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Naked and on the Side of the Road

Act One (condensed). Setting: Maricopa County Expressway, Exit 12 (Approximate).

At this very moment, as the narrative commences – no inciting incident is necessary – I was on the side of the road of the Arizona Interstate and without any garments to cover my bare human flesh. I was a naked form; I was lying down on the ground, facing the sky. It was evening, and the night was calm. I breathed in the air, which was arid and miasmic. The atmosphere was dense. Nothing interposed; it would be dark very soon.

Why was I subjecting myself to a predicament that was seemingly voluntary? Well, I suppose I should proffer my own self-justification: I committed infidelity, and I was seeking repentance. I will admit that the manner in which I expressed my repentance was odd, if not crude; but my conscience was assailed in such a way that due mitigation could only be attained through uncompromising repentance.

Many cars drove by and they went by in droves. Perhaps the people in those cars felt sorry for me. Perhaps they laughed. I would certainly laugh. In fact, I encourage them to laugh. It would only legitimize my repentance. That was what I wanted most anyway: a kind of compensatory humiliation.

But one man didn’t laugh, nor did he drive by me as if my condition was a commonality. No – he was compelled to inquire about the naked oddity on the side of the road. This man was a fashion designer, and he certainly dressed is if he were what he professed. He wore a Ralph Lauren, made of cotton linen, with pristine stitching, subtle pinstripes, a starched under-shirt, silver cufflinks, cummerbund and a bow tie. His hair was of a scintillating and flaxen quality, like a German man. He was certainly a sight to behold… He was cutting edge.

I, on the other hand, was an unpleasant sight. The hair on my head was wrought with entangled ringlets, and my face was smudged. At one point, I had been sitting garbage. The smell of urine was palpable. There might have been a poop stain as well. In any case, his flawlessness and my squalor created quite the juxtaposition.

The fashion designer had already deposited his vehicle – a blue Mustang GT350 – at the other end of the byway. He got out of his car, walked across the asphalt, and stopped. He stared at me as if I were an insubordinate little ruffian. 

“Are you aware of my presence, vagabond?”

I opened my eyes. “Is that Moses?”

He said nothing back, not at all amused. I stared back at him and, realizing that the fashion designer wasn’t a manifestation of a psychological nature, I arose and greeted him formally: “Hello, fellow citizen. My name is Edgar.” I touched his shoulder. The linen was very soft. “You’re quite debonair… I surmise that you are a man of industry and entrepreneurship.”

The fashion designer looked me up and down, his eyes avid, springing from one area of my naked body to another, as if he were performing some kind of visual gymnastics. He didn’t laugh; he didn’t flinch; he didn’t tremble. He only examined.

“By the flurry of movement in your eyes,” I said, “I can deduce that my nakedness has aroused in you an intense curiosity.”

“Yes,” he responded. “I’m eager to know about that. And I’m not really sure why.” He rubbed his chin. The germ of curiosity was developing. Then, more pensively, he said, “I must know why you’re naked, Edgar, because I find it contradictory.” He then sniffled in a rather dreadful manner, as if mortally assaulted by my stench. He remarked, “And a most hostile odor – which I surmise to be urine – is emitting from your person.”

“Why do you find me contradictory?” I asked.

The fashion designer made a grunting noise, evidently insulted. “Don’t you use your eyes in conjunction with your brain? Take a good look at me – my clothes are my credence.” He proceeded to point at the different areas of my body. “Your nudity is a denouncement of my profession.”

“Do quell your indignation,” I said, measuredly. “Let me explain my plight before you indict my good character.” I made a gesture that we walk while I confide in him the circumstances that beset me thus. We both started walking, and I said to him, “I went behind my wife’s back and sullied our marriage. I’m an adulterer. I violated a vow of monogamy.”

The fashion designer nodded, as if he were mediating a confessional.

“It’s a mockery,” I continued, “of our original nuptial. And so, to reprieve myself of the guilt, and to invoke atonement from God’s Kingdom, or perhaps from Elysium (which ever one it may be), I’ve set out to appease the discord I’ve provoked in the universe.” At that moment, my voice had changed: it was weighty, yet somewhat comical. “Does that alleviate any tension you may feel from my nakedness?”

“Yes, I suppose you’ve done me a profitable service in that regard,” said the fashion designer, rather stimulated with my perspective on the matter. We stopped walking. “It’s not the nakedness, Edgar, that troubles me most,” he admitted. “What it is that’s making me prickle with anxiety is your detestable situation. Does the contempt of a stranger, who bears witness to your naked folly, not engender the severest of self-loathing in you? Do the rank smells of your body not compel you to proceed with a thorough scrub-a-dub-dub?” 

“Ah, well,” I said, ready to brandish my voice with evocation, “by humbly debasing myself, I’m avowing every strict guideline that my repentance entails. My guilty disposition shall never abate unless I scorn myself before the fearsome adjudicators in God’s Kingdom…or perhaps it’s the council of Elysium.” I looked up into the evening sky. Oh, how I was woefully absurd at that moment. “Never shall my soul rest until the utmost obedience to my repentance is sustained.”

The fashion designer was astonished, totally befuddled as to conjure an adequate response, if any such response could be sufficient. He tugged at my arm, imploring me to stop staring at the sky like a lunatic. 

I looked at him, and he said to me, “Edgar, it would be most considerate if you should indulge what I consider to be my obligation to you and to the Kingdom of God…or perhaps it’s Elysium.”

Act Two (condensed). Setting: 44 Bravo Boulevard. The Midway High Rise, Downtown Phoenix.

The fashion designer was a man of exotic taste: the condominium in which he occupied a formal residency was nothing unqualified in the artistic standards of vulgarity and pretension. The first thing I noticed was the furniture, which I would describe as oblong formations with bedazzling colors. There were a few pictures on the wall, showcasing strange women in garish attire. They seemed to be staring at me as if I were a toy. Many, many other gimcracks were on display, but their appeal was lost on me. All of it embodied an insincerity that I interpreted as “the hybridization of pseudo-aestheticism and narcissistic emptiness”.

We were inside the fashion studio, and I was still naked.

Appraising my nakedness yet again, the fashion designer said, “I must admit something to you, Edgar: this, in many ways, goes against my conscience. Given that your measurements are a tad asymmetrical, and your hygiene rather fowl, I find myself quite conflicted with awarding a man like you the finest threads of that my industry has to offer. I’ve been speculating as to whether or not you’re a bona fide peasant.”

“But all of this was your idea.”

“Yes…it was my decision to drive you here…where I conduct my private affairs…where I seek solitude from society.” 

“Yes – and you we’re driving really fast on the way over here. I nearly vomited all over your nice upholstery.”

“Yes, of course, yes…” The fashion designer rubbed his head for a moment. It seemed to me that he was finally aware of the agitation I was capable of creating. “You see, I’m beginning to realize that perhaps it would be a blasphemy to my profession if I were to reward a filthy, naked man with a Louis Vuitton or even a Nautical by Howard Kemp.” His breathing was heavy and audible. It was apparent that his senses were somewhat hyperactive. Then, without addressing me directly, but rather addressing himself, he said, “Perhaps a nice, cold beverage could lessen this overwhelming sense of demoralization.” He turned to me and, while gesturing in a bizarre manner, said, “Would you like a beverage, Edgar? I, myself, would most certainly like beverage – yes I would, most certainly.”

But it was at this moment that he departed from the studio (I would not receive a beverage), and it immediately occurred to me that the proper course of action at this very moment was to address the fashion designer’s rather sudden and irregular behavior. I thought to myself, The guilt he feels when he dishonors his profession is the same guilt I’ve been feeling when I committed the egregious act of infidelity. He and I share a compunction, an affliction of the conscience. I must help him heal… 

I must instruct him of his repentance. 

The fashion designer returned with a miniature bottle of water, which made him look even more ridiculous. He took a few hurried sips from it. From the way in which he consumed it, one would think that the water it contained was a precious nutrient, a remedy, an anti-neurotic. 

As he was sipping his water, I conjured up the correct combination of thoughts that, with enough measure of reason, would induce him to obey any moral obligation I should propose. I found those exact thoughts, and then I said them. They went something like this:

“A humble man I am, and a humble man it should be that harasses you so severely. I can see that you become bitter and miserable when a most detestable aversion should capture you in its venomous thrall. Were you to swathe me in your finest contemporary garments, you would be committing the most unforgivable of misdemeanors in your profession. And I could interpret all of this by merely observing the irregularities in your demeanor, which has illustrated the degree of suffering to which I’ve caused you.”

The fashioner designer was so utterly perplexed that a transformation of understanding had occurred in him. I was full of surprises, and now he had the knowledge to discern this. His eyes were transfixed on me as he took another sip from his miniature bottle of water. 

I continued: “You feel guilt. I as well feel guilt. And our guilt, though varying in accountability, is of a sameness in nature. I’ve betrayed my wife, and you were flirting with the betrayal of your profession. And although your transgression was circumvented, the guilt is ingrained upon your conscience. We wrongdoers must admit our faults, and appease the adjudicators in God’s Kingdom…or perhaps it’s the council of Elysium. But don’t worry: I’m here to serve you as a tutelary through the taxing stages of repentance.”

The fashion designer was quiet. An unmistakable solemnity took form in him. After a brief period of silence, he finally said, “Do I have to get naked?”

“It’s the only way to verify that you are genuine in your repentance.”

“Who did you cheat on your wife with?”

“A hooker.”

He stared at me as if he were deciphering a secret code, and, when he translated the secret code, he found that the message was truly asinine. “…A hooker, you said?”

“Yes, well…her services were very expensive.”

Act Three (condensed). Setting: Maricopa County Expressway, Exit 12.

The fashion designer and I were both naked now, on the side of the road of the Arizona interstate. We were lying down and staring up at the sky. It was very dark, and the stars were gleaming. There was a steady gust of wind, and the temperature was mild. The smell of urine redoubled, but the wind was propitious enough to relieve of us of its offensive effect. At that moment, we were in the cradle of the earth, and the universe was a pulpit of restitution.

The onus was on me to initiate the conversation, and I had done so:

“As I’ve already stipulated the guidelines of your repentance, would you be so brave as to venture a mea culpa?”

“And to whom am I acknowledging my faults?

“Why, the very stars that reside above your breast, in those celestial fields. I am of the impression that, in the possession of those fearsome adjudicators (or perhaps it’s the council), there’s an official record of wrongs committed, and in order to absolve ourselves of the discord we’re responsible for in the universe, we must show due deference.”

“This is humiliating.”

“That’s a good thing. Your repentance is all the more valid.”

“Have you been urinating on yourself?”

“Yes, I have. This is a common practice of proper repentance. You must urinate on yourself as well, should the moment of nature be opportune.”

“You scare me, Edgar. I’m scared of what you may do, and I fear that I’ve made an irreversible mistake by associating myself with someone of your instability. In the course of our brief acquaintance, I’ve come to the realization that you are a naked rapscallion who shelters himself within the corrupted underbelly of society. Every minute I’ve spent indulging all of your lunacies, every time you’ve said something that is thoroughly repugnant – it causes me more injury than the previous lunacy and repugnance. You are blighted by a disease – the source of which is altogether untraceable and unholy. If you wish to redeem any faith in me of the merit in our repentance, you must assure me that my conscience and my sanity are protected from any of the psychological peril you may further impose.”  

I smirked, deviously. What in the hell was I planning to say? “You ponder at irrelevancies,” I said, “and you advocate falsehoods. Does the repentance that swoons my conscience not console the turbulence in yours? I thought that we had established an affinity by the affliction we share, which harasses both of us indiscriminately–” (One would believe, upon hearing this oration, that I was quite the crafty shame-monger.) “–Does my indefatigable pledge to my repentance not evince in you my purest intentions? Does the humiliation I subject myself to, in order to appease the adjudicators in God’s Kingdom, or the council of Elysium, not confirm my devotion to the atonement of the wrongs I’ve committed? Does the image of that high-priced hooker not brandish my once respectable imagination with debauchery and vile thoughts?” I wasn’t really sure where I was going with this, nor did I care. “Does this not restore in you the unbending faith that is due to me as is due to the Messiah of the pious?”

The fashion designer was quiet for a moment, before a single tear drew from his eye. I could hear a faint sob. Then, he said to me, “When was the last time you saw your wife naked, Edgar?”

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Visions of Horselover Fat

There I was, during a particularly bleak afternoon – introversion demanding its usual attention from me – when I had envisioned Horselover Fat. Neither agency nor apparatus was involved. There was no volition on my part. I saw him before me, plain-faced, austere, gazing back like a majestic effigy, speaking in psych-waves. The waves stirred, droning on in semi-silence. Strings and vibrations were transformed into a melody of rhetoric:

“Hello, Nicholas. You’re my new pupil.”

“Pupil?” I inquired, nonplussed. “In what fashion?”

“Spiritual migration.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” he said rather cordially. “Do you demand evidence of what has engendered a manifestation such as this?”

“Evidence?” I laughed. “How could there be evidence?”

But Fat remained quite solemn. “You’re experiencing gnosis as we speak. A beam of meta-cosmic ionized particles is cookin’ your brain tissues like a smokehouse. And when this encounter – the first of many – ceases, I suggest you measure your radiation levels.”

I said nothing. That was most stunning thing I’d ever heard.

Fat, his enthusiasm having persisted, said, “Now you provide me with a rebuttal.”

“Well…” Well what? I thought. “I feel that…” How do I feel about this? What kind of answer was he looking for? His eyes scared me: they were searching for my thoughts, in their naked form. His lip twitched as he tilted his head – why’s he so bizarre? Say something with import, I thought. Perhaps that’ll satisfy him.

I said: “God is deranged.”

Fat, conceding a vague gesture of confirmation, implored that I should confess my true feelings on the matter.

I then said: “I have – reservations.”

“Ah, a healthy skeptic.” He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “I’ll make an exception for you. In fact, I have no choice. You were chosen by the realm in which everything is infinite.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about Fat, or anything he said for that matter. This whole experience was…concerning; an obfuscation, if there was one. From what I could ascertain, Fat seemed to be the kind of person who was subdued by his own lunacy. Yet his aplomb was undeniable.

It’ll be interesting to see how this all pans out.

“I must go now,” he groused. Evidently, he regretted having to depart so soon. “I’ll introduce you to Zebra in due time.”

                                                            ––––

Four days had elapsed. In the passing time, I had succumbed to anemia, while vomiting up viscosities of blood and acid. Neither had I eaten anything since the encounter with Horselover Fat. And I decided, as my symptoms were only intensifying, that Fat was right about the radiation.

I had some tests done.

As it turns out, my radiation levels were “through the roof”: an examiner at the Mayan Clinic – the local medical center – said to me, “Nicholas, you’re in danger. The results of your blood tests are very alarming. I, and the rest of my staff, are gravely concerned for your health. I’m hereby prohibiting you from leaving the medical ward for the next 24 hours. You’ll be under surveillance indefinitely.”

Those were dreary words, but I swallowed them and went about my business as best as I could. Fat was right. Meta-cosmic ionized particles. That was the only way he could be transmitted.

I patiently anticipated our next encounter.

                                                           ––––

It was a zapping mechanism from outer space: I could perceive the beam particles before the act of absorption, as if, neurologically, I were galvanized by a magnetic prelude, an epilogue existing in brain-time. I saw cats with heads upside-down and Shakespeare – except Shakespeare, alas, was caught in the act of betraying loyalties, which oftentimes his narratives would warn of us.

“Are you feeling better?” was the first thing Fat asked me.

I shuddered, albeit in a feigned manner. Oddly enough, I was encouraged by Fat’s return. “I just got the chills,” I said.

“Don’t act like you’re not surprised. The advent of mystical knowledge can come at any moment.”

Mystical knowledge, I thought to myself. That’s rather ambiguous. “And what would you call this ‘advent of mystical knowledge’?”

“I call it Zebra. But everyone has different way of wording it, such as ‘transduction’. Or ‘theophany’. For example–” Fat suddenly raised his arms above his shoulders, as if were showcasing an infantile messiah to the angels “–‘for the Holy Spirit will teach you in that very hour what you ought to say.’” He lowered his arms and beamed at me. “The most common denominator is the Holy Spirit, as conferred by the apostles.”

Naturally, I was inclined towards abnegation. Any clear-minded person would agree that this guy is totally wacked out – as evidenced by the elaborate theological claptrap. Perhaps it’s a means by which to vindicate his craziness. But here’s where I’m conflicted: am I not the one indulging this nonsense? Only I can perceive Fat, so it exists in my head, in a land of never-happened-before. What’s more confounding is that never have I ever found religion to be…seductive. I’m secular, is what I’m saying. Has that changed? Do I fancy the deification of ordinary persons? And if so, where did that come from?

Curtly, I said to Fat, “You’re a nutcase.”

“Tell me about it,” he responded sincerely. But it came off as ironic.

“Why did I see Shakespeare contradicting himself? And the abnormal cats?”

“Side-effects from the radiation.” He made a quick gesture, which gave me the impression that I shouldn’t be gravely worried. Then he proffered something he was already holding. It appeared to be a medication. “Chlorpromazine. Take these for the next few days. The pain will subside, trust me. It’ll heal you.”

“Where did you get this?”

“Luke, the beloved physician.” Fat winked at me assuredly. “He’s a benevolent man; I wouldn’t doubt his judgment.”

Right then I thought: Luke sounds like a godly fellow. He can be trusted.

“He most certainly can be trusted,” affirmed Fat, aware of my own sentiments without my having confided those sentiments to him. “He wrote the Book of Acts.”

Oh great, I thought, He can read my mind.

                                                    ��      ––––

The symptoms weren’t so bad this time around. But they persisted nonetheless, and I found myself often wincing reflexively. My greatest fear for the time being, considering the symptoms of the radiation, was the threat of a grand mal seizure. I tried to put that fear out of my head.

During this uncertain period, I was holed up in my home, awaiting Horselover Fat at every turn. This, I believed, was indispensable to the protocol: God forbid I encounter him when people are present. They would think I’m crazy, without question. Isolation: life as hermit. Doesn’t sound very enticing. No vanity in loneliness. What would my friends think? Would they even care? These are rhetorical questions, now that I think about it. I can say, confidently, that they’ve never cared for me; they’ll call me when they want something, like money for gimcracks or, more commonly, drugs. A lot of “friends” are like that. They use you. They live a frivolous life. This is what happens when you’re the pariah: the only people who want you around are the ones who suck the life out of you. It’s saddening, I know. But I’m not discouraged. I’ll be screening their calls from now on.

At this point, my every thought was turning towards Horselover Fat, the holy personage, hermetic teacher, and quasi-prophet. I presume he’s going to teach me about things – things outside of my own comprehension. Things like the Greco-Roman Mysteries, the Mantras of Sanskrit, the cosmogony of Zoroaster – and whatever else he could conjure up into a paradoxical unveiling. But despite all of his fanaticisms, while denoting the human prototype of a Bombastic Thinker, Fat represented a sort of gateway into the non-secular, in that his authority on the topics of mysticism and “underlying realities” could never be decried or challenged, not even by scholars or theoreticians: he imparted all the esotericisms of the unknown to the layman. According to Fat, life is a philosophical gauntlet, a contest of purview. I agree, but I needed to know more.

Perhaps what I should relate to the reader is what I wanted the most, which is to receive love. My conversion, through Fat – I was beginning to realize –, could facilitate love of a different kind; a therapeutic love; an ersatz love, in a sense. What I experienced was something more “derivative” of love – an innate, benevolent, inviting, and tantalizing sensation. It made me realize an unequivocal truth: that the boundaries of love are scant of limitations. And, in light of the fact that the love I felt was but a fugitive impulse, it would surely suffice my existing emotional format, regardless of what an analyst may presuppose of my own psychology. In other words, I couldn’t count on anyone anymore. Fat was actually there for me.

There wasn’t an encounter, but he whispered something to me, as if this were sensitive information and a full manifestation would compromise any future interactions between us: “I’ve reprogrammed your friends. They won’t be bothering you anymore.”

                                                         ––––

Different days and different ways in which I should encounter Horselover Fat:

The phenomena were intensifying. Gestalts, permutations, poly-psycho-phantoms. My inhibition was stripped of its bounds, like the infinite space of divinity.

At the moment, I was having problems with convulsions and self-control: my limbs writhed inexplicably – I couldn’t smell a thing…

And then the zenith of my experiences had turned over:

I could grasp the interaction between the macro-world and the micro-world. My spirit was like the wavelength of an alien transmitter: I could receive information from the deity within me and outside of Creation. I could perceive him. The mysteries were laid out before me; everything was invaluable. And he – Horselover Fat – was right all along: mystical knowledge. My otherworldly companion had done it. I had been deified. Manipulation of the cosmos.

Optical distortions were subtle, then palpable. I was somewhere vague, then nowhere, then – like the pulse of an erratic heartbeat – the universe converged and splintered, with new parts, rising and falling. Then I was plucked out of the mayhem, and transferred to tranquility. There were satellites and aromatic gases. Ostensibly, I was up in the sky.

Now I was laying on my back, suspended in the air. Beneath me was a cloud, perhaps of immaterial origin. I glanced over at a figure nearby, whose ebullient face seemed eager to know me.

It was Zebra.

“Oh, you’ve done it now…” I blinked like a dumbfounded child.

Zebra smiled coyly: “Isn’t it everything you imagined?”

“You’re more advanced in your machinations than I anticipated.”

Wherever I was, it was pleasing. All bad thoughts – had they made a charge at the threshold of my consciousness – were obliterated. Suffering mitigated, and abolished. The human mind – which can be precariously managed – cradled in the arms of eternal goodness.

How charming!

And Zebra, with his inexhaustible kindness, said, “You can hear the sounds, you can see the sights, and you can smell the perfumes of divine infinity. Take my hand – this firm, unwavering hand – and you will receive clearance into the sanctioned holy realm.”

“What about my life here?” I quickly responded.

“You will be rewarded, child. You will be rewarded.”

                                                          ––––

I seemingly woke up, as if I were ensnared via stupor, and the stupor had been uplifted. Fat was nearby, awaiting my arrival. Looking at me expectantly, he said, “Right on time.”

“Where was I?”

“You were nowhere and everywhere,” answered Fat. He suddenly changed his toned: “The mysteries are experienced, not taught. Not even the most obliging of scholars could be instructed of His wisdom.” Fat’s lip twitched, as he added, “Wasn’t it lovely?”

“Sublime,” I responded. “Was that a taste of what awaits me?”

“Yes.”

“And Zebra, whom you’ve alluded to on several occasions, and whom I’ve had the privilege to survey with the naked eye, is the liaison by which contact is established with – well…you know; with the deity within me.”

Fat said, “Yes. His name is Elohim, as confided – and conferred upon – by Yeshua.”

I was curious to know more – but Fat had already intuited my want of elucidated information: “Myself – and others – who act as correspondents for the Highest Realm refer to deification, in relative terms, as ‘symbiotic channels’; i.e., our satellites can communicate with recipients such as yourself. There are hard targets and soft targets.”

“Have I internalized Yeshua?”

“Yes,” said Fat.

Because I had acquired all-encompassing information, our correspondences had become more dynamic. We knew the answers to our own questions.

Fat, with immeasurable goodness, said, “Forgeries will deceive while the spirit is eternal and uncorrupted.”

I paused and ruminated. The energies were much more tangible now. Color-coded and animated: an indictment on material existence. I reflected on this to Fat: “It’s fascinating because I can discern where there are miscalculations and where there is credibility. Such would be a vision of dichotomies. It is true wisdom.”

Fat, assimilating my every word, nodded with a knowing gaze. “If you intro-grade all your energies,” he intimated, “you can substantiate an ocular representation of the Deity. And might I add that he’s quite the pleasant little bohemian.”

That tickled me dearly: and I set my mind in motion up his recommendation. I repeated the words aloud: “Intro-grade your energies.” Nothing, except for a subtle tingling. “Intro-gra–” There it was. A sound, like a cymbal. Then there was the descending of angels – luminous wings and a heavenly radiance – and a man like that of Hermes.

“Hello, Deity,” I said, quite receptively.

The Deity and the angels scrutinized me, and they were intrigued. “Nicholas,” said the Deity, “it is pleasure to see you and gaze upon your humanly casings. You are an emanation such as I, but collusion and jealously has burdened you with a body. Corporeality is such a dour conquest. However, you shall be reunited with your brothers and sisters. You are unshakable.”

He said all these things with such compassion and eloquence. I absorbed his goodness, and I was intoxicated.

“Sweet Nicholas, I and my division of beloved luminaries will liberate you from your earthly plight, as promised.”

I said, “Thank you, thank you. You are utterly merciful.” However, rather hastily, I asked him, “What will come next?”

The Deity, possessing all the answers, proclaimed, “Time will stop, sputter, then reverse. Time will rewind. Time will disrupt itself, and unravel like a roll of film, with all the negatives spread out before you. This is retroactive time – time without a temporal stamp.”

                                                          ––––

Suddenly, Fat was devising an allegorical simulation: murmuring, he said, “May there be a looking glass. And that which we will appear in shall be didactic.”

The world was ancient Persia.

In my enthrallment, I uttered out, “I have been here before.”

“Of course,” affirmed Fat. “You were a slave and forgot. You were robbed of your memory.”

Now it all makes sense: I’m a pariah – I don’t belong anywhere. Have I been in and out of time my entire life? This was a place – despite every science that should contradict me – where I was once a permanent member. The region and dialect were second nature to me. And, quite inexplicably, I could blend in with my fellow denizens.

“Come,” instructed Fat. “There’s treasure.”

Soon we were in stride, roaming the slums of Persia, east of Judea. Unforgiving and sordid were its economy and atmosphere. And the desert sand was quite a stringent enemy – one of the many elements of oppression, indeed. There were many men, haggard, in need of medical attention, and many women, subjugated, harboring indignation towards their pitiful means of living. Sub-creatures, I thought. All of them.

“They’re niggardly,” Fat corrected. “But the Tyranny has made them that way.”

“Their clothes are rather ragged,” I observed. “The women have skin full of pustules, and disheveled hair. It’s unbecoming, Fat.” My comments had caught their attention. “They must loathe me, for I’ve escaped and lived in a much more prosperous world. And now I’ve come back to mock them. Poor devils – especially that man. He appears to have no control over his bowels.” I turned towards Fat: “What in heaven’s name are we to do?”

Fat’s eyes were glossed over; and with resolve he said, “Smite upon your father.”

What an enigmatic bastard, I thought. “I suggest we–”

A man dressed in a dusty tunic – his hands trembling as if witnessing something unspeakable – approached Fat and myself.

But quickly Fat, in a desperate voice, said, “The caliphate is watching us–”

And the man – hearing such words that constituted a magical cryptology – was immediately deterred from speaking to us. The man faltered, regained his footing, then dashed away, as if he were preemptively dodging an ambush.

Fat looked at me while I watched the man flee hysterically: “The religious leaders serve the counsel, and the counsel decrees murder upon the dissidents.”

Hearing stuff like that scares me gravely, because I fear the day I may die a true death, a death of fire and brimstone. Destination is everything.

I then noticed that Fat was kicking up some sand. He bent over, retrieving a shiny, antiquated instrument. “We’re going to break into a Sasanian Barracks.”

Naturally, I balked at his proposal: “What? They’ll kill us.”

“The military is on leave – in observance of their liturgy.”

Fat picked up the object, which resembled a key. It was pristine, freshly made; possibly stolen. Fat must’ve been here recently, plotting the break-in all along.

Fat said, “A minor peccadillo. I break the law out of goodness.”

“But we’re breaking the law on a day of rest. That’s sabbatical suicide.”

Fat chuckled, which progressed into guffaw. “What’s God going to do? Send me to jail?”

That’s Fat, I thought, a perennial watch dog. A true crusader…and perhaps a bit of a mercenary.

In compliance, I said, “Guide me, Fat.”

We were on our way, and before long we had snuck out of our village, scampering towards the main province. The streets were deserted; the community was inactive: a proper demonstration of their fidelity to stately canons. It was quite a rush: eluding the caliphate and their religious minions! I felt as if I were a prisoner in a mystical jailbreak, where the yoke of time was my shackle, and Fat’s mentorship the blueprint to true freedom.

We were getting deeper and closer as we ferreted the province, where the best merchants and top diplomats maintain a stronghold of enterprises. The public chambers struck me as something visceral: the stucco carvings and scrupulously ornamented brickwork had me in awe. Every edifice seemed to project a distinct majesty. Abstract harmony personified.

“This way,” said Fat as he grabbed my arm. His sense urgency had noticeably escalated. “Iranian architecture is certainly marvelous; but now’s not the time to savor its merits.”

We then had arrived at the military barracks, and its entire structure was quite imposing. The compound itself expanded beyond the general boundaries of the district, signifying an impressive combat regiment on the part of the Sasanian Empire. Before the central entrance was a small burial site, immortalizing a dynastic clan of warriors. The prestige was palpable.

Fat lead us to a small, gloomy door, attached to an annex of the main compound. The door featured artwork, etched into the clay facade, aged from erosion and imperial rigidity. I scrutinized its depiction, and I was dumbfounded.

It depicted many cats with their heads in the wrong position, as well as a poet whom was shown to be contrite and apprehensive. Disfigured catheads and a hypocritical Shakespeare – just like the vision from before.

“The radiation,” I said reflexively.

Fat retrieved the key and deftly unlocked the door to the military barracks.

Once we were inside, I was heedful of something astounding, something bigger than any man-made, artificial contrivance. How did I find myself in such a sudden state of perplexity? Was it even worth noting? Well, I suppose it should be, considering the fact that I’ve traveled through time to get here anyway.

Urgently, we made our way through the compound, rather cautious in our reconnaissance. We were in and out of corridors that intermingled; through the commissary and a small forge, where rather primitive munitions were manufactured. After some searching, we found ourselves in a plush and fashionable bedchamber, which was, presumably, the living quarters of a rich woman.

I said, “Why’s there a private bedroom in a military barracks?”

“There’s a lot of things you didn’t know before the intervention of gnosis, Nicholas. Moreover, what you do know doesn’t suffice as a qualification for spiritual tenacity.” Fat had walked over towards a small, quaint bureau. Continuing, he said, “You are a foreign entity within the design of material arrangements, and as such I’ve revealed to you all the mysteries, the unsolved riddles that beleaguer even the most resilient theoreticians that mankind has to offer.” He motioned towards the bureau. “In here are a collection of items, some are sundries and others – well…just go ahead and poke around.”

I turned my attention towards the bureau, gazing at it with a quizzical expression. The edge of the outer frame was silver and streaked with a scintillating luster, which glimmered vigorously. Each drawer was furnished with two handles; the bureau itself stood three feet high. Was this why we came here? A chest of drawers? What could possibly be inside?

I opened the first drawer and anxiously probed its contents. I clasped at the first item and, feverishly, retrieved it; I could tell it was a priceless gemstone.

Inscrutably calm, Fat said, “Opals, rubies, sapphires, mother of pearl.” He snickered faintly. “You were once a prince, but were subjected to oppression by virtue of your gainsay and disloyalty. Your behavior, judged before a panel of dignitaries, was deemed to be tantamount of radicalism, and thenceforth you were shunned by the Dynasty.” Fat become quite solemn at this point. “And I’m giving you a second chance.”

“A second chance at what?”

“I could very well reinstate your entitlement to Kushan emoluments. Just say the word, Nicholas.”

Oh no, I thought. It’s a moral conundrum, a snag in the road. And what we will appear in shall be didactic. He’s testing my strength of spirit. That’s what he’s doing. Is he wary of my constancy? Does he view me as an unscrupulous shyster? A dilettante? Is this what it would take to prove me resolute in the eyes of a mystical being – to deny myself a material entitlement? Here we are, in the presence of an enormous fortune ensconced within a military fortification, and all for the taking.

Take the money – be greedy.

No, I thought. That would constitute betrayal. I couldn’t do it. I would be condemned, harangued, persecuted–

Fat, having noticed that I was steeped in introspective slush, interrupted my thoughts; he said, “The simulation will deactivate in two minutes, Nicholas, and, upon failure to make a concrete decision, you’ll be judged by your wishy-washy faltering. You must choose right now.”

Alright then, I thought. Steadfastly, I said, “I renounce my entitlement to the Kushan emolument.” My eyes were flashing, acutely watchful of Fat and his response.

Fat regarded me rather somberly; but he said what needed to be said, “God stipulates – through Yeshua and Moses – that we must all be moral in order to qualify for a spot in his kingdom. And you’ve been exceedingly moral, Nicholas. You’ve shown me that the powers from beyond – having dispatched my spirit – haven’t acted in vain. You’re deserving of love, Nicholas. You’ve always wanted love, and love is what you’ll get – eternal love. The reciprocal love of God, which will never wane nor atrophy. I’ll inform my superiors of your probity and acumen.”

The allegorical simulation had suddenly ebbed, the visual representations having flickered out of existence. I was gone.

                                                          ––––

Remember when Fat had mentioned “mate-cosmic ionized particles”? Remember when I had to be hospitalized? Radio signals, zapping my brain by virtue of perhaps an interstellar satellite-system – remember all that? Well, the overexposure nearly left me brain dead.

Without fail, I was back at the Mayan Clinic: the radiation had eaten my left eye. I also had internal bleeding. The state of my health was beyond a burdensome plight. There was zero chance of mending my wounds; zero chance of survival.

The hospital had an obligation to sedate me: I was in a daze, listless. Everything was slow. Dilated time. The bleak and dreary aspects of the world. I was moribund, bankrupt of any hope at living.

The same clinician from before was tending to me, having verified my prognosis yet again. Deep in his heart – I could tell – there was solemnity. He stood by my side and said, “It’s terminal.”

“Isn’t that something,” I said aloud. But I wasn’t addressing the doctor. “They zapped me pretty good.” I felt vaguely unnerved, yet relieved, and content. Symbolically, this meant everything – Death doesn't control me: only my body is mortal.

“We’ll have to run more tests, Nicholas, but we must inform you that your medical situation has been downgraded to a dire-straights scenario.” He frowned, yet there wasn’t a trace anguish in his eyes. “We fear that you may be on the brink of death.”

Death by Satellite. The signals firing from afar – the source ultimate knowledge – have inflicted hemorrhages and despair on my being. A good old-fashioned tragic irony. I could write poem about it – but a mediocre poem at that. Poems conflate the real with the metaphorical and fantastical. This isn’t that. This was real. Actually, this was more than real – this was hyperreal.

People need to know about this. I must tell them the truths and mysteries. Fat had shown me the mysticisms. Fat had injected himself into my mind. Horselover Fat, my sage advisor, galvanizing me – miserable me! – via restoration of transcendental knowledge. Gnosis is what it’s called. I remembered where I came from, and I knew where I was going. Fat had did it:

And then I died…

But death didn’t sink in.

Instead, I saw a man, a man I had seen before. It was Zebra. And he said to me,

“Hosanna Pistis Sophia.”

What he said had no bearing on my consciousness. But it changed things. Because then, I had resurrected. That was when the doctor, still beside me, appraising my vital signs, noticed that I was alive again. Haltingly, he said, “Wait…why aren’t you dead?”

That’s a good question. I should’ve be dead, but I wasn’t. I had come back. Why would he phrase it that way? Why aren’t you dead? – As if he wanted me dead, I thought. Well, perhaps his reaction is appropriate in some respects. Death is a statistic in his field. It’s a matter of waste at this point.

But somehow, I had resurrected. I wasn’t meant to die after all. Perhaps I was meant to divulge my secrets, my communications with Horselover Fat, the Fanatically Bombastic Quasi-Prophet. That’s quite the title. Anyhow, I was trying to remember how Fat had described our correspondences, when suddenly–

“Symbiotic channels,” answered Zebra.

Yea, that’s it. Fat had said that, indeed. Thank you, Zebra. I’ll write that down.

Perhaps I should write that poem after all, I thought. Or rather a short narrative – sophisticated prose would be more effective. That way I could lucidly evince my experiences of the ultimate reality, the existence of a transcendental realm: as conferred in Yeshua – and other recipients. Theophany, insight, deification–

“Wisdom,” added Fat.

Wisdom, I thought. You’re right – thank you, Fat. I’ll write a story, in your honor.

And so, I ended up writing a short story, in an autonomous fashion, without thinking about how I should spin my consultations with the divine. I merely wrote: word for word, detail by detail, meticulously illustrating my profound experiences. I entitled the short story “Visions of Horselover Fat”.

[nickpappasauthor-blog]

The Japing of Allen Higsbee

Allen Higsbee woke up one day on a cool, summer morning, ready for daily activities. Jovial by nature, and as pure as a virgin (he is, in fact, a virgin), he roused himself with a special stimulation that only a clean-minded person can attain. “Happiness knows no fault,” Allen would often say; and he adhered to that notion as if it were the superior doctrine. “Haters will always hate” was something else he would regurgitate routinely, a cliché that defines his idiotic generation: Generation Z…perhaps?

Later during that fine, summer day, Allen hippity-hopped on over to his dear friend Carl Ferrar, who had the personality of a stoic clan-member. Carl was prone to say many obscene things, which propelled him to behave in a corresponding way. He berated everyone as a measure of perverse intolerance, spitting in their face for effect. He never felt compassion for anyone – not even his mother, who was a rather meek woman, acquiescing at every turn. Carl Farrar – his temperament, his existence – was an ordeal in and of itself: a false sense of consolation.

When Allen had arrived, Carl greeted him promptly, albeit semi-cordially. As friends, they were quite a bad match, but Allen craved friendship as if it were a morally debasing drug addiction, so he associated himself with anyone who would so much as scowl in his direction. Carl was bad for Allen in every sense, but Carl represented substance, and Allen always had an appetite for human interaction.

“Hello, Carl,” Allen said, with spirited sincerity.

“Hey there, Queer Boy,” responded Carl. He laughed aloud, derisive in his manner.

“I’m not a fairy, Carl.”

“I know…but you never really know for sure.”

From there they proceeded towards the park, the sun beating down their necks. It was swamp weather: muggy and humid. There’s no way to escape the heat.

“It’s certainly hot out,” said Allen.

“I’m aware of the temperature,” grated Carl. He glared at Allen reprovingly and said, “You’re such a dolt – you know that?”

“I was just saying, is all.”

They advanced past the playground-citadel, the soccer fields and tennis courts – through a grass field bathed in a sunlight, and then finally through a garland where the purple daisies and ruddy geraniums shown like a radiant projection of calculated beauty.

It was a perfect afternoon to look at pretty things.

Next, they entered a wooded area bordering a steep ridge, a small ravine not too far along the way. Someone was standing along the edge of the reservoir, dipping their hands into the water. Allen gazed at this mysterious figure then tensed up, for he intuited the identity of that callow person.

It was Emma N. Mullato, his sworn nemesis.

Allen was suddenly attacked by his own apprehension: his feelings towards Emma N. were of deep-rooted aversion. Panic-stricken, dismayed, he stopped dead in his tracks, eyes glinting with horror, the reality around him percolating towards an unpleasant climax. The invasion of suffering was upon him.

“Let’s go,” Carl barked at Allen.

“I can’t…”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“You tricked me.”

“Whoa, looks like someone had a bowl of paranoia for breakfast,” commented Carl. He giggled serenely.

“There’ll be consequences,” Allen said solemnly.

“Emma won’t bite,” Carl said in a deceptively mollifying tone. It was a means by which to nudge Allen along, in spite of his ill humor.

At that moment, Emma N. was aware of their presence. She beamed at us, and, while flashing her debased ego and wanton spirit, waved us over as if we were obliged against our will. She then shouted out, “I see you, Allen. You can’t hide from me anymore.”

“Carl,” said Allen self-consciously, “you’re…you’re a sadistic monster.”

“You bet ya,” Carl retorted. “No contrition on my end; otherwise it wouldn’t be sadistic.” He patted Allen on the back. “Now let’s go already. Don’t be such a coward.”

As they made their way towards the reservoir, Allen had couldn’t help but contemplate all the negative associations that were inherent in Emma N., such as her pejorative mocking, the twerpy mannerisms, the obnoxious laugh…and the japing.

She was renowned for her japing.

Emma N.’s presence was now fully manifested. She approached Allen and poked him in the chest, running through the usual trials of menacing her prey. She tugged at the hair on his head and said, “You can’t escape, Allen. The sooner you capitulate, the sooner we can get this over with.”

“How do you have any friends?” asked Allen in desperation. “It must be certain that your infringements outweigh your likeability.”

“Pish-posh, Queer Boy,” she derided. “Who’s to judge my charisma? Plenty of people derive pleasure from my abasements.” She gazed at him in quizzical vein. “Why aren’t you one of those people, Allen? Have you never examined yourself in a neutral point of view? Why, you’re an appalling creature! There are two types of people, Allen: the victorious and the victimized. Your suffering is my nourishment, and Carl’s nourishment – and the nourishment of many, many others. Don’t you see what the natural order has prescribed? It’s beyond our power, Allen. Mankind will ultimately profit from your inner demise.”

“You’re going to jape me, aren’t you?” muttered Allen, all but conceding his resistance. He looked over at Carl. “We’re no longer friends, just so you know.”

“Fine by me,” answered Carl. “I never liked you to begin with. Emma N. is doing me a solid on this one; indeed, a profound service.” Carl winked at Emma N., a gesture signifying his gratification.

Emma N. said, “I will jape you as I see fit.”

Shen then retrieved a booklet with “The Registry of Japes” printed across the top. She began thumbing through indexes and glossaries, a striking pensiveness taking shape in her features–

She was searching for the perfect jape.

After an interval of leafing through the pages of the registry, Emma N. reverted her attention back to Allen, glaring at him with an importunate desire. She couldn’t determine the proper japing, and this was causing her great deal of anxious tedium.

Impatiently, she inquired of Allen: “What irks you most?”

“Excuse me?”

“Which area of your life, should I perform a jape based upon the relevant data, will inflame your inner self with distress and turmoil?”

“Umm…” Allen choked, grunting with oppression. “That would be…” He couldn’t believe he was going to say it. “The distress I cannot bear is mockery directed at my mother.”

There was a substantial pause.

“Excellent,” responded Emma N., breaking the silence.

“Oh, this should be good,” Carl put in eagerly.

“Section 45, Column B,” said Emma N. “Here we go.” She observed Allen – her eyes sparkling anew – so that she could perceive his every neuroticism before and after she uttered her jape. “Are you ready, Allen?”

“I’ve been ready,” he grated. “Let’s get this diabolical treachery over with already.”

“Of course, of course,” she said. She quickly glanced down at Section 45, Column B from the registry, then she gazed up at Allen directly and recited those fateful words:

“I had sex with your mother. Her uterus was warm and snuggly: A Velvety Tropical Pussyland. The smells that emit form her genitals were divine and blissful like the grapes of paradise. I stroked her breasts, caressed her hips. She was penetrated with the barbaric passion. I bit her, I licked her, I rubbed her, and I disgraced her. Together we rode the dragon of lustful eroticism, and the rapture we shared was unmatched: we were obstinate in our quest for self-gratification. And in the end, our orgasms were synchronized – a simultaneous climax.”

A protracted silence ensued. The mood that dominated the moment was of many impressions: dread, discomfort, shame, gloom, agony – it was all smashed together in a disorderly fashion.

Each of them looked at each other. There was nothing to say…

And Allen was suddenly lost in psychosis.

Psychological irregularity is a serious sickness. But an antagonist could care less:

“Well,” intoned Emma N., “my work here is done.”

“This may be your finest job yet,” said Carl: an obvious compliment. He glanced at her in an indulgent way. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment for a long time. You did good.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” said Emma N., flushing with pride.

Allen suddenly stirred. His face blanched, mortified beyond comprehension. And then, subsequently, he was devoured by sorrow: lachrymose of the heart. The pangs he endured were inextricable. Through the Tyranny of Misery shall he brave–  

Sadness.

Tears.

The earth stopped spinning.

“Lighten up, Queer Boy,” said Carl, fully aware Allen’s growing dejection. “It was just a japing.”

“Let’s go, Carl,” commanded Emma N. “I know of another boy whose mother is an insatiable shrew. Perhaps we could jape him as well.”

“I’m game for that,” said Carl enthusiastically. “Who is this other boy?”

“Nathan Gaelic.”

“Ah, good choice; his mother is quite the henpecker.”

“Splendid, Carl,” said Emma N., followed by her subtle yet sinister laugh: “Tee-hee.”

But before they departed, Emma N. and Carl took one good look at Allen, and it occurred to them that perhaps this whole affair had precipitated – what would eventually become – a traumatic memory from which Allen may never recover. However, since the two of them are morally out of touch, they expressed zero concern for Allen: and they left him there to wallow.

It was an indubitably difficult day for Allen to be alive. The encounter with Emma N. Mullato and Carl Ferrar would forever mar his sanity. He wanted to die; the tragedy of his life – an inconsolable nightmare – had compelled him towards hysteria. His outlook on life had taken a grim turn.

Although mostly unspoken, it is well known that the transition from “irrational-to-rational” is a much more arduous process than “rational-to-irrational.” In fact, “rational-to-irrational” is a simple endeavor. Although we may not perceive it through the senses, there is a fallen angel who takes great pains to enable dysfunction in the universe: crime, corruption, devastation. And japing.

Rational-to-irrational–

That’s what happened to Allen Higsbee.

                                                         ––––

Fast forward to the near future: after an indefinite amount of time had passed since the japing incident, a period in which Allen’s life was interspersed with episodes and breakdowns of the psychiatric variety, he began contemplating suicide, brainstorming every method at his disposal. At one point, when his mind had lapsed to such a degree that not a single rational thought could recalibrate his consciousness, he procured an amount of cyanide, resolute in taking his own life…

But he ultimately chickened out.

After abandoning his commitment to suicide, Allen Higsbee confessed his troubles and sought help. His psychiatrist, a firm yet sympathetic spinster, relayed the message that “people are poison,” suggesting that he should “go on an adventure.”

And Allen Higsbee did just that: soul searching. He climbed up rocks, flew a plane, and read the bible. And ten years later, he would run for public office, donate resources to children who are impoverished, and go on an escapade condemning childhood harassment.

[nickpappasauthor-blog]

The Day Marcus Ryser Went Around the Bend

The day was May 27, 2009, when Marcus Ryser was officially “around the bend.” He called me that day in a state of unmitigated panic and despair. It appeared that some sort of obscure mania was prickling at his mind, and while we communicated – a brief yet illuminating conversation – he disclosed to me his troubles through a mixture of stifled groans and uninterrupted dialogue, a total reversal from his everyday behavior, which had me severely perturbed.

When I answered his phone call, the first thing he said to me was this: “I’ve got bad business going on in the brain, Nicholas. I can’t decipher whether the entity that I’m in contact with is benign or evil. They’ve been forwarding me cryptic information for 12 consecutive hours. The transmissions are causing me great fatigue, yet I can’t tune it out. And my fear of all fears is that I may succumb to an eternal torpor.” 

“Did you talk to God?” I asked him. 

“I don’t know… Could be an oracle. Could be epilepsy.”

“Stay calm – I’ll be right over.”

It was cold that night, and the breeze was invasive. But the brisk air was the least of my worries. Marcus was withdrawing from reality: and soon he would be gone for good.

My mind was paralyzed by the revelation of Marcus going mad. He was a close friend – a friend that I would regret to lose. And despite the obvious symptoms that a man of a feeble and convivial nature could produce, I would’ve never suspected Marcus to suffer such a breakdown. Moreover, I couldn’t bear thought that his sanity had begun to debilitate, and so, out of pretext, I fancied that perhaps Marcus was a medium – yes, a medium. Performing seances. I.e., an acceptable psychotic.

I had arrived at Marcus’ home. While under the unruly impression that my every action had to be carried out with the utmost prudence, I decided to bypass the formalities of “front-door-knocking” and “doorbell-ringing.” Instead, I became an intruder, committing a home invasion: the front door was unlocked. Next, I searched for him, frantically. Where is he? I thought with despair. Shadows loomed and the rooms were ominous. Stillness. Seclusion.

This was unnatural.

“Marcus!” I hollered.

“Who goes there?” rasped a familiar voice.

I turned around and saw Marcus lying on the floor in a heap. Going over to him, I gingerly raised him up from the floor, placing him down on the nearby leather chair. Scrutinizing him, I noticed that his hair was matted down from having his head pressed against the floor. What was also glaringly unhealthy about him was his rather pallid skin, and a pair of eyes that were as vacant as the eternal void. But not another moment later I understood what was going on–

Marcus was undergoing religiosity.

“What’s the first thing,” I said, “that pops into your mind, Marcus?”

And he answered back with a rapid sequence of words, like a machine spitting out a transcript: “Delphic Mysteries. Dancing Gentiles. Draconian Nightmares. Symbolical Ceremonies. Before me now is the definitive heralding of Palestine and the Kingdom of Modernism. Judeo-Christian parables cross-referenced with monotheistic scriptures. The Gnostics; the material creator. But what intrigues me the most is the Eye in the Sky; he can be quite evasive…”

Marcus concluded his verbal musings, and thereupon I gazed at him quizzically, traces of incredulity emerging from my inner conscience. Warily, I said to him, “Can you, humble Marcus, confirm your connection with what is, ostensibly, a connection with the divine? Was there an apparatus or spirit involved, such as a ‘time machine,’ or even, perhaps, the ‘Holy Spirit’? Are you oscillating between separate matrices? Have you taken any narcotics in the past 24 hours?”

“I’ve been administered phenobarbital.”

“Was it a potent dosage?”

“Yes; an ample quantity was described as ‘adequate’ by my examiner.”

“An examiner?”

“Yes; he’s very affable. But anyhow, the effects of the drug have been nullified by you know who.” He twitched faintly, then added, “What’s more troubling is the fact that the nixing of such a powerful sedative by an otherworldly potentiality is hardly the apotheosis of my experience.”

It dawned on me right then that, if it were feasible to placate Marcus, it would require the taxing labors of blind indulgence and excruciating patience. But I wasn't intent on such a dangerous course. Marcus was in peril, and I had treat it that way. However, it's never easy to tell someone they're crazy.

Suddenly, I was very nervous, engulfed by angst. Then I decided that perhaps I should keep on improvising:

“Who or whom,” I said, “has been transmitting the information?”

This seemed to have caught Marcus off guard. “His surname eludes me. Allow me an interval of cogitation.” Marcus bent his head, furrowed his brow. Tiny dots of perspiration were manifested on his neck and cheeks. A desolate expression took shape in his features: there were traces of frankness, disillusion, and mild discomfort, much like a man who’s been jilted at the altar on the day of his wedding. His face was already tattered, which could be attributed to the lethargy he was experiencing; but those droopy eyes alone were perhaps the most convincing indicator of a haggard image. After more than enough time had passed, Marcus finally said, “The man responsible for the transmissions abides by a title known as ‘The Master of Enigma.’”

“What does he look like?” I asked gravely.

“He’s a foppish gentleman – very presentable.”

“Go on.”

“Well…he performed it in a rather bawdy manner. It was quite perverse, to be frank.”

“Give me an example.”

“Er… Ok.” Marcus thought for a moment, then said, “At one point, he may have compared the descending of the Shekinah Glory to that of a ‘sexual awakening,’ as if Christ himself was aroused – in an erotic manner – by his own spiritual prestige in the abode of the Lord.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” I blurted out in a display of mild contempt, committing a faux pas. But Marcus was heedless of my tactless conduct – heedless of everything, for that matter.

“Furthermore,” Marcus went on, “the foppish man made it abundantly known that he expatiates his sins at the ‘Purgatory Palace’; he calls it a ‘stable gig.’ I suppose that, from what I can interpret, the confessing of his depravity is part of a comedy routine.” He suddenly looked at me severely and, somewhat abruptly, said, “What do you make of this, Nicholas?”

An acute sense of dread poured over me. What was Marcus talking about? It all chalked up to nonsense, like a religious crank who prattles on about the contrasting nature of God’s will. It only strengthened my conviction of his sickness.

Yet I continued to dither between alternatives. My instincts betrayed me. What would it take to make Marcus aware of his illness?

But then, quite unexpectedly, Marcus sprang up from and, in a spell of renegade terror, upended the leather chair. He ran into the next room, which served a sanctuary for his philosophical dissections. I made chase for him – I couldn’t let the madman out of my sight.

I entered the room, and before me was an arrangement of textbooks and literature of manifold persuasions. Marcus was retrieving a volume from a shelf on the far side of the room–

“What you got there?” I asked him uneasily.

“My exegesis,” he responded. “Give it a once over” – and he handed it to me.

I opened the exegesis to a random page. Then I turned the page over. I repeated this process. Soon I was leafing through the exegesis. And then it occurred to me: the contents of the exegesis were nothing but esoteric hyperbole. Not a single word could I understand. There was a plethora of sophisticated and theological terms, such as: intra-loquacious dictum, extraterrestrial meta-sapiens, the Unholy Heretical Messiah, etc. It was all beyond my wits.

“I can’t discern any of this,” I said drearily.

“Why not?” Marcus was thoroughly disgruntled.

“It’s too prolix, Marcus.”

“Pshaw,” said Marcus as he snatched the exegesis from me. “You need more spiritual training.” He consulted the exegesis, determined to sway my sympathy in his favor. A diminutive yet luminescent twinkle could be observed in his eyes, uncompromising in its quasi-shimmer. He glared at me – a skeptical expression – and said, “Answer me this, Nicholas: are you an authority of the Humbug Regime? It would break my heart if I were to uncover your dastardly motives.”

“I’m on your side, Marcus.” But I sensed that I was beginning to lose him.

Marcus grunted, evidently dissatisfied with me. But at least he was rational enough to grasp my deception. That was an encouraging sign. However, I wasn’t sure what my next move would be. I felt like an impostor. There simply wasn’t a healthy way to break the news of his condition.

“Marcus,” I intoned, “What other unusual, autonomous phenomena have you been experiencing?

“What do you mean by ‘autonomous phenomena’?”

“Well, suppose that – and I’m just throwing this out there – there are things happening outside of your own awareness, such as catatonia. Or somnambulism, perhaps.”

“Somnambulism?” Marcus found the implication of sleepwalking to be preposterous. “What are you getting at, Nicholas?”

“There's no cause to be disconcerted, Marcus,” I said to him calmly. “This is an informal inquiry. Think of me as a scientist: I'm merely extrapolating.”

“I'm not making this stuff up, Nicholas. I've been inaugurated into a higher divinity via God’s Wisdom.” He pointed at my face, as if I had committed a heinous crime. “I’ve got a firm grasp on what I perceive, and you can't convince me otherwise."

“If you believe me to be throwing dust in your eyes, you are greatly mistaken, Marcus. I interpret your findings with the utmost sensitivity.” But what I said just now was a bold-faced lie. Marcus was a total nutbag; and now, more than before, I was adamant in securing him the proper care.

“Have you not been listening to me, Nicholas? I know secrets – secrets that'll strip our world of all that is mundane.”

“What do you mean?”

Marcus blinked. “You know… Paradise, Elysium, the Firmament. We can undercut reality.”

I was beginning to feel numb and desensitized. The walls were receding and the ceiling caved in. Weightlessness was abounding. This is what happens when you must hurt someone close to you: reality loses its verisimilitude. As I continued to lapse into stupefied remorse, I thought: Why did my friend – of all the people in the world! – have to lose his mind?

I presently said, “You’re in a bad way, Marcus. I can help you.”

Marcus was silent as he brooded over the developing quandary. And in that instant, there was a fundamental change: his presence was suddenly bereft of human qualities. Listless and alien were the descriptive terms that represented the deportment of Marcus Ryser.

But then another change had incurred. There was some squirming and writhing. Bleakness was swaddling him like a blanket. It appeared that I had gotten through to him, but he seemed to be experiencing an anti-catharsis. Equilibrium: shattered.

Marcus spoke: “I can’t believe it…”

I spoke back: “Don’t believe what?”

“You’re a…”

“I’m – what?”

“You’re the Quotidian Monster! You’ve been masquerading!”

“I don’t know what that means, Marcus!”

“Animus! Animus!” Marcus’ head snapped back violently. He clutched his right eye in a frenzy of disturbing apprehension. “Those are the sirens I hear!”

“Get a grip on yourself, Marcus!”

Still heedless of his crumbling sanity (somehow), Marcus made a break for the hallway. I promptly followed after him.

In mid-retreat, he yelled at me: “I had an intuition that you were an agent of the Evil and Villainy! When will the bloodletting ever end!” He turned the corner towards a remote section of his home.

“Marcus!” I shouted back, turning the same corner.

“Godless heathen!”

“Marcus!”

“Don’t make me hurt myself!” He entered a bedroom at the far end of the hallway…

…I, too, had entered the bedroom. “Marcus!”

And he jumped out the window.

A second later I heard a dull thud from outside. The sound itself had a macabre effect on me: Horror began to set in. I was weak and scared. The shock wouldn’t go away, so I waited it out. Time crept along. Then, staving off enough of my fears, I inched my way over to the window. And when I peered out of the aperture, and saw Marcus, inert, unstirred, sprawled out on the ground like a sack of wasteful flesh, I nearly lost it. However, I was able suppress most of my most erratic emotions, albeit with great struggle.

Panic has its catalysts. Things can go wrong at any moment. God inflicted harm on my dear friend – where’s the predestination in that? But I shouldn’t be mad at an impersonal Deity. Some of us are more vulnerable to cosmic condemnation than others.

The good news was that Marcus survived the fall, but not without an aftermath, and a stigma to boot: mental illness. He would go through life with obstacles too daunting to overcome. There would even be a pivotal juncture in his life where the mounting pressures of psychological disorder and excess medication would nearly push over the edge and induce him to take his own life.

Don’t worry. He’s still alive right now.

I vividly remember the moment when the paramedics arrived. There I was, demoralized and mad at universe for manufacturing such a travesty – a distortion of all that was, at one point, unadulterated. I could barely look at Marcus. I cried, plaintively.

And as they were wheeling Marcus away on a stretcher, the little wretch turned to me and said, “Nicholas, Nicholas.” He looked me square in the eyes. “Promise me that you will contact the Master of Enigma and inform him that I found his veiled assertion that Christ had masturbated to the thought of divine prophecy to be a rather penetrating witticism.”

“Absolutely, Marcus. Absolutely.”

I watched as Marcus went away, for good. He’ll be in and out of hospitals until it’s no longer “in and out” but merely “in.” I lost my friend, and from that moment on my poignant thoughts would never cease. 

[nickpappasauthor-blog]

The Aristocratic Woman

I was nowhere, and then I was somewhere: a wealthy, suburban home.

Suddenly a woman, with flowing hair, bright skin, tepid eyes that vaguely glimmered, while appropriately dressed for a lavish evening, had approached me. She got close to me and, as if I were her intimate lover, said, “You’re late, Wilson.”

“I’m not Wilson,” I responded.

“Don’t you dare defy me again.”

She grabbed my hand and lead me out to the back patio. There were many men and woman here, an amalgam of beltway patriarchs and bohemian flash-mobs, expensively clothed in fibers of a fine cut. Vermillion gowns, pearl bracelets, nylon trimmings, gemstone inlays, and many more custom-tailored garments worn exclusively for a swanky party such as this.

I was experiencing Aristocratic Society.

“Try the shrimp,” said the woman.

“I prefer ice cream.”

“Nonsense.” She pulled aside a nearby servant. “Be a darling and procure us a helping of the prawn,” she said.

“And to drink?”

She pondered. “Make it schnapps.”

“As you wish.” The servant trotted off.

“Your party is rather ritzy,” I said to the woman. “Very wonderful.” I figured that it was in my best interest not to “stir things up” at a gathering of rich people, so I fed the woman compliments. “All the men here are drawn to your ample cleavage.”

“Why thank you,” she said, her cheeks turning florid with enchantment. “My bosom is all natural, believe it or not.”

My compliments had charmed her quite effectively.

The servant hastily returned. “Here,” he said curtly, a total reversion of his initial presentation. He handed the woman her schnapps and prawn, then fled off.

I’ve got to get out of here, I thought. This must be some sort of dream sequence – I can sense it. I don’t know any of these people, and their suspicions are palpable: they’re looking at me is if I don’t belong here.

“Drink with me,” the woman ordered.

For reasons that were inexplicable, I said to her, “You’re alone and miserable.”

She blinked, contemplating my malicious language. But she reacted rather agreeably:

“You read me like a pamphlet, Wilson.”

I scowled at her severely. “You’re a dark cloud, a blemish on reality.”

“Go on.”

“You have no real value in the world.”

A crowd was forming around us.

The woman said, “What else am I?”

“An abomination,” I answered promptly.

An avid murmur was traveling through the spectating crowd. They were provoked.

“Yes, yes,” the woman said in a mellow tone. “Treat me like dirt. That’s what I was put on this earth for.”

“Scum like you should dosed.”

“That is grand, Wilson.”

“May you be blighted by toxemia.”

The crowd was applauding me in an oddly amorous manner. I glared at them with terrible perplexity.

“Ignore them!”

At that moment, having dropped her schnapps and prawn on the ground, the woman struck me in the chest with all her vigor, afflicted by a spell of hysteria. I reeled for a moment before reestablishing my footing.

“I want you,” she said, panting, “to rape me – rape me psychologically.” She became scary, wrathful, and masochistic. “I want you fuck my pride as you would my pussy.”

I ran away from her without delay. And, as I fled, I thought: Those aristocrats sure are depraved!