There was one room in the home of Claude and Agnes Bullock of Somerset, Kentucky that hadn’t changed in years. Various posters and tchotchkes celebrating the basketball exploits of Louisville’s Cardinals adorned half of the room’s real estate. The other half was devoted to classic Chevy muscle cars and a large sample of rock bands from the progressive and heavy metal pantheons. On a small portion of the wall above the room’s lone twin bed was a wooden crucifix. It was in this room the Bullock’s only son, David, first began hearing the voice.
The voice had a name—Ru. If not its full name, at least “Ru” was how the voice wished to be addressed. Ru first spoke to David from the dark southeastern corner of his room. The voice was completely obscured in the midnight shadow. It emanated from below the Uriah Heep album cover pinned to the wall. David swore he could make out what appeared to be two floating drops of oil that would have been Ru’s eyes. When David began responding to Ru, they both quickly came to the conclusion that the room was not the best place to talk.
Launching his dinghy into the eastern fingers of Lake Cumberland near Burnside Island, David would motor his way to a secluded cove on the northern bank to meet with Ru. The submerged town of Lula where David’s grandparents used to live wasn’t far away. It was there in Lula where David’s father was born.
When David first began to talk about the voice to his family, Claude thought it to be David’s clever way of testing him on his own Christian faith. David had always excelled in all academic endeavors including theology. But as time passed and David’s conversations with the voice became more detailed and consuming, Claude’s patience began to disappear. Was heavy metal to blame? Agnes always felt a little uneasy about the music David was into, but Claude refused to believe that music ever had anything to do with what David was going through. As one of the two pastors at the local Methodist church, Claude considered himself part of the open-minded set. Though he would never admit it, Claude took a certain amount of pride in his ability to understand and relate to the alienated younger generation. Back in seminary, his mentors and fellow seminarians piled crap-loads of grief on him for listening to and thoroughly enjoying Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, and other like-minded acts. Music was one of the things Claude and his son tended to agree on. Even after David’s departure, Claude found himself spending time in the virtual universes of the internet to stay connected with his youth ministry—to understand the world the way young eyes would see it. For his son to begin to manifest signs of, dare he think it, demonic possession, was clichéd and absurd.
The list of neuroleptics prescribed for David was long with each drug more difficult to pronounce than the last. Each one was completely ineffective at silencing the voice. Their side effects, however, were quite capable of repelling what few friends David had. With no friends to interfere, David could spend more of his time getting to know the voice.
Claude Bullock was not aware of his son’s rising star on public access television in the Pacific Northwest. Had he known, he would plead with David’s fans to stop indulging a high-functioning schizophrenic man whose affliction was blatantly obvious and in need of treatment. To Brother Dave’s fans, he was a brilliant comedian taking conspiracy theory to the most extreme levels of absurdity. His deadpan was the deadest, and he never broke character. To Brother Dave’s followers though, he was a hero. He was the kind of man daring enough to stand up to a corrupt system by using that system’s own institution to enlighten the masses.
Dave and Pam were serving those masses at SCANTV’s editing facilities scrubbing through the footage from the day’s “press” affair. They weren’t about to rely on the mainstream media to spread their message. The task at hand was to pull out the best sound bites to upload to their website and replay for Friday’s broadcast. Pam noticed Dave was a little too interested in the footage of the post speech glad-handing. He seemed to be looking for something.
“Stop there. There she is. She’s amazing.”
Pam studied the girl and began to picture her in more compromising positions. “I would definitely consider hitting that. Do not tell Missy I just said that.”
“If we could make her part of the team…”
“Sex does sell.”
“It feels like I dreamed her into existence. From the other end of the country, she came here because of THE WORD. I believe she will come to me.”
“Dave, you are not going to let this knock you off your game? We cannot have you losing focus now over a fantasy.”
“There are powers greater than me that will not allow me to veer off course. We serve man by serving those who serve us. The world will know very soon how fragile our existence truly is.”
“Believe me. I cannot wait.”
The voice had a name—Ru. If not its full name, at least “Ru” was how the voice wished to be addressed. Ru first spoke to David from the dark southeastern corner of his room. The voice was completely obscured in the midnight shadow. It emanated from below the Uriah Heep album cover pinned to the wall. David swore he could make out what appeared to be two floating drops of oil that would have been Ru’s eyes. When David began responding to Ru, they both quickly came to the conclusion that the room was not the best place to talk.
Launching his dinghy into the eastern fingers of Lake Cumberland near Burnside Island, David would motor his way to a secluded cove on the northern bank to meet with Ru. The submerged town of Lula where David’s grandparents used to live wasn’t far away. It was there in Lula where David’s father was born.
When David first began to talk about the voice to his family, Claude thought it to be David’s clever way of testing him on his own Christian faith. David had always excelled in all academic endeavors including theology. But as time passed and David’s conversations with the voice became more detailed and consuming, Claude’s patience began to disappear. Was heavy metal to blame? Agnes always felt a little uneasy about the music David was into, but Claude refused to believe that music ever had anything to do with what David was going through. As one of the two pastors at the local Methodist church, Claude considered himself part of the open-minded set. Though he would never admit it, Claude took a certain amount of pride in his ability to understand and relate to the alienated younger generation. Back in seminary, his mentors and fellow seminarians piled crap-loads of grief on him for listening to and thoroughly enjoying Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, and other like-minded acts. Music was one of the things Claude and his son tended to agree on. Even after David’s departure, Claude found himself spending time in the virtual universes of the internet to stay connected with his youth ministry—to understand the world the way young eyes would see it. For his son to begin to manifest signs of, dare he think it, demonic possession, was clichéd and absurd.
The list of neuroleptics prescribed for David was long with each drug more difficult to pronounce than the last. Each one was completely ineffective at silencing the voice. Their side effects, however, were quite capable of repelling what few friends David had. With no friends to interfere, David could spend more of his time getting to know the voice.
Claude Bullock was not aware of his son’s rising star on public access television in the Pacific Northwest. Had he known, he would plead with David’s fans to stop indulging a high-functioning schizophrenic man whose affliction was blatantly obvious and in need of treatment. To Brother Dave’s fans, he was a brilliant comedian taking conspiracy theory to the most extreme levels of absurdity. His deadpan was the deadest, and he never broke character. To Brother Dave’s followers though, he was a hero. He was the kind of man daring enough to stand up to a corrupt system by using that system’s own institution to enlighten the masses.
Dave and Pam were serving those masses at SCANTV’s editing facilities scrubbing through the footage from the day’s “press” affair. They weren’t about to rely on the mainstream media to spread their message. The task at hand was to pull out the best sound bites to upload to their website and replay for Friday’s broadcast. Pam noticed Dave was a little too interested in the footage of the post speech glad-handing. He seemed to be looking for something.
“Stop there. There she is. She’s amazing.”
Pam studied the girl and began to picture her in more compromising positions. “I would definitely consider hitting that. Do not tell Missy I just said that.”
“If we could make her part of the team…”
“Sex does sell.”
“It feels like I dreamed her into existence. From the other end of the country, she came here because of THE WORD. I believe she will come to me.”
“Dave, you are not going to let this knock you off your game? We cannot have you losing focus now over a fantasy.”
“There are powers greater than me that will not allow me to veer off course. We serve man by serving those who serve us. The world will know very soon how fragile our existence truly is.”
“Believe me. I cannot wait.”
- - -
Further South just below Lake Union on the fourteenth floor of the Seattle Municipal Tower, Harry was swimming. He was literally swimming. The lap pool at the athletic club was more convenient and many degrees warmer than the waters of Puget Sound. Harry had planned a kayaking excursion for the next day, but with a red folder hanging over his head, the kayaking would have to wait. Harry felt entitled to a little dip before cracking open what could be a long assignment.
His stroke was automatic. Harry’s mind was free to wander. His thoughts raced right back to his last red folder assignment. It wasn’t a particularly difficult assignment. It was mainly clean-up work. It was so simple, Lester stayed behind to take care of some administrative headaches. Lester’s last words to Harry before he left were, “Don’t forget the fuckin’ head-scratcher.”
With the head-scratcher on the list of required equipment, Harry expected the worst. This red folder task was initiated by a Hazmat call to Homeland Security. The HS dispatcher entered specific keywords into the problem log system and was immediately greeted on the screen with a code 624 message. Almost instantly the dispatcher’s phone rang again with instructions to relay to the Hazmat team in Missoula, Montana.
Flying was not an available option due to budget limitations and inter-agency conflicts, so Harry drove. Leisurely cruising down I-90 in his heavily modified ’94 Geo Metro, Harry alternated his listening between podcasts of This American Life and the latest Mogwai album, something he couldn’t do if Lester was in the car. Road trips with Lester always involved copious doses of Supertramp. When Harry arrived at the scene shortly before midnight, he was surprised at how relatively unsecured it was. The Hazmat captain was a little surprised himself.
“Just one of you? There is some serious shit going on here. You better be fuckin’ Superman.”
Harry could see the halo of vomit that surrounded the dumpster that sat around 100 feet behind the Hazmat captain. The image was unsettling in the perfection of the event horizon. Harry got right to it. “What’s the status of your men? How are they doing?”
“They’re fine. They’re all tough guys. Every one of them wanted to take a crack at it.”
“How many before you called?”
“Six of us.”
“And how many after? After we told you to sit tight?”
“Hey! We wanted to get to whatever is in there. I mean we don’t take credit for what we do, but these guys are heroes, and…”
“How many?”
“Six more. I couldn’t believe it. We were all in full suits, and we all yacked our fucking brains out.”
“I admit this country needs independent thinkers, but certain situations call for restraint. I’m a little dumbfounded that you didn’t call the minute you saw that ring of vomit.”
“Everyone checked out afterwards. No kind of contamination. Nothing.”
“That’s wonderful, but your team’s physical well-being isn’t always the only priority on our minds when we tell you to step off. I’m going to need everyone to clear the area and make sure it stays clear. Anyone who snoops in is done. I hope you realize this is no joke. After I’m done and I debrief your team, you can show me the best cup o’ Joe in town, and I’ll tell you everything I’m able to.” Of course Harry had already memorized the fabricated explanation he was to convey to the Hazmat team.
Once everyone was out of sight, Harry put on the Cerebral Tuning Unit, the thing Lester referred to as a head-scratcher due to its many fine prongs that caressed the skull. Once it was snugly on his head, he pulled his jacket hood over it. He then took the extra precaution of flashing the scene for lenses. He used a special scanner to try to find hidden cameras. Harry wasn’t as paranoid as some other agents, but no one ever lost a job in his line of work for being too careful.
The vomit radius appeared to be around fifteen feet from the dumpster which made sense by Harry’s reckoning. Within fifteen feet of the dumpster, the ground was clean. It looked like there was an invisible barrier that protected the dumpster by repelling all comers with an instant and brutal sensation of nausea. As Harry approached and the stench of vomit became stronger but not unbearable, he flashed back to the few times he had met the young Agent Ahern, the main object of this red folder task. Her beauty was apparent upon site and completely confirmed only a few words into conversation. Harry was always a little uneasy around women, but she had a way of making him feel comfortable and welcome to be around her. The thought that she was most likely deceased lying in a dumpster was more than a little saddening for him. Harry knew the CTU was working perfectly when he was able to pass the frontier of half-digested cheesesteaks, Night Train, malt liquor, and stomach acid. He was afraid the CTU wouldn’t be as effective at controlling any emotional outbursts he might encounter in the next few seconds.
Harry slowly peered over the lip of the dumpster. He was shocked by what he saw. There was no body. He frantically painted the beam of his flashlight across the dumpster’s bottom until it finally landed on the only other thing he could be looking for. The tech guys called it a caduceus. The field agents simply called it a sickstick. It was the perfect tool for getting people to think a certain way or believe a certain fact or fiction. Harry had heard a story about an agent who used it to help him quit smoking. It was supposedly 100% effective. If one was exposed to a caduceus for long enough, it was rumored one could see God. But Harry knew and was thoroughly trained to know that the caduceus was not a plaything. And here was Agent Ahern’s without its sheath. If she was still alive, carelessly losing an unsheathed caduceus in this way was a blunder worthy of dire consequences within the agency. She would be severely reprimanded hopefully. Oddly there was a piece of paper wrapped around the caduceus held on by an elastic band of the kind people use to make ponytails. Harry gently picked up the caduceus sensing its weight physically and mentally. He had never seen nor touched a fully unsheathed caduceus until then. Before placing it in the small box meant to hold it, he pulled off the band, unwrapped the paper, and read in large handwritten letters--
His stroke was automatic. Harry’s mind was free to wander. His thoughts raced right back to his last red folder assignment. It wasn’t a particularly difficult assignment. It was mainly clean-up work. It was so simple, Lester stayed behind to take care of some administrative headaches. Lester’s last words to Harry before he left were, “Don’t forget the fuckin’ head-scratcher.”
With the head-scratcher on the list of required equipment, Harry expected the worst. This red folder task was initiated by a Hazmat call to Homeland Security. The HS dispatcher entered specific keywords into the problem log system and was immediately greeted on the screen with a code 624 message. Almost instantly the dispatcher’s phone rang again with instructions to relay to the Hazmat team in Missoula, Montana.
Flying was not an available option due to budget limitations and inter-agency conflicts, so Harry drove. Leisurely cruising down I-90 in his heavily modified ’94 Geo Metro, Harry alternated his listening between podcasts of This American Life and the latest Mogwai album, something he couldn’t do if Lester was in the car. Road trips with Lester always involved copious doses of Supertramp. When Harry arrived at the scene shortly before midnight, he was surprised at how relatively unsecured it was. The Hazmat captain was a little surprised himself.
“Just one of you? There is some serious shit going on here. You better be fuckin’ Superman.”
Harry could see the halo of vomit that surrounded the dumpster that sat around 100 feet behind the Hazmat captain. The image was unsettling in the perfection of the event horizon. Harry got right to it. “What’s the status of your men? How are they doing?”
“They’re fine. They’re all tough guys. Every one of them wanted to take a crack at it.”
“How many before you called?”
“Six of us.”
“And how many after? After we told you to sit tight?”
“Hey! We wanted to get to whatever is in there. I mean we don’t take credit for what we do, but these guys are heroes, and…”
“How many?”
“Six more. I couldn’t believe it. We were all in full suits, and we all yacked our fucking brains out.”
“I admit this country needs independent thinkers, but certain situations call for restraint. I’m a little dumbfounded that you didn’t call the minute you saw that ring of vomit.”
“Everyone checked out afterwards. No kind of contamination. Nothing.”
“That’s wonderful, but your team’s physical well-being isn’t always the only priority on our minds when we tell you to step off. I’m going to need everyone to clear the area and make sure it stays clear. Anyone who snoops in is done. I hope you realize this is no joke. After I’m done and I debrief your team, you can show me the best cup o’ Joe in town, and I’ll tell you everything I’m able to.” Of course Harry had already memorized the fabricated explanation he was to convey to the Hazmat team.
Once everyone was out of sight, Harry put on the Cerebral Tuning Unit, the thing Lester referred to as a head-scratcher due to its many fine prongs that caressed the skull. Once it was snugly on his head, he pulled his jacket hood over it. He then took the extra precaution of flashing the scene for lenses. He used a special scanner to try to find hidden cameras. Harry wasn’t as paranoid as some other agents, but no one ever lost a job in his line of work for being too careful.
The vomit radius appeared to be around fifteen feet from the dumpster which made sense by Harry’s reckoning. Within fifteen feet of the dumpster, the ground was clean. It looked like there was an invisible barrier that protected the dumpster by repelling all comers with an instant and brutal sensation of nausea. As Harry approached and the stench of vomit became stronger but not unbearable, he flashed back to the few times he had met the young Agent Ahern, the main object of this red folder task. Her beauty was apparent upon site and completely confirmed only a few words into conversation. Harry was always a little uneasy around women, but she had a way of making him feel comfortable and welcome to be around her. The thought that she was most likely deceased lying in a dumpster was more than a little saddening for him. Harry knew the CTU was working perfectly when he was able to pass the frontier of half-digested cheesesteaks, Night Train, malt liquor, and stomach acid. He was afraid the CTU wouldn’t be as effective at controlling any emotional outbursts he might encounter in the next few seconds.
Harry slowly peered over the lip of the dumpster. He was shocked by what he saw. There was no body. He frantically painted the beam of his flashlight across the dumpster’s bottom until it finally landed on the only other thing he could be looking for. The tech guys called it a caduceus. The field agents simply called it a sickstick. It was the perfect tool for getting people to think a certain way or believe a certain fact or fiction. Harry had heard a story about an agent who used it to help him quit smoking. It was supposedly 100% effective. If one was exposed to a caduceus for long enough, it was rumored one could see God. But Harry knew and was thoroughly trained to know that the caduceus was not a plaything. And here was Agent Ahern’s without its sheath. If she was still alive, carelessly losing an unsheathed caduceus in this way was a blunder worthy of dire consequences within the agency. She would be severely reprimanded hopefully. Oddly there was a piece of paper wrapped around the caduceus held on by an elastic band of the kind people use to make ponytails. Harry gently picked up the caduceus sensing its weight physically and mentally. He had never seen nor touched a fully unsheathed caduceus until then. Before placing it in the small box meant to hold it, he pulled off the band, unwrapped the paper, and read in large handwritten letters--
TOO MUCH
Harry lost count of how many laps he had traveled. His muscles were telling him he was in the ballpark of forty. But the pair of green eyes watching him from above hadn’t lost count—forty-seven. They drank up Harry’s vulnerability with admiration. Harry’s mild paranoia he applied to his work somehow surprisingly didn’t translate to his personal life. The knowledge bouncing around in his head was freeing in a limited way. Harry just didn’t care who knew that he searched online for a card shuffler when his Nana told him she couldn’t find a decent one anywhere or that he bought a yoga DVD as a gift for his cousin or that there were some pictures of naked women on his home computer. He didn’t care if anyone knew he was exercising at that moment. As long as they weren’t interfering, they could watch all they wanted.
When Harry finally made it home to his loft after the swim, there was no alarm system in need of disarming. He didn’t have one. Inside he set his briefcase on the coffee table, threw open the balcony doors and was greeted by the sound of Erik Satie’s third Gnossienne blending perfectly with the cacophony of rain-soaked traffic below. Harry’s upstairs neighbor, a piano instructor, always practiced her repertoire later in the evening. After hearing the faint sounds of piano his first night upon moving into the new digs, Harry marched right upstairs and convinced Ms. Liebgott to open her windows so he could enjoy her fine playing. She gladly obliged.
Harry sat on his couch soaking up each ominous note that drifted through the door. He placed his thumb on the briefcase fingerprint reader and entered the 16 digit code to pop open the agency-issued briefcase. He opened the red folder inside and began to read the mission abstract. He hoped to find any connection to his last red folder assignment. But the more he read, the biggest thing that jumped out at him was the irony of Lester’s words earlier that day, “Doesn’t look like something we need to be involved in.” The photos, the disc of interrogation footage, the profiles—they all revolved around this Brother Dave character.
When Harry finally made it home to his loft after the swim, there was no alarm system in need of disarming. He didn’t have one. Inside he set his briefcase on the coffee table, threw open the balcony doors and was greeted by the sound of Erik Satie’s third Gnossienne blending perfectly with the cacophony of rain-soaked traffic below. Harry’s upstairs neighbor, a piano instructor, always practiced her repertoire later in the evening. After hearing the faint sounds of piano his first night upon moving into the new digs, Harry marched right upstairs and convinced Ms. Liebgott to open her windows so he could enjoy her fine playing. She gladly obliged.
Harry sat on his couch soaking up each ominous note that drifted through the door. He placed his thumb on the briefcase fingerprint reader and entered the 16 digit code to pop open the agency-issued briefcase. He opened the red folder inside and began to read the mission abstract. He hoped to find any connection to his last red folder assignment. But the more he read, the biggest thing that jumped out at him was the irony of Lester’s words earlier that day, “Doesn’t look like something we need to be involved in.” The photos, the disc of interrogation footage, the profiles—they all revolved around this Brother Dave character.
- - -
Lester never did make it home that night. Acting as a tail countless times in his career, Lester knew when he had one of his own. And he definitely had a tail that night—a sloppy short one. Maintaining his ever-so-smooth cool, Lester pulled his Nova into a grocery store parking lot along the way to see how this tail was going to play out. Sure as day and night, the black Town Car drove past the first driveway and pulled into the second. Lester picked a distant spot to park. Not that he needed the exercise, he just wanted a little perspective on whom he was dealing with. He took his time. No one made a move from the Town Car. Lester would have to wait in the grocery store to get a better look. Browsing the magazine rack, Lester made the bag of shit as soon as he walked through the door. Lester didn’t just yet want to telegraph his awareness. Mr. Shitbag, the name Lester bestowed on him, watched Lester walk to the coffee bar as he took up Lester’s former position. Lester made a casual glance in Mr. Shitbag’s direction—a move that quickly forced the thug’s nose into the latest issue of Redbook. When Mr. Shitbag looked up, Lester was gone. But Lester wasn’t the kind of guy to walk away without some sort of resolution. He was the curious sort. After Mr. Shitbag made not one but two circles around the coffee bar, Lester quickly moved in from behind to put the man’s hand in an extremely painful yet unobtrusive aikido hold.
“Hey, hey, Mr. Shitbag! If y’all wanted talk to me, y’all just had to give me a call. The number is 1-800-DON’T FUCK WITH ME,” Lester whispered into the man’s ear.
Lester quickly escorted Mr. Shitbag from the building. While glancing at the Town Car, Lester guided the thug in the direction of his Nova. With just a little more pressure, he could have broken the man’s wrist. In a moment Lester was slightly disoriented and suddenly staring at a hooded figure directly in his path. Lester’s hold on Mr. Shitbag tightened as the Seattle rain’s tempo quickened.
“Mr. Phfister, we really need to converse with you,” came a tinny voice from the shrouded face.
Lester studied the figure more closely. It was impossible for Lester to turn pale, but what he saw in the dark figure’s right hand made the blood temporarily vacate his face. The caduceus was currently capped and harmless, but its potential was what worried Lester.
“I’m guessing that’s not a Steely Dan you’re holding there.”
The figure was amused. “You’re a sharp man, Mr. Phfister. Please, let the man go, so we can have a polite conversation.”
“Hey, hey, Mr. Shitbag! If y’all wanted talk to me, y’all just had to give me a call. The number is 1-800-DON’T FUCK WITH ME,” Lester whispered into the man’s ear.
Lester quickly escorted Mr. Shitbag from the building. While glancing at the Town Car, Lester guided the thug in the direction of his Nova. With just a little more pressure, he could have broken the man’s wrist. In a moment Lester was slightly disoriented and suddenly staring at a hooded figure directly in his path. Lester’s hold on Mr. Shitbag tightened as the Seattle rain’s tempo quickened.
“Mr. Phfister, we really need to converse with you,” came a tinny voice from the shrouded face.
Lester studied the figure more closely. It was impossible for Lester to turn pale, but what he saw in the dark figure’s right hand made the blood temporarily vacate his face. The caduceus was currently capped and harmless, but its potential was what worried Lester.
“I’m guessing that’s not a Steely Dan you’re holding there.”
The figure was amused. “You’re a sharp man, Mr. Phfister. Please, let the man go, so we can have a polite conversation.”
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1 comment:
Touché. Like the JBSE album...Now I Got Worry. Bar, consider yourself raised.
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