of the place.
The party was still happening in the streets, and I looked around for the black-haired woman. She was standing there, holding her hands together so it looked like she was praying.
“What—they—” It was all I got out before she shushed me. She grabbed both of my hands.
“Ignore it. It is a trick.”
We walked down the street on Duval, listening to the music and passing through the crowds. I was in shock. She kept talking in a whisper I could barely hear.
“The next one will be easier. There are three of them together. Then we go out to sea.”
She led me to her car, which was parked on one of the side streets, away from the music and fireworks on Duval Street. It was a sleek red thing, a Maserati with a black interior. I climbed into the passenger seat and she put the thing into gear, driving off at a high speed. The car leapt forward, the V-8 rumbling. Sniff ’n’ the Tears’s “Driver’s Seat” was on. I could barely hear anything, or think anything, or do anything but just hold the gun close to me.
“Where are we going?” I managed to whisper, but the woman in the polka dot dress said nothing. She just drove us far and away from the festivities.
You always hurt the one you love
We arrived at a house somewhere off the Overseas Highway. The place was set back from the road, past a couple of lampposts that were placed at the end of a dirt lane that led up to the front of the old home.
She gave me another pistol, exchanging it for the one I had just used. It was of the same sleek design, with the red LED light on its side. But it had a much longer magazine.
“They are there,” she said. “Finish them.”
There was a long pause, and I could just hear some wind rustling through the palms.
“Because you have the high score,” she reminded me.
I nodded and walked up the lane, which was lined with lit tiki torches and flapping blue Conch Republic flags. I could hear the faint sound of “Driver’s Seat” playing again before she took off in the Maserati, living me alone on that quiet dirt lane. The house ahead looked like something out of Gone With the Wind, an old plantation-looking home from a time long ago, set next to the ocean.
I walked up to the place and saw that there was a lot of movement inside, as if a party was happening. The lights inside the house were on and music was playing—a sort of big-band jazz music that filtered out into the humid night. Live music. I could hear some people laughing and talking and clapping.
I figured that I should walk around the side of the house. I could see the group of people now—it was a large party, conversing and dancing as this 1940s-style jazz band, wearing these white ties and black vests and white fedoras, was playing under strings of white lights on a raised wooden stage. Seemed like half of Key West was there, celebrating with class this stupid mock secession thing. Waiters and busboys flitted about with drinks and appetizers.
The song ended, and a tall old host in a perfectly pressed white Guayabera shirt said, “Greetings to our new Soviet friends, who are happily representing their country as we give birth to our new Conch Republic! We shall take a short break and then we’ll get right on back with the festivities.”
I sat at an empty table near the back and spotted the three High Priests with their chalk-white faces and fang-filled teeth. No one seemed to notice I was there, and no one seemed to notice they were next to some vampires from beyond time and space who were sitting down at a table togeth
er with only the company of a couple of women. Someone near the stage switched on a few speakers and “You Always Hurt the One You Love” rang out over the gathering from a record player.
I put the gun on the table and stared off into space. No one even looked in my direction. “This is crazy,” I said to myself.
I watched the three High Priests. After a time, one of them turned and, for a moment, stared at me, his eyes turning an impossible black. Then long tarantula-like legs sprouted from the sides of his skull. His neck grew longer and longer, growing to about ten feet. One of the other High Priests started to bloat, and his fingers became as long as his arms, with needles coming out of each finger.
“This is—this isn’t real. No one else is seeing this. No one is reacting to this. No one is reacting.”
I struggled for breath and swallowed constantly. Lightning played out over the ocean, and I could see something out there: some great pyramid of lights and metal descending from the sky, as large as an aircraft carrier, with sharp metal spires piercing the clouds at every corner. Electricity crackled throughout the air and I could see the thing—the machine—outlined in green and blue lights. The white lights over the stage became a dark red.
The High Priests now stood and started to whirl around in a slow dance, their lips touching the necks of the partygoers, who didn’t even notice them sucking thin rivers of black blood from their bodies.
My father was suddenly sitting next to me, wearing a masquerade mask, all white, with a long Pinocchio nose. He pointed out toward the ocean, to the machine that was landing.
“The great machine!”
I stood up with the gun in my hand and started to laugh. I shot into the crowd, great waves of fire hitting some bystanders, and then I ripped into the High Priests with concentrated green fire. The High Priest with the tarantula arms coming out of his head exploded first, then the one who was floating upward into the air. The other one started to cackle like a hyena and clacked his teeth together and rushed toward me, but I turned the gun on him and it lashed out with pure power, hitting him with a few rounds and disappearing him from the face of this universal existence, not even a trace of his body left behind. The red lights on the stage became white lights and I found myself in the middle of a maelstrom, with people screaming, dead bodies lying about, and a smoking gun in my hand. I turned and ran from the scene, seeing nothing of the machine in the sea. I screamed at the horror and ran around the side of the house. I saw the Maserati parked outside and the woman in the polka dot dress standing there.
“Get in!” she said.
I hesitated. I stopped and pointed the gun at her.
“None of this is real.”
I pointed the gun at her and opened fire, hitting her in the neck and head. Then I got into the Maserati, “Driver’s Seat” still playing on the eight-track, and drove off, with this cordless phone—this large blocky phone with a long antenna—ringing on the passenger seat. I answered it.
“Bring her back to The Smoker,” the voice said. I hung up and drove off as fast as I could.
The last moments at The Smoker
I pulled up outside The Smoker and put the Maserati in park. It wasn’t late at all, and the party was still going on in the streets with noise all around, but The Smoker was closed and shuttered.
I walked inside, gun in hand, hearing nothing but the sound of the Ms. Pac-Man machine. It was mostly dark inside, but a couple lights had been left on.
Harley Mark was behind the counter, making himself a drink. He looked surprised when I walked in.
“Now I’m the bartender. Isn’t that something?” Harley said. He put his own bulky cordless phone down on the counter.
“What is this, Harley?” I pointed the gun at him.
Harley sipped his drink.
“Sure. Well, the Atlantic Ocean is in danger, and there’s these Priests from outside space and time. Sounds like absolute science fiction. Like the game I made.”
He downed the rest of his drink.
“Good story, am I right and am I right? Looks like somebody’s mind-body controls wore off pretty quickly though. My new machine, Polybius, and what we gave you—it just doesn’t do the trick, it seems.”
He started making himself another drink as I closed the distance.
“Havana cocktail,” he said. “You can write this down on my tab. You like those? It’s good. Pineapple juice. Rum. Light rum. Lemon.”
Out of the back room I saw two of those Men in Black, those Asian men, rush out with guns ready. I shot them down before they had a chance. The gun, I noticed, shot just regular run-of-the-mill bullets now. Nothing special. I turned the smoking gun back on Harley, who sipped his drink.
“What is this shit?” I whispered.
He smiled and laughed. Looked up to the ceiling, stared at it. “You see, about thirty years ago, we started a program. A special program. Things were going really bad in this country and foreign policy was going to hell, see? We were losing—still losing the Cold War. And so we had to come up with a way to… to expand the minds of ordinary American citizens. To make them tools to serve democracy. Sacrifices had to be made. We had people just like you do certain important missions to protect the USA. So important. Sirhan Sirhan was the first. Arthur Bremer messed it up, but basically got the job done. Then Hinckley the Jodie Foster lover really screwed it all up by not killing Reagan and surviving, and now the program is on the run from a B-movie actor in the White House with ongoing dementia who’s assigned the Secret Service to hunt us all down.” He took another sip of his drink. “But you got those four top KGB case officers today. They were ordered out into the open by some senile old men in the Kremlin who, heh, thought the Florida Keys really, truly were going independent…”
Harley smiled and put a finger to his lips.
“You see, every now and again, we in the program have to use drastic measures. Beyond regular means. We did have another mission for you—you were going to destroy a special Soviet missile boat submerged off the Keys that was supposed to aid this ‘independence movement’… Reagan knows, of course… but he’s ignoring it. Bastard.”
He sipped his cocktail. “Good cocktail.”
I sat at one of the barstools.
“I should kill you. I should kill you. You and that Polybius.“
Harley took a deep breath. “Now, this, this is something… You see, all that shit that was programmed in your head with my Polybius? And what she drugged you with? It’s going to do something very unpleasant.”
I couldn’t stop shaking. All at once I could feel it. Harley had this feral look come over his face.
“What’s that?”
“If my calculations are right, and I’m sorry, they always are, the programming should start stripping you of all your memories in about three to five minutes, unless I do something. Which I won’t, because the Secret Service is close. Your personality is about to be completely erased. All your memories will be gone. You won’t even remember your own name. It’s sort of a living death, I suppose. You won’t know what you ever lost. And the police will pick you up.”
Outside I heard sirens approaching above the sounds of the party and all the music and yelling going on.
“Sorry,” Harley Mark said.
I pointed the gun and fired, dropping him to the floor. I dropped the gun after.
I started to breathe heavy, in and out, thinking about—well, everything at once. My father, the bar, Monika, the woman in the polka dot dress, the beaches, the ocean, those stupid Felix brothers, all the fun I ever had in my life, the way I got up early on Saturdays because I liked to be the first one to get a coffee at the Cuban stand, my dad teaching me to drive, playing Polybius itself, storms coming over the horizon and white clouds over a blue sky on Easter Sunday, my favorite movies and all the songs I’d ever heard. I could feel it starting now. I tried thinking about my mother and my dad going to the Tortugas on our boat. He called it something strange, Medium something, and the moment I knew I cou
ldn’t remember the name of our boat I knew it was starting and that was it and I prayed to whatever was above I could have something of those memories again.
The door of the bar opened. Agent Mezzanotte walked in, gun drawn.
I tried to remember why I was there when Mezzanotte sat down next to me.
He took a deep breath.
“You didn’t deserve this. You’re a victim of this—this terrible thing. I am sorry, but it’ll be over soon, and once it’s over, well, you won’t know what you ever lost. And we’ll put you on a plane and you’ll start life all over again. I’ll be right here.”
My mouth moved, but I said nothing.
I left the bar, looking it over only once as the man led me out.
About the Conspiracy Theory:
MKULTRA and Polybius
Project MKULTRA is known to many as the United States Central Intelligence Agency’s mind control program. Officially running from 1953 to 1973, the program was, according to the Supreme Court case CIA v. Sims:
… concerned with the research and development of chemical, biological, and radiological materials capable of employment in clandestine operations to control human behavior.
The project was initially exposed in 1975 by the famous Church Committee of the U.S. Senate, as part of an effort to investigate CIA activities on U.S soil, but the full extent of the activities of MKULTRA were at first hard to pin down; the CIA had unfortunately ordered the widespread destruction of documents relating to MKULTRA in 1973 as part of a deliberate cover-up. However, in 1977 up to twenty thousand MKULTRA documents were found to have been “misfiled,” ultimately bringing to light information about a great deal, if by no means all, of the activities governed by or sponsored under the program.
The use of the hallucinogenic substance LSD was said to have been a pivotal cornerstone of MKULTRA. LSD was used in experiments as a potential “truth serum,” as a weapon to be used in clandestine operations by distorting people’s perceptions, or, as some have suggested, as a way to create human “robot agents” who would have their minds erased and be reprogrammed for clandestine activities (i.e. the creation of a “Manchurian candidate”). It was feared by some conspiracy theorists that the Project was never actually discontinued and that MKULTRA “robot agents” acting under the orders of shadowy government officials conducted several high-profile assassinations, or assassination attempts, in the United States. Lawrence Teeter, the lawyer for Sirhan Sirhan—the man who murdered Robert F. Kennedy—has stated publicly that he believes that Sirhan Sirhan was under MKULTRA control. Sirhan Sirhan has also repeatedly stated that he remembers nothing of the crime itself.
Tales of Tinfoil: Stories of Paranoia and Conspiracy Page 11