A Dispatch From ENTROPOLIS

Woke up swallowing my own blood again today. It made me gag and wretch so hard my vision wobbled and my skull felt like a fucking IUD went off inside it. I tore some tattered curtains into adhoc bandages so I could keep my innards from spilling out and tripping me whenever I moved. It’s funny that when one of us conscripts is in Entropolis we can be wounded as if we were alive, but back in the Fake we’re like fucking zombies. 

It’s impossible to tell how long I’ve been entrenched here in the Branch Inn. Time’s all fucked up in The Warzone. Seems that a cadre of pain-in-ass soldier demons took it upon themselves to claim this shitty little tavern as their own personal sadistic pet project. I’d come to this dive in order to “go AWOL”, so to speak, but when I got here, I was taken totally by surprise by them. The little fuckers. Visibility in The Warzone is shit under any circumstances, but it’s even harder to spot soldier demons. You can only see them when they open their hideous little maws. When the brimstone shines out like red-orange flares obscured by a forest of malformed teeth. And they only open their mouths when they attack. And by then it’s too fucking late; you might as well cozy up to the idea spending eternity in Il Purgatorio. And, since the nearest point of exit was about a mile west and up a bridge from here, the thought was looking sunnier by the eternal moment.  

  I don’t even know how I got past them, but once I was inside I hid in the rotted freezer for what seemed like an eon. Then I systematically tested every filthy inch of that condemned place for weaknesses in their blockade. Every door, every window, every possible hole. Hence the rotten bandages keeping my intestines from trailing behind me like something out of Clive Barker’s head. (I hear he writes propaganda for THE LIGHT, but it’s probably just more Divine bullshit.) 

I would say that being in Entropolis is like being in Hell, but the only ones who know for certain what Hell is truly like aren’t talking. Maybe the SubRasa has some kind of nondisclosure policy? Maybe that’s what keeps them in business? The only thing I know for certain, squatting here in this fucking umbral wasteland, is that Nick the Black better send some fucking help, or I’ll never see another sunny day, even if it’s only an illusion of Divine Providence. 

About what seemed like the 1000th day of my internment, if that’s even the right phrase, or even the right estimate, there was a peculiar light shining through one of the western-facing windows. It reminded me of every description St. Elmo’s Fire I’ve ever read; a sort of ghostly flickering campfire. When I went to the window to investigate, I heard the unmistakable sounds of battle filtering through the broken glass. There was the sound of a gun, only it was drenched in some strange flanging cadence. Also, I heard shouting from a throat that was definitely not that of those trying to end me. The conflict seemed to go on for days, and at several points, I thought I heard my own name being called. 

It was all so surreal to me. I mean, who knows how fucking long I’d been absconded in that place? The shifty smoky bastards had plenty of time to work up a fantastic mindfuck in order to confuse me. So I stayed put, until I heard that voice, the one that sounded human and not like some steel barrel being torn apart by a chainsaw, shout, “Bella, are you in there?!” There was no way that these demons knew my name, being that names are unimportant to their agenda. Following an immeasurable moment of consideration, I finally screamed, “Yes! I’m in here!” 

Another eternity passed before the man outside shouted, “I think I can keep them off, so get your ass out the back exit!”

“Then what?”

“Then we’ll do a round of ‘Row Row Row Your Boat’, what the fuck do you think?!” a brief pause, then, “We can run up the alley and get the fuck--” he paused, and I heard a loud noise like the hammer of a blacksmith on molten steel, “GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!”

I ran around the right side of the bar, made my way through the restaurant and slammed my shoulder into the rear eastern exit, taking me outside. I could see the sun in it’s half-eclipse directly overhead, and then a sudden flash of that eerie light as a tall man in a dark trench coat ran around the corner of the building from Union, that same light blossoming from his hands. I heard him scream ‘RUN!’, and I did just that. We ran around the corner of the tavern, turning west down the alley in the rear. The stranger’s hands flashed wildly behind him as we did so. In the peculiar half-light, I could barely make out, in my peripheral vision, the blurred cobalt smoke of our pursuers, as we both made a mad dash for the end of the alley, which was a few blocks from the bridge that meant our salvation. so to speak.

Almost comically, the smoky fuckers seemed to lose interest in us the closer we made it to the bridge that spanned the Rio Grande River. And once we were over the river entirely, their pursuit was stopped completely. We jogged a few more steps before we realized that the skirmish was over. After sucking in a couple of deep breaths, I finally was able to take in face of my liberator. He was nearly two heads taller than me, wearing a black knit cap on his head. He sported a narrow soul patch running the length of his chin, and looked like something out of a music video. The kind of video you’d see at 1AM on MTV in 1996. Long dark coat, old ratty T-shirt that said something like Warlord Piñatas, but a Raiders logo & black cargo’s tucked into worn military issue boots.

“Hey, what’s your name?” I asked the guy who pulled me out of my last stand.

“Doesn’t matter”, he said, looking down at my midriff, diagnosing my wound. He then slipped off his shirt, being careful not to upset his cover, and tore it in half. Wincing regretfully, I might add, and wrapped it around my stomach like an adhoc bandage.

“Thanks.” I spat through my teeth, as the pain melted into me like a spider-bite from hell. 

“Yeah”, he said, pointing up the hill from the bridge, “see that weird light coming from around that corner up there? That’s where we cross over.”

“Okay man”, I gritted, “lead the way.” I felt like I was going to pass out.

Without another word, he slipped his arm behind my wobbly legs and picked me up like a sack of potatoes and started up the hill.

Everything from then until now, as I became numbly awake, is a black mark on my memory. My eyes opened onto bright light, which made the scene a blur of dark moving shapes. I heard a muffled voice tell me to may bill, or was it lay still? 

As my vision clarified, I recognized one of the dark shapes hovering over me. It was Nick.

“You’re free and clear, Bella.” 

And, for the first time in years, I felt the sensation of warm tears run down my cheeks. 

dunking booth

I'm not sure that I've reached the precipice, because I'm terrified of heights & I've stayed far back from the edge. However, from my pusillanimous perch, I can sort of see the night-time landscape stretched out beyond the ledge I avoided. 

It looks like a circus tent, viewed from the vantage of trapeze flyers who know the game already. They know that their net is beneath them, whereas the audience knows no such safety. 

The audience is lost to their terror, borne of the unknown enforced upon them by the seemingly flailing performers above them. The performers who, due to the nature of their performance, gleefully, nay, willingly inflict said terror upon the paying masses below them.

  

E X I G U O U S

drifting isn't quite the word. I lack the vocabulary to describe my current frame of mind, and I pride myself on my fucking vocabulary. You ever feel like a dust mop in a gravel pit? Masking-tape in a junkyard? Here's one: have you ever felt like the one cracked wrung on a wooden ladder? 

it may sound melodramatic to you, but I honestly hope that the Mayans had it right, and not just some fluke of ancient superstition, combined with antediluvian mathematics. Let's put some much-needed punctuation at the end of this run-on sentence, shall we?   

SCHMALTZ ADVERTISING

I just saw a Subway commercial while watching last night's Hawaii 5-0. While that may not sound strange at all, let me just mention that it was WRITTEN INTO THE EPISODE. I saw the same thing on an episode of Bones, where they started extolling the virtues of her new fucking car. (Look, it has a camera, so you can see the look on the face of the person you just ran over while backing up!) 

Remember when product placement was some what more subtle, to the point where you could almost make a drinking game out of it, or something? Those were the days. Now I half expect to watch Horatio on CSI: MIAMI sweep off his shades & tell the perp, "Maybe you should've had a V8?"

The Ransomed Atheist

I have reached a bleak point in my life where I have made the realization that I am an atheist. Not due to some horrible life-changing event, or dark epiphany. No. It has been the long traversal of an endless black road of things which have accumulated into said realization. There was no cynicism involved, because I was a cynic way back when I was still a "believer". 

I simply cannot adhere anymore to any line of thought or philosophy which supports the idea of an omnipotent being that created our world through the means & edicts presented by the collective norm known as The Bible. 

It simply makes no sense to me anymore. At all. In any way. 

And, did I mention that it just doesn't gel with me?

Seriously, the idea of Ancient Astronauts, with their evidence presented, makes more sense to me than any description of any religion at all.   

ENTROPOLIS: the Ozric Tentacles T-Shirt

I can always tell when someone’s calling me from there. While the tone remains the same (a shit-quality edit of “Everyday Is Halloween”), I can actually feel the call resonate somewhere deeper than any ‘vibrate’ function I could assign. It’s impossible to ignore, but that doesn’t stop me from really trying. Around the fifth ring I felt like I might vomit kittens from my ears, so I pulled my cellphone from the inside pocket of my black London Fog, and jabbed the green button.

Since I didn’t recognize the number (I never do when the call comes from there), I said, “Who the FUCK is this, and what the FUCK do you want?” I tried to make it sound courteous.

“Thomas,” the voice I recognized, he’s known as Nick the Black (why?), and I don’t know that much about him, other than the fact that he seems to be on a team of one.

“Nick, right? Why are you calling me, I don’t know anything.”

“Thomas, we need to meet. Midnight at the Denny’s on Bijou. I know I don’t have to worry about you not coming alone.”

“Look Nick, I--”

“Just fucking be there, okay.” He paused. “I’m sorry, it’s simply that you are the only one of THEM that I know I can categorically trust.” He always talks that way. Whatever.

“Okay, see you at 12. Don’t worry about it.” I jabbed the red button. Roughly 30 seconds went by as I stood motionless in the middle of my dismal little studio apartment, and thought about it. Then I went to my call history and redialed the number of my last incoming call. Two rings and,

“Yes?” said Nick the Black, with slight condescension in his voice.

“Which Denny’s on Bijou, the regular one, or the one in - er, you know…?”

“The ‘regular one’. Don’t worry, I’m not sending you into the belly of the beast, Mr. Haydee.” I wondered how he knew my last name, but wasn’t surprised that he did.

“Right. Cheers.”

Since my conscription nearly two years ago, I’ve mysteriously had no need of a job, or food or sleep for that matter.  Consequently, I tend to spend the bulk of my day doing fuck-all. Unless, of course, my duties require me to do otherwise. Say, like playing the scared-shitless-straight routine on some teen fuckhead from the suburban wastes who decided that Anton Lavey was ‘the shiznit’, or eliminate some rogue night-bumper who can’t seem to follow the SubRasa’s rules of conduct. (The SubRasa has always felt that they get better numbers through ready supply and careful noninterventionism. Unlike my bosses, who feel it necessary to have their bloody wings dipped into every dark jagged chasm of puerile human existence they possibly can.) 

Anyway, I suppose it was convenient that I’ve always had a preternaturally high threshold for boredom. It comes in handy when one has an acute lack of things with which to occupy oneself. Today, for instance, waiting 12 hours for the meeting with Nick the Black, and having absolutely nothing to fill the interim. I can’t smoke or drink or fuck and, as I mentioned, I have no need for nourishment nor sleep, so that leaves little to do but sit in the dark like Howard Hughes by way of George Romero. Such is life in the tide pool.

Midnight came in the form of a menstrual October sky, complete with a cold bitching wind, not that I feel the cold anymore. These days I always arrive for my meetings early, so Nick found me waiting in a corner booth with an untouched glass of water in front of me. He sat down and I said,

“Order something, will ya? So they don’t kick us out.”

Shivering, he said, “Christ, the autumns seem to be getting worse every century. Nice to see you again too, Thomas. Excuse me, miss? Some coffee please?”

“So what’s with the cloak & dagger bullshit, Nick? I thought the Fake World was neutral territory.”

“Technically it is but--,” he paused and sat up at 90º as the waitress poured his coffee, and after refusing cream, he continued, “but don’t think for one damned second that THE LIGHT doesn’t break their own rules. I called you because you’re new to the game, and ignorance equals trust. With that in mind, I need your help.”

He sipped from his cup and waited for my reply, so I took a moment to study him. He wasn’t what you would call strapping. Roughly in the 5’5” range, he looked to have a bit of native blood in him with a pinch of something else, but I didn’t know what. His hair was long, tightly curled and, of course, black. His fashion sense seemed to date back the Victorian Age: long frock coat, slim trousers, collared shirt with vest; all black save the shirt, which was wine red. Nick the Black looked like someone whose eyes should dart around nervously like some horrible spy-villain stereotype, but they were like two tranquil pools of oil. 

I guess he took my silence as a request for details, because he said, “Other than your knowledge of my neutrality, do you know what it is that I do? I don’t suppose that you would, considering the extent of your time in the trenches of this Cold War. I am what you might call a facilitator. As in, I facilitate conscripts, like you, in the transition from The War into a state of neutrality, like my own. It’s a sort of divine blind spot, if you will.”

We sat in silence for a stretch as what he said began to sink into the quicksand of my brain. My eyes widened, “Holy fuck, you mean to tell me that---”

“Yes Thomas, I can give you your life back, to a degree. But I need your help first.”

“First, or in exchange for?”

“I guess it depends on how you look at. The point is, you seem to straddle the fence a bit more that your usual conscript. Normally they just kneel and do what they’re told, because they’re handlers make it seem as if they have no choice. However, what the bastards seem to forget is that, unlike them, we still have souls. Even after conscription.”

I scratched at my goatee, “Yeah, that fucker Icthiel told me pulling that trigger pretty much gave me no fucking alternative. Serve, or be damned.” I suddenly wished that I could smoke again. “So, if I do this and you make me neutral, what happens to this?” I pointed at the plain black beanie that covered my head. (Of course, I wasn’t pointing at the beanie, but the bandage-wrapped wounds that hid beneath it.)

“Well, how do I put this? The process is somewhat like re-animation, so your wounds would have to be healed in order for you to survive.” He pronounced ‘wounds’ in italics. “You would look like you did before your conscription.”

If my body still worked the way a normal human body did, I’d have felt light-headed and slightly nauseous. It’s been nearly two years since that bitch drove me over the edge, and I put that fucking revolver to my head. Twenty-two months since Icthiel came into my hole at the Albany Apartments and took my death away from me. I would say that my existence has been hell since then, but that’s not what side I’m on (and damn me if I don’t regret it sometimes). Their rectitude has kept me as a lapdog, and here is my way to break the leash. No more fucking P.R. errands, no more killing freaks, no more dealing with their sanctimonious horeshit.

Icthiel and Carthiel and all the other asshole seraphs have always hated us. Ever since He gave us that problematic accessory we call a SOUL. They sit around molting, or whatever the fuck, and wait for one of us to do the self-administered dirt nap so they have one more monkey for the Celestial Hurdy Gurdy. For a bunch of soulless assholes, these guys sure know their schadenfreude.

Okay, now I’m pissed. And intrigued. I’m pisstrigued, if you will.

“Alright, Nick the Black, what do you need from me?” 

He must have seen the wheels turning behind my eyes, because he smiled. Then he looked once around the room, giving slight credence to my earlier assessment of his eyes, and said, “I need you to get in touch with your old friend Kosnar.”

I blinked. “Kosnar? Why that old cellar dweller? What, do you need a Spock’s Beard mix, or something?”

Nick then explained to me that my old absinthe buddy just happened to be a courier for the SubRasa. (Someone’s going to get a cold from all the doors opening lately.) And, the reason that he needed me to get in touch with him was because Kosnar knew the locations of the SubRasa’s safe houses, and that he needed to get a friend of his into one while he prepared to do his neutrality thing.

“Alright,” I said after a moment pregnant with sextuplets, “let me get this straight. You basically need my buddy to smuggle your buddy into an enemy safe house. Basically, you’re asking me to risk treason and possible banishment to Il Purgatorio. And, basically you think that we can pull this out of our collective ass without seriously pissing off the odds-on favorite. Well, basically I think that this is batshit fucking crazy.”

“Don’t give yourself an embolism, it’s not as thorny as it sounds. Once we get my friend to the safe house, I’ll have the luxury of time to prepare my rituals for two conscripts, you and Bella. There’s only one minor problem…” I did not like the look of his ellipses. “Currently, she’s absconded  at The Branch Inn. The one in Entropolis.”

My shoulders slumped loquaciously, “Of course she is.” I sighed, “Fuck.” 

If someone were to put a gun to my temple (besides myself, of course), and glean from me a shortlist of my absolute least favorite places in the known universe, the top two milieus would be thus: Pueblo, and Entropolis. In that order. The loathing I feel for my hometown is well known, nigh legendary. In fact, a clipping from the local independent newspaper, which a friend had given me, best illustrates my feeling. It’s a black and white photo of a foggy highway stretching away on to nothing, and next to it is a large sign that reads: END OF THE EARTH - 56 MILES, PUEBLO - 60 MILES. Until now, Pueblo existed on a list of one (Albuquerque came close to the list, but that’s neither here nor there), but that was until I went to Entropolis.

The Warzone. The Real World. The Ruins of Eden, and the chosen site of The Cold War. There are more names, but these are the ones I’ve learned so for during the last few years of my conscription. But regardless of how many monikers the place has picked up over the centuries, I simply call it The Shithole. For one thing, it’s filthy. Think of Oakland on its worst day ever, only sitting under a perpetual half-eclipse. If my body was still capable of migraines, I would have one every time I went there. (One of the few elements of my situation for which I’m thankful.) I avoid going there as much as possible. Kind of like going in to work on your day-off, except that you work in a stinking abattoir from hell. Literally, in some places. It’s not as if I’m unfamiliar with war zones, considering my time in the army, back in ‘92. I cringe to think of what The Shithole is like over in Eastern Europe. So much bloody history there, so much horror. I cringe to think of what it must be like for a conscript in that part of the world.

Pueblo, for me, is just a mammoth abysmal closet full of skeletons. But Entropolis is a horrid reminder of every detestable thing I’ve ever done and every detestable thing I’ve yet to do, all in the name of “righteousness”. Both places, on some level, represent a living hell for me, and Nick the Black has just asked me to take a tour with him. I merely hope that the means justify the end.

Nick gave me a day to prepare for what came next. Basically that just meant that I would have a little time to sit in my apartment, maybe listen to some Skinny Puppy, and fucking stew. 

Before we left the Denny’s, I asked him how we were getting down to the Blo (that’s what we call it). I tend to not have any form of transportation, unless I’m on ‘assignment’, whereby it is provided. He said, “Don’t worry, I have a driver.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I was pretty sure that I didn’t like the sound of it. Whatever, least of my worries I suppose. 

At approximately 10 in the morning a Studebaker Hawk, which had definitely seen better decades, pulled up in front of The Albany Apartments and honked. I hate it when people honk. Nick, who was in the backseat, waved me over. I stepped across the sidewalk, dodging crazies and yuppies alike, and climbed into the shotgun position. Apoptygma Berzerk was playing on the stereo, when Nick said, “Thomas, this is Phil. He will be our chauffer.” Phil was a member of the Adolescent Suburban Goth Club, at first glance. Bleached hair spiked up impossibly tall from his perfect bony head. Studded leather bracelets hung too big from his thin wrists. Black and red plaid bondage pants and a brand new VNV Nation baby doll tee. Yep, A.S.G.C. all the way. Guess Nick picks his friends from the usual miscreant cadre at The Church in Denver. The expected lingering scent of clove smoke hung in the air. Great. 

“Hey.” I said.

“You’ll have to tell me where to go when we hit Pew Town.”

“Yeah.” I barely said. Being as I always go prepared, I handed him a Neon Judgement tape and said, “Pop this in, will you?” A little culture never hurt anybody.

He sniffed, “I guess.”

We hit Bijou a minute later, then I25 South and rode in near silence, only the sounds of ‘Blood and Thunder’ pulsing from the speakers, for almost a half an hour. Then Nick said from the backseat, “When we get to Kosnar’s, you need to tell Phil how to get to the 400 block of Lacrosse.”

“Sure.” I said, then, “What the fuck is on Lacrosse?”

Nick looked out the window with a Yoda-esque expression, “Your future Thomas.”

“Hold up,” shifting in my seat to look at him, “you’re not coming with me?”

“I have to prepare, Thomas. I thought we discussed this.”

“I guess I’m confused.” I said irritated. “I thought you were coming with me to get your friend, then I would take her to Kosnar’s safe house, and we would wait for you to do your thing.” I glanced at Phil, he seemed uninterested.

“Shit, Thomas, I’m sorry for your confusion, but I thought you would see the sense in allowing me time to make everything as ready as possible.”

My eyes played shutterbug, “Fuck, man, I’m not even -” I looked at Phil again, “armed. I can’t carry the implements when I’m, you know, off the clock.”

Nick waved his hand, “Calm down, we’ve got you covered.” He produced a small leather satchel from the floor and handed it to me over the seat. I reached for it like the thing was a porno, and I was a Mormon on my mission. Inside the satchel was, what looked like, a vintage 1938 Luger, and some spare ammo. 

I looked at Nick the Black like he was selling beach front property to Katrina survivors. “Who do you think I am, Lee-motherfucking-Marvin?”

He was incredulous. “But…didn’t you fight in Sarajevo back in ‘92?”

“Yeah, with 15 other guys and all of us were loaded for bear. Fuck, man, I spent most of my time playing hearts in an old café with the owner, who wasn’t nearly as scared shitless as we were.” I shook my head like there was a monkey trying to fuck me in the ear. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to Nick, but I’m definitely not some goddamn undead Rambo.”

Phil actually had to pretend he wasn’t interested. Nick, however, sat back with his arms folded like a spoiled 3 year old. And for the first time in the few dealings I’ve had with him, he showed me some of the colors he kept hidden in his vintage frock. Something had appeared to click behind his oily eyes. He said, “well, Thomas, if you want to slough off the shackles of Heaven, I guess that you must figure out a way to become Lee-motherfucking-Marvin, and get me my Bella. Unless, that is, you don’t particularly mind being a slave to The Light.”

It was my turn to be incredulous. I suddenly felt like I was a tad bit out of my depth. If I manage to make it out of this fiasco with my soul intact, I vowed two things: one, I would never again underestimate Nick the Black; and two, that I was going to kick his scrawny neutral ass.

Once we hit Pueblo, and after keeping up with my tradition of leaning out the window and screaming, “I DON’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE!”, I proffered Phil with directions to Kosnar’s place. His mom’s house sat square in the middle of one of those blocks that you might see in a tourist pamphlet marked historical. Well, as historical as a town that’s only been around for a little over a hundred years could possibly get. After having been gone for as long as I’ve been, the place looks to me, upon returning, like a town that might’ve once been beautiful. But now, all the beauty has been siphoned away by intellectual myopia, listlessness and blue-collar complacency. As well as being rotted from the inside out by alcohol, drugs and religion. And not necessarily in that order. Every other street looks like the scene of a murder.

However, Kosnar’s street happens to not be one of them.

After a few jabs of the doorbell, and a bout of loud yelling and pounding, Malcolm Kosnar opened the front door and peered out like Gollem from that one trilogy. At least two heads shorter than me, slightly pear-shaped with long red hair and small goatee, Kosnar actually looked more like Sméagol. Either way, he didn’t get much sun.

His eyes bulged when he saw my face, and said, “Aw, man! What the fuck are you doing here?” 

“Nice to fuckin’ see you too, dick. I thought you’d be happy to know your old buddy wasn’t cacked.”

“Cut the shit, Thomas, I know who you’re working for now.”

“Not my fucking choice, man.”

“Not my fucking problem, man.” he said in his familiar whining mock. I resisted the urge to sock him in the nose.

“Just let me in for a  minute, what’s the big goddamn deal?” 

“The big deal is that you and yours are sort of persona non grata to me and mine. So, begging your pardon, but please to be fucking off now.” He started to close the door, but I stuck my boot in like an old salesman cliché. 

“Wait, Kosnar, I need your help.”

He waited a few seconds, then, “Tell me why I should risk it, Thomas. Because, unlike you guys, I can get hurt still. So, tell me why I should risk grievous bodily harm.”

“I’ll fucking tell you, but not out here.”

Malcolm continued to eye me wearily, not budging his pudginess, so I resorted to bribery. 

“Alright, Malcolm. You know that Ozric Tentacles shirt I’ve been holding over your hobbit ass for years now? Well if you let me in, it’s yours.”

After wiping his palms on his paisley robe and convincing me to show him the grievous head wound I keep hidden underneath my black knit cap, he finally fucking let me in. 

  

 

    

H E L L O my name is Q Kelly (or, Epic Fail Sustantivo) [submission excerpt]

52...

Such an innocuous digit. Except, perhaps, the fact that there are fifty-two weeks in a year (give or take a day or two). Week. Which sounds like ‘weak’.  A word that my harpy of a therapist has used, more than once, to describe the kind of person that I happen to be. But anyway, getting back to the subject at hand, 52 happens to be the number of days in which I have managed to remain sober. 

Sober. In the face of all the trappings that coincide with my particular means of income. Sober, in the face of an entire battalion of Confederate soldiers; all of whom want me to deliver correspondences to their families. Sober, while facing down Flight 19, and having to tell every one of them that the WAR has been over for decades, and that they were lost due to a temporal anomaly. Sober, in the face of a human history populated by individuals who happen to be dead, and who happen to only find answers from people like me. Yeah, staying sober, in the face of such things, just happens to be easy. Easy. Like living in this world is easy. But, like my therapist would say, I am dwelling on the past. In which case, I now divulge the present…

…where I am standing in the pregnant shadows of a long-abandoned storefront, staring at a building almost eight decades old. The building in question was almost exactly where Danny said it would be. Or rather, where his “contacts” said it would be. Some undisclosed location in Yuma County. These Depression Era ghost towns all look the same after awhile; all charred wood and rotten plaster and generic tragedy. And, of course, my eyes see them all a bit differently than most eyes. Families shuffling doomed and forsaken, trying to find food, any food. Men, who once were proud to eek out a living with their scarred and calloused hands, now lost and useless in a land whose promise lies broken in the dust at their feet. Sometimes, I can even see bodies, now long given to the aforementioned dust, lying in the streets like so much American discard. Thank fucking Whatever, I’ve managed to fade it all out of my singular vision, or else I’d never get anything done. It’s rather difficult to earn with my talents, when you’re ensconced in some puzzle factory, wishing the goddamn projectionist would stop the ghastly slideshow in your skull long enough for you to wipe the drool from your chin. 

Anyway, I ruminated long enough, so I walked across the road to my objective; my favorite custom Doc Martens kicking up dust like dirty grey fractals in the light of the waxing moon. I ran my palms down the outer seams of my favorite dark green cargos. It was a habit I’d picked, seemingly unconscious now, to insure that the two thin strips of iron I’d sewn into the outer seams were in place. About the size of grade school rulers, these strips insure that no Fae in my immediate area would pick up on my energy and decide to nose in on my scene. They’re not particularly dangerous, I simply don’t feel like dealing with them. Kinda like walking around a crowded metropolitan area, and maneuvering across the street when you spot a spanger up the block, accosting passersby. There was just enough of the stuff to throw off my ‘scent’, but not enough to impede a hasty departure, if the need for one ever arose. It was a little something my pal Danny in Colorado turned me onto after I’d had a couple of jobs almost go indelibly south because some overly curious local pixie tried to horn in on the action, or simply wanted to see what all the pretty lights were about. 

For once, I didn’t require my tools to enter the premises. I spent about an hour carefully making my way through the entire structure, up less-than-sturdy stairs & down again. The entire time, opening myself to the psychic leftovers within, coating the walls like the decades-worth of nicotine residue. Eventually I realized that the initial room in which I first entered had the most pull. The strongest signal. I had a fairly good idea how to find what I was looking for by the weather-worn placard on the door which vaguely said, “ARKADIN’S BOARDING HOUSE”. So, I took the Position of Inquiry and called out to St. Monica, the Patron Saint of Alcoholics. It doesn’t take much with her, you know, “O ye of the burning liver…” And so on. Once the incantations were coughed out (my throat was incredibly dry) I waited another five minutes to be sure that there were no scumfuck opportunistic shades in the vicinity, ready to try and grift me. Then I produced a small pocket knife from my cargos and slit an efficient gash down the palm of my left hand. It hurt like a sonofabitch. Always does. (You see, these spooks don’t give a rat’s ass what kind of blade you use, or what you say; they just want you to know that they are there. So, really, anybody with the right kind of esoteric knowledge could pull this shit off. Just don’t spread it around; trade secrets, and all that rigamariga.) 

My blood pooled upon the dust-caked ceramic flooring, making an interesting shape; resembling, perhaps, a breeching orca. I stood still, my arms fixed at my kidneys, with my bleeding left palm upward. After maybe 40 seconds the pool of blood, somewhat resembling an oil-slick reflecting a red traffic light, began to quiver. It did so for another 90 or so seconds, before it sent sanguine tendrils across the floor, which coalesced into a single rippling stream. Said tiny river of my blood raced across the tile work of the floor toward the southeast corner of the room, doing a sort of liquid stutter as it negotiated the tiles. I’m sure you’ve seen Terminator 2. Same thing, only with blood instead of that mercury-type stuff. 

I barely contained my surprise when the crimson rivulet, now with a silty-silver veneer like sand on an oil slick, sluiced its way under the door of a supply closet. After wrapping my southpaw in a bandana, which I would later burn for obvious reasons, I stepped toward the door, careful not to interrupt the stream. Mostly because it would pinpoint my quarry, but also because I hate getting anything on my boots. Fuckers cost me lots.  There was enough moonlight coming in through the glassless windows to see by thus far, but the inside of the closet was blacker than my lawyer’s heart. (Yuk yuk. I’ll be here all week.)  From another pocket I produced a small LED flashlight and shined it into the murk. Inside was what you would expect: a filing cabinet along the right wall with a broom propped up against it and some sagging wooden shelves along the left. Everything draped in the requisite robes of cobwebs. “Old as the hills, and twice as dusty.” as Danny would say. My blood had flowed to a small point directly in front of all this. Interestingly enough, at least to me, the pool vaguely resembled the fountain outside the Bellagio.  

There was the expected brick-a-brack, but on the top shelf, nestled as if the nestler wasn’t all that concerned about proper stashing procedures, was a small box. I unwrapped the injured hand and briefly held it over the box, palm down. A single drop of blood dripped upon it and, for an instant, I felt like I was picking my teeth with a toothpick made of tinfoil. Thus, as they say in the old vernacular, bingo. 

I took the item in question from its failed hiding place and discovered, to my *sigh* surprise, that it was a cigar box; the word ‘PANATELA’ was barely legible beneath about 70 years’ worth of dust. The contents were merely vaguely surprising: some old foreign coins, an ivory comb (which would probably make an interesting episode of Antiques Roadshow) and a folded handkerchief. I could barely make out the embroidered words, backwards, which read, ‘POKÓJ JEST Z WAMI’. While all of this was exceedingly interesting and valuable, what I was looking for was at the very bottom of the box. Beneath the various minutiae there was a postcard. The picture, which was facing up, was an old painting of St. Sebastian, bristling with arrows like a cubicle cactus. You might think that, due to the metaphysical way in which I located this particular item, that the picture would be of some significance. You would be wrong. It is the message, written in near-perfect English cursive, upon the back of the postcard which is the entire reason for my current commission. I used the belly part of my MUFON T-SHIRT to wipe the grime away, and read: “MY ETERNAL THANKS FOR GUARDING THAT WHICH IS PENULTIMATE.  -  N. Tesla” 

I had no way of knowing if Nikola Tesla had actually written and sent this postcard. Nor did I give three shakes. My only concern was to get this thing to my client, who was paying me handsomely to do so. And by ’handsomely’, I meant six digits of fucking handsome. 

I reached into the army surplus medical bag (lots of handy pockets) slung over my shoulder and pulled out a small silvery self-adhesive envelope, the kind the digimancers at Microsoft use to shuffle around their silicon whatevers. I slipped the postcard inside and sealed it. Another day at the office, mí přátelé. (Ok, now I’m just showing off.)