The Myth Of The Anal Probe

by David Larson

  “Whenever?” Mike asked pointedly.

  “Yep, just say the word and your chariot awaits.”

  “How long do you think this trip is going to take?” Mike asked.

  “Interesting question,” Bob said scratching his beard. “You have to understand that time doesn’t really work the way you understand it to work out here. There’s no sun rising or setting. Well actually, there isn’t on Earth either; the Earth rotates. The sun just sits there and burns. But I digress.”

  “How long?” Mike persisted.

  Bob stood up and looked at Mike for a few seconds then looked at the back of his bare wrist. “Wednesday,” Bob said “Right around 2 PM. Taking traffic into consideration, of course.”

  “Thanks,” Mike said blankly.

  “Not a problem old hoss,” Bob said with an air of officiality as he patted Mike on the shoulder “not a problem at all. Sit back, enjoy the ride. Maybe take some time to decorate your space a little. It looks like a shit storm of misery blew through here.”

  Four:

  Mike sat on the Iron Throne in one corner of his quarantine room. A life-size replica of the Master Chief sat directly in the middle of the room complete with Cortana sitting pensively on his shoulder like Tinker Bell on Peter Pan. Various paintings came and went on several of the walls, sometimes in rapid succession, and occasionally they would hover there for a few minutes before being replaced with something new.

  Mike was getting tired of decorating his space, although he was actually getting pretty good at it by now. The transition from minding his own damn business as he drove home in his pickup truck to “think renovating” his space was breathtaking. At first, he simply had a bed and a lazy boy in his perfectly round and white “cell”. The he realized that his miserable living conditions were entirely of his own making. For a few hours he simply existed in his apartment back on earth. Just sitting in his own grubby, but comfortable chair, staring out the window at pigeons as they had an endless crap-leaving contest.

  It took him a little while to understand that he could clean up the fertilizer ridden sill simply by disappearing the pigeons. Then it hit him he could simply disappear the crap. Then the beautiful crystallization of reality hit him that he was only stuck by his own inability to be creative. To actually think outside the box. He wanted a new chair. There was no reason to travel to the furniture store, or spend countless hours clicking through virtual store fronts on line. He hated that anyway. Once he fired up the laptop it was way too easy to slide into Facebook hell, just for a peek mind you, and get into an all day long pissing contest with a bevy of unseen thought harassers about the color of a dress, or the competence of a specific world leader.

  Instead, all he had to do was think his new chair into existence, and summarily think his old one to the realm of an invisible, nonexistent trash heap. It took a little while longer to realize that the only limit to what his personal trappings could be was the actual limit of his mind. If a chair was too lumpy it was because his mind was too lumpy. If his bed was too soft, it was because his mind was too soft. But even more disturbing was that if his space was too foreboding…

  Mike was firmly in the middle of a giant pond of denial, floating comfortably on his back, as little tiny fishes of unreason swam around him. He had already, in this short amount of time convinced himself that his “space” looked exactly the way he wanted it to. He was certain that his current wade in this cesspool of eclectic pop culture was exactly what he had always wanted. But someplace, WAY back in the corner of his subconscious, locked in a lead case with ten golden padlocks (that oddly resembled the lock on his old high school gym locker), sitting safely behind a two-foot-thick steel door that was guarded by pumas in diamond collars, attended by medieval knights with AK47s, was the glimmer of an idea that he might be full of shit.

  Mike had that thought held tightly in a head lock as Bob walked into the room.

  “How’s it hangin’ there, padre?” Bob asked.

  “Just peachy,” Mike answered sullenly.

  His legs were tightly crossed, he leaned to one side of the throne with his face firmly smashed into the palm on his left hand as that elbow was jammed into one of the arm rests. His right arm rested lazily on the other.

  “Come on brother,” Bob said as he sat in a chair that Bob saw as a very comfortable contemporary model, and Mike perceived as a Weber gas grill on full high. “It can’t be all that bad in here can it?”

  “I mean you are basically sitting in a giant adult playhouse that’s only limited by your mind.”

  Mike just stared at him through bored eyes.

  “Oh yeah,” Bob said as he scratched his beard. “I can see how there might be some limitations there. We never really turned one of these things loose on one of you people.”

  “You people?” Mike said sitting up straight.

  “Hey buddy,” Bob said with that ever-present smile on his face, “save the indignation for people that understand it. The law of implied slight don’t go ‘round here law dog…savvy?”

  “Sometimes,” Mike said, “the way you talk is odd, but vaguely familiar. It’s also definitely irritating as hell.”

  “Irritation,” Bob said solemnly, “it’s what’s for dinner.”

  He winked at Mike for punctuation.

  “Exactly the kind of crap I’m talking about,” Mike shot back.

  “I come bearing some good news,” Bob said.

  “I could use some of that.” Mike said “Sitting in this TV fun house is starting to take its toll.”

  “Well buster,” Bob said with open arms “you are about to be released into the wild.”

  “Outstanding!” Mike exclaimed as he shot out of the chair. “How did that happen? I’ve been sitting in here for days now waiting for someone to come in and examine me. But there hasn’t been a soul in here except you.”

  “Actually ace,” Bob said “people have been observing you every single minute you’ve been in this room. There’s an entire team of professionals sitting in a room right now dissecting every move you make.”

  “I’m never exactly sure when you’re bullshitting me, and when I should believe you,” Mike said hesitantly.

  “Yeah,” Bob said as he looked at his well-worn shoes “I get that a lot. But this time you can believe every single thing I’m saying. We couldn’t just turn you lose on an unsuspecting public. And, we couldn’t necessarily let people that weren’t used to dealing with the mentally afflicted come in here and get crazy on them. That stuff is a bitch to wash off.”

  Mike raised one eye brow.

  “This team,” Bob went on “has a device that allows them to see how you decorate your room. It monitors your mood, body temperature, heart rate…everything. They have poured over all of the recordings of every single conversation you and I have ever had. You must understand that since we – you and I that is – share a common DNA strand we have to be careful about how you affect the rest of us. If even a little bit of crazy washes onto one of us and starts a cascade effect it would be like the zombie freaking apocalypse out there. And not all of the Rick, Carol, and Darrells in the world would be able to stem that tide.”

  “I get it,” Mike said. “I knew it would be like that before I ever signed on to this freak show. It just might have been nice if you told me what was going on. I wouldn’t feel so violated right now.”

  “Sorry buddy,” Bob said sincerely “But we needed a realistic base line. And, now we have it.”

  “So, what’s next?” Mike asked.

  “Next,” Bob said as he clapped his hands together for emphasis “you get the opportunity of a life time. You get to meet Serilda.”

  “Seriously?!” Mike said. “Never in my wildest dreams… I mean Serilda. Hell, that’s worth the trip right there.”

  “Now who’s being a smart ass?” Bob said blankly.

  Mike just shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

  “Serilda is our dictator,” Bob said. “Actually, I’d l
ove to know how that title translates through your chip. Because I’m pretty that there’s nothing comparable on your home planet.”

  “Well,” Mike said “It translates to someone that rules singularly over the population, and has that title for life, or until someone knocks them off the throne. Usually physically.”

  “I guess if you take out the word rule and the knocks them off the throne part,” Bob said as he looked at the ceiling “I’d have to say that’s fairly accurate then. But Serilda is more of a…logistics expert, I guess.”

  “Logistical?” Mike said with that eyebrow raised again.

  “Yeah,” Bob said. “But, I think it will be better for her to explain it.”

  Bob turned and started to walk out the door.

  “Get some rest brother,” he said over his shoulder. “Big day for you tomorrow.”

  Five:

  Bob and Mike walked down the long white corridor that was right outside the room Mike had occupied for the last three weeks. Once again everything was white, and Mike got the feeling he was walking down a giant straw.

  “Am I supposed to be perceiving something here?” Mike asked.

  “What?” Bob said. Then he suddenly got what Mike was asking.

  “Oh, no dude,” he said. “The room is just your personal space. Someplace where you go to let your creative juices fly.”

  “Unless of course,” Bob said as he stopped and turned to face Mike “a person happens to be creatively constipated.”

  “You know, kind of like you are.” He winked at Mike again.

  “So, what,” Mike asked, “everything from here on out is for real?”

  “Pretty much,” Bob said.

  “Everyday life here, as you are about to witness for yourself, is quite a bit different than what you’re used to.

  “We eat in community areas,” Bob explained. “We also have community bath houses. It promotes a sense of unity and positive mental health.”

  “So, you’re a bunch of communists,” Mike said.

  “If the word is translating correctly I’d have to say no, only because of the implied negative connotation,” Bob said. “I think the correct word is…hippies? Yeah, by the stupid look on your face I’d say that translates better.”

  Bob and Mike stepped through the door at the end of the corridor, and Mike was instantly poleaxed with sensory overload. After being stuck in the realm of unreal that was his living space for so long, the simple light of day put a zap on his head that was breath-taking. But the environment that he stepped into was like walking into a real-life Degas. The colors were swimming, and vivid but at the same time soft and pastel.

  None of the buildings in his immediate vicinity were taller than two stories. There was no traffic, traffic noise, or exhaust fumes. In fact, there wasn’t even a trace of a thoroughfare of any type to facilitate that assault on the human psyche necessary to be transported from one place to another back home. The air was so clear that is almost hurt to be immersed in it.

  The landscaping was the biggest thing that smacked Mike in the face, though. The expertly manicured trees, shrubs, flowers, and bushes were the most beautiful things the earthling had ever seen. They danced and wove together in spectacular splashes of red, green, blue, white, purple, and other colors that would be called something unnecessarily haughty on a color chip back home. Something like Sea of Tranquility Green or Hound of the Baskerville Beige. Something like Hummingbirds, but larger, worked tirelessly to drain each flower of whatever sustenance it may find there. And a bevy of small animals, some familiar to Mike and others not even close to the available catalog at home, played among the sea of colors that swirled around them.

  The flora twisted and spiraled around every single building that Mike could see, seeming to hide the severe angles, glass, and other building materials from view. But that wasn’t really it at all, was it? No, the plant life seemed to absorb the building into the land scape. To…accept that it was part of the overall being of nature. To swallow whole the endeavors of human kind and lay waste to the needlessly unflattering achievements of the dwellers.

  The sky was the same pale blue that Mike was used to at home, and dotted with various layers of white puffy clouds. The sun was the same white/yellow that he was used to, but there were two moons in the sky. One was about the same size of what he was used to, but a blazing vivid red color. The other was gigantic, and the most beautiful shade of blue he had ever seen. This would have been amazing enough, but the addition of light green, Saturn-like rings was nearly overpowering. No wait…they were yellow, now blue, now red. And they were slowly revolving around the planet from pole to pole.

  Mike nearly passed out.

  “Hang in there, brother,” Bob said as he held Mike by the arm for balance. “It can all be pretty heady stuff to the newcomer.”

  “Uh,” Mike said dumbly, “yeah.”

  Mike closed his eyes and drank in deep breaths of the sweetest air that had ever graced his lungs. He could almost taste it. He held that breath for a few seconds unwilling to let the new-found freshness escape. He was afraid that he might get used to this. Jaded in a sense. And the following breaths may become increasingly less significant until he simply, and unconsciously pulled in the sweetest meaning of life he could possibly imagine ,and exhaled gas tainted by his human physiological waste without a second thought.

  “Can we just,” Mike searched for words, “I don’t know; stand in this spot for a minute?”

  “Sure brother,” Bob said serenely “Take as much time as you need. Take all the time you want. This is all part of what you need to take back with you anyway.”

  “Back with me?” Mike was already beginning to think, “Why the hell would I want to go back?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Bob said as though he was reading Mikes thoughts.

  “Can you read minds now too?” Mike said in wide eyed amazement.

  “No old buddy,” Bob said with that Cheshire Cat smile. “it’s just written all over that ape like look on your face right now. Apparently, you kind of like it here.”

  “Yeah,” Mike said dreamily. “Kinda.”

  “Wave your hand over that post will ya’ hoss?” Bob said.

  “What,” Mike asked as he was jarred from his reverie.

  Bob was pointing at what looked to be an old-fashioned hitching post right next to Mike. Mike passed his hand over the black orb on top of the post.

  “Thanks buddy,” Bob said.

  In a few minutes a vehicle about the size of a 1970 Volkswagen Beetle came out of the opening in the ground at the far-left side of the small meadow. The “car” looked like a white windowless Tylenol capsule It was soundless as it moved up the small rise and stopped in front of the pair.

  Mike looked under the vehicle and saw that it seemed to be floating about six inches off the ground. A door on the side slid open revealing a spotless white interior and two seats at each end facing each other, that looked to be extremely comfortable.

  “Age before beauty,” Bob said stepping aside to let Mike in first.

  Mike climbed into the “car” and Bob scrambled in behind him. They sat facing each other, the door slid shut, and the outside of the car disappeared.

  “What the hell?!” Mike said.

  “Yeah,” Bob said as he gazed out at the countryside that they seemed to be hovering over in overstuffed white loungers “you might call this the original Vistacruiser.”

  “Is this thing invisible now?” Mike asked as he poked one index finger at the scenery just to make sure they were still enclosed in something.

  “Uh, no,” Mike said “I mean we don’t have some sort of cloaking device or anything. Or Harry Potters’ invisibility cloak. Although that would be just cool as hell,” he slapped Mike on the knee, “wouldn’t it?”

  “What the hell is this then?” Mike asked.

  “All of our transportation is under ground,” Bob said as he sat back in his seat, and the “car” began to silent
ly move ahead “It makes things so much easier this way. No traffic to muddy up the scenery, or speeding cars to drive someone into next week by mistake. What you’re looking at here is a giant cylindrical “television” screen for the lack of a better word. We’re actually underground in a giant tube speeding toward our destination. And before you ask,” Bob said as he held up a hand to stop Mike from interrupting his train of thought, “it knows where we’re going because I told it where to take us.”

  Bob tapped his temple and smiled to indicate the chip.

  “What moves it forward?” Mike asked as he watched some of the most beautiful country side that he’s ever seen slide silently past him.

  “A sort of magnetic rail,” Bob said.

  “And why didn’t you ever give this to us?” Mike asked.

  “Well,” Bob said as he watched the world go by, “we did. It’s called Maglev and you use it every day. Of course, you don’t use it to its fullest potential because the big oil companies put the screws to it. Thought someone was trying to take their rice bowl. You know what they say…you don’t want to break nobody’s rice bowl.”

  “That takes a ton of electricity though,” Mike said. “Doesn’t it?”

  “Yep, ole’ buddy, quite a bit.”

  “You people don’t seem to be really into fossil fuels here. Where’s it coming from?”

  “You people?” Bob asked as he raised both eyebrows in mock indignation.

  Mike gave him the finger.

  “Natural sources,” Bob answered. “Wind, solar, sea current. Hell ole’ buddy, we even get quite a bit from the gravitational pull of this planet, and all three of our moons.”

  “Three?” Mikes asked surprised. “I only saw two.”

  “And you were only outside, what… ten minutes?” Bob said. “Man, you people are quick to judge.”