by Ryder Stacy
Kim unloosened her dress that the Indian women had given her and was out of it in a whisk. Her nubile, full, alabaster-skinned, angelic body was cast in the cherry orange glow of the fire. She pulled Rock to the bed and fiddled with the zipper encasing his enormous organ. It felt like a steel girder to her fingers. Rock helped her pull down his pants and felt her warm lips engulf his engorged erection. She traveled, it seemed, thousands of miles down around the steel girder to its base. He groaned and they toppled together onto the bed. She released her prize and sidled up his strong muscled body, which seemed like climbing a mountain of flesh. Her long platinum tresses slipped across his lips and then her marshmallow pale softness pressed against his mouth. Their mouths opened and miles of wet tongue rolled out like carpets and entangled in one another. Kim’s moans broke into an angel’s chorus as she pushed Rock over on his back and mounted him the way she had when he took her virginity in the cell at Pavlov City.
HE WAS LOVE SHE WAS LOVE HE WAS LOVE SHE WAS LOVE HE WAS LOVE . . . She was a pulsar of radiant diamonds, a quasar sending its bursts of high energy galaxy-collapsing flashes out to him. He was an approaching universe of ten billion stars swirling around a central mass of pure black gravity, a hyperspace warp of intense sub-neutrono particles coalescing inside her. They collided out there in infinite space and he entered her. She slid down his nether universe pole to the anti-matter center of his being and they were like deity and consort—the Supreme Essence of all matter and thought. The mandala that lies at the center of the oneness of negative and positive, of being and nothing, of man and woman.
Meeting the Ginsberg was a male-only ritual. The Indian beatnicks had never heard of equality of the sexes, and Kim was disappointed that she could not get to see the ruler of the Crazy Alligators. Rock however would don a black robe and get to partake of the Question Session—the most sacred of the Alligator’s many religious practices. Rock was curious about this man and his powers—but he kept thinking about the previous night of lovemaking between himself and Kim, his mind returning to the erotic paradise like a fish to water. He was, he had to admit it—in love. It was a strange emotion, in a way. For Ted Rockson had felt many things in his tough life and had cared for many people. But never had he felt the energy of passionate love course through his veins like a Mack truck out of control. Every time he thought of her his stomach turned to jello. He loved her more than life itself; her face was everywhere he looked. And for the first time in his life Rock felt worried. For her. There were so many things that would gladly kill her, eat her, rape her, destroy her—in the world of America 2089 A.D. He wanted to protect her, to keep her safe from all harm, yet . . . it was impossible, even for him.
“Hey man, check you out,” Trickster said, approaching Rock who had donned the ceremonial black robes that covered him head to foot. “Look pretty cool Mr. Rock-Around-the-Clock. So you ready for the Ginsberg rap. Everybody’s going to be there. It’s what’s happening.” Trickster himself had put on the black robes, though he still wore his two yard long headdress of feathers and the blue streaks of war paint on his face.
“What makes the man so powerful?” Rock asked as the two men walked to the roof of the main temple up flight after flight of carved stone stairs.
“He knows man! That’s what gives him the power,” Trickster answered. “We are allowed to come to him twice a year and ask him about the Truth. Once, years ago when I was a little j.d., one of the monks asked him a question so profound, so brilliant. A question that so expressed the ineffable essencelessness of suchness that the Ginsberg gave a signal and the gongs were rung and the monk who gave the question was accoladed and given the title, Meritorious Thinker.”
“And what did that entitle him to?” Rock asked skeptically.
“It isn’t that, man,” Trickster said as they continued up the stairs, passing a square window every ten feet or so. “Oh, Rocky boy, I’m disappointed in you. It’s the Recognition!—plus of course, the favors of all the temple dancers, raised in the art of erotic reality, trained in the esoteric arts of lovemaking; but of course pure as the driven snow. They train only on phalluses of the golden statues. They were sent to the Meritorious Monk for seven days. He reveled so much that he died. Can you dig it, man?”
They came to the roof and walked outside. Crowds of Crazy Alligators were everywhere, hanging on the edges of wide stone outcrops from the side of the mountain into which the pueblo city was built. All those who dared asked the unaskable along with the several hundred monks who lived austere spiritual lives hidden in small holes in the mountainside were gathered in even rows around the roof. They seated themselves in the back row and watched as the first monks rose to question the Ginsberg. Some hundred and fifty feet away from them, in the mist of incense bowls that always burned around him, sat the Living Master with his purple robes hanging down over the long armrests of his glistening golden throne. On the marble platform around him were sprinkled rose petals—one hundred and eight of them—which was the number of statues along the Great Hall Of Wisdom which ran through the subterranean chambers of the temple.
The first monk prostrated himself before the Ginsberg and asked his question. The echoing acoustics made it possible for everyone present to hear the question and the master’s sacred answer.
“Oh Master, what is the original face before one is born?”
The Ginsberg whisked a flybroom and said bored, “The face of noface.”
“Thank you, Master,” the monk stammered and ran. Another made his way down the red rug that dissected the gathering, shooting out from the bottom of the Ginsberg’s throne all the way across the roof.
“Master, how do you know that you don’t know?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the Ginsberg snapped back. The next came, a thin pale-faced man who trembled as he spoke.
“W-what is the reason to be a monk?” he asked. The Ginsberg’s eyes were like slits as he replied.
“To become less stupid than you are.” The monk bowed quickly and left. The next monk took his turn and the next. Each time in a bored, exasperated voice the Ginsberg answered.
“Why is he so impatient?” Rock asked Trickster.
“It is very hard to ask the right question. Only if the Ginsberg hears a good question does it amuse him. He has listened to dumb questions all his life. He grants none of his time to teaching anymore unless someone asks him a profound question. No one has for years.”
Finally the line was exhausted and it was Rock’s turn. He slowly walked through the rows of seated men, feeling quite foolish in his long black robe. The Master looked up, one eyebrow raised at the American freefighter, approaching respectfully with palms together but body unbowed. The Ginsberg had heard of these visitors, now was the time to size them up. Their leader came closer—a strongly built man with different colored eyes and a shock of star-white hair down the middle of his scalp. Odd—a mutant perhaps—with psi ability.
“Sooo,” said the Ginsberg, stroking his wispy white beard. “You newcomer, Ted Rock-son. Have you a question?”
“Yes.”
Rock looked him straight in the eyes and asked, “And what pray is that question?”
“What is the question?” The Ginsberg’s face lit up like a strobe light. He jumped up and forward, landing a fist across Rockson’s face that was too swift even for the Doomsday Warrior to block. Rock leaped to his feet from the floor, ready to do battle when he heard the gongs go off. People were cheering him and he was hustled away on the shoulders of the Indians. Flowers were thrown on him as he passed.
“Hey man, how’d you get so hip?” Trickster screamed out, running alongside Rock. “That was far out.”
“It’s easy,” Rock answered. “No tricks, that’s all.”
With Rockson being treated like a royal god for the afternoon, and given the honor of having a private audience with the Ginsberg that evening, Perkins decided to scout around the area and see what other archaeological wonders he could dig up. He walked around the e
dge of the lake, looking for shards of pottery, artifacts in the sand. No luck at first until after about twenty minutes of searching when his eyes suddenly saw some color in the white sand. There! He reached down and picked up a plastic ashtray, totally eroded on one side by the lapping water. “Alameda Drive Liquor Store” it read on one side. Perkins was elated and stuffed it in his rucksack on his back. He pushed on until he came to a cave which had a trail going into it as if in recent use. He entered and once in about thirty feet was amazed at the change. The rough cave walls suddenly gave way to an absolutely smooth surface. Gold statues lined the walls—divinities set in specially carved niches. He came to a large open chamber filled with rugs and boxes overflowing with jewels, pearled daggers. The archaeologist’s eyes were positively bulging. Never had he seen such a wealth of artifacts in one place. He ran over to one of the treasure troves and began looking through it.
“Can I help you?” a voice asked seductively at his shoulder. Perkins turned with a start, nearly falling over. Before him was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, stark naked. All that covered her flesh was a stripe of purple that ran from beneath her throat down between her ample breasts just to the top of her triangular patch of fine blond hair. The archaeologist swallowed hard three times and then spoke.
“Who are you?”
“The dweller of this cave, of course. I’m called the Contrary.”
“Why Contrary?” Perkins asked, rising to his feet, his face widening into a broad smile as he saw just how beautiful the woman before him was.
“Because contrary to whatever people expect, I do what I want.”
“And what do you want?” Perkins asked, growing more aroused by the moment as he looked at her firm red nipples perched like fruits on the ends of perfect fleshy melons.
“I want a strong man like you to make love to me,” she moaned softly, slipping to the floor of the cavern onto a thick white rug. She held her hands up toward him with a desperate sexual urgency. When in Rome . . . the archaeologist thought to himself. He dropped to his knees and then on top of this luscious vision of paradise. She took him in her silky arms and kissed him hard. They embraced passionately for several minutes as the Contrary helped him off with his clothing and took his stiff member in her warm hands, cradling it like a sacred sword. At last, the archaeologist went to enter her but she stopped him.
“I’m contrary, remember—we do it my way.” She pushed him on his back and, getting on top of him, facing away, she pressed the aroused organ into her spread lips. She slid up and down him for several minutes, moaning with delight and then came to a furious orgasm, collapsing in a heap on top of him. After several seconds she rose and lay on top of him, this time face to face. She kissed him deeply and thanked him.
“So good, so good,” she said with a big smile. “Now for your pleasure. I want you to close your eyes,” she said coyly, “for my sexual surprise.” She pushed him down onto a pillow, and Perkins closed his eyes, waiting in ecstatic anticipation. He felt her take hold of his enlarged member and kiss it and then . . . Oh my God, something was happening down there. So painful, so painful! He opened his eyes and tried to reach forward but the exquisite sensations of what she was doing knocked him back. He could feel the blood pouring from down there, as a silver fire ripped through his center. Then he passed out.
The Contrary stood up, looking at the dying man on the white rug below her now mottled with streams of bright red blood. She smiled a smile of inscrutable mystery and looked at her prize. In her left hand she held a foot long curved dagger as sharp as a razor still streaked with red. In her right she held the archaeologist’s manhood: stem, roots, and testicles high in the air. Hers! All hers! She would add it to her collection. She walked away from the freefighter who was already dead from shock. The rug was ruined but there were more, so many more.
That evening Rock prepared himself for his interview with the Ginsberg—the special fifteen minutes of teaching that all the monks had been vying for for years. He was concerned about Perkins who had been out nearly the entire day and usually returned for meals. He shouldn’t worry—the archaeologist was probably digging up some dinosaur bone or something in one of the pueblos to bring back to the Century City museum. Trickster came with five maidens of honor, their hair braided with flowers and they accompanied him to the sacred temple.
He entered through the large bronze doors of the Ginsberg’s private chamber and walked up to the Master. The Ginsberg stared at him for a long time as if looking at an extremely odd species of life. Finally he shrugged his shoulder and said, “Sit over there.” He joined Rockson on an adjoining chair and poured them both a cup of jasmine tea. As they drank he began speaking.
“You know how the world tried to ward off the great atomic doomsday?” the Ginsberg asked, taking a sip of the golden brew.
“Yes—the Mad policy,” Rock replied.
“Correct—you are well read, Rockson. The Mutually Assured Destruction Plan—whereby there was roughly a balance of power between the Russians and the Americans. Only when it became lopsided—with the killer satellite network of the Soviets did the war occur. So is the human body and mind like this—in balance, without which it will explode into annhilation. But in the body there are five elements to be balanced: earth, air, fire, water, and space. And the five colors red, blue, black, white, and gold as well; they must be in balance—in a single harmony of one of them will take over and destroy the others. Such is the way of all things.”
“I see,” Rock said, trying to understand the Ginsberg’s words.
“This limitless war against the Reds that you’re engaged in. Are you attached to it? Do you truly hate the Russians?”
“In a sense. At least as long as they are here. Once they leave, then I don’t know. I’d have to see,” Rock responded.
“Ah, so, you are not blinded by hate. Good. You are familiar to me, Rock-son. We have met in another time, another life.”
“Perhaps, but I have no such memory.”
“Ah yes, Rock-son—always straightforward. Good, very good. Life is a straight whiskey—without chaser. You Rock-son are a son of rock—hard and solidly founded upon the ground.” Rockson said nothing. “Ask more,” demanded the Ginsberg.
“What is the truth?” Rockson asked.
“Ah, Rock-son. The truth is that there is not any relative truth. All things which arise depend on the five elements. All phenomena is the mere display of secret-in-itself unobstructed mind. True mind. When we do not recognize that all things are the wisdom-display, we fall into the hell of clinging to this and that. With our mistaken concepts having arisen we then divide things into good and bad. Thus the wheel of greater-time spins on infinitely pushed on by misconception. Through unenlightened mind, ignorance through the eons has accumulated much karma. This is because people and animals in previous lives failed to recognize the essential truth. They commit wrong acts, furthering their misunderstandings and leading to even lower births on the wheel of life with even less chance of understanding. Rock-son, accumulate merit, work for peace, for the time when freedom is more possible for the human mind. Heed well brave Doomsday Warrior, for doomsday is everyday and all around us.”
“That’s a mouthful,” Rockson replied.
“Yes, it fills my mouth,” the Ginsberg replied smiling. “Now come on, you won the contest, you get to ask some more relative-truth questions.”
“Why did you hit me?”
“I felt like it,” the Ginsberg replied.
“Where is Perkins?”
“He is dead. Or rather he is not among the living.”
“What?” Rock jumped to his feet, his face chalk white. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“He ran afoul of the Law of the Contraries.”
“What’s that?” Rockson asked, hardly believing that Perkins, whom he had known for over ten years, could be dead.
“A maiden he had carnal knowledge of was a Contrary—a sacred dancer of the temple. Th
is is blasphemy.”
“But Perkins wouldn’t rape anyone.”
“He didn’t—you see—she asked for it. The Contraries, as penance for their actions, take a pledge to say and do everything backwards. Your friend, by the laws of the Crazy Alligators, could not have sex with her, but he did.”
“Why didn’t she say no?”
“She did, by saying the opposite. And once he had slept with her, she carried out the law—castration.”
“Oh God,” Rockson said, putting his hand to his mouth. “I’ve had enough of all this insanity. Why can’t anyone speak or do anything straight around here? We’re leaving this Goddamn place tonight.” With that he tore out of the sacred temple, sending guards at the bronze doors flying in all directions.
“Wait, Rock-son, don’t leave yet. You must ask me more. We were just getting going. It’s been years. Goddamn it come back. I’m so bored.” The Ginsberg yelled out after the departing freefighter, who didn’t look back.
Twenty-One
Rockson found McCaughlin and Kim back in their rooms and told them to pack immediately, that they were leaving right away.
“What the hell’s wrong, Rock?” McCaughlin asked. “I’ve never seen you like this?” The Doomsday Warrior looked down at the stone floor, his eyes misting over.
“Ah, damn it, they killed Perkins.” Rockson explained the story as the Ginsberg had told him.
“But we’ve got to do something, Rockson,” the big man said. “We can’t just let them get away with this.”
“There’s nothing to do,” Rock said bitterly. “It’s just their ways—their stupid crazy ways. We can’t take on a whole culture. I just wish we’d never stumbled onto these people, let them live out their lives and we, ours. But now Perkins is gone. A victim of cultural miscommunication.”