by Tom Schimmel
Folk lore tells stories of the Dark Ages on Earth. A time ruled by a dragon and her human cohorts. Famine, pestilence, and war persisted for hundreds of years in Europe and Asia. It seemed the humans would be extinguished. According to the tradition, something very bright appeared and dragged the evil dragon queen into the abyss. Shortly after, the sun came back out and humanity began a new stage of growth.
Leviathan had watched it all happen. While he was impressed by his sister’s audacity in claiming the land for awhile, he was likewise delighted that humans began again to believe they were safe. His sister had been trapped for a thousand years now; but like all things on Earth, that too was about to change. Recently the one called Leviathan had summoned one of the remaining ancients to Earth. His half-brother.
A tropical storm in Guam was arranged to prevent satellite cameras and human eyes from seeing the splash that a six million pound reptile makes when it enters the ocean at ten thousand miles per hour. His half-brother had visited Earth before to join in the fun of the Dark Ages with the love of his life. The humans had even given him a name. They called him Lucifer. Unlike his brainy half-brother, Lucifer is all brawn. Magnificent to behold, he spent the last millennium in seclusion behind the giant Red Spot of Jupiter. Not even the humans with their vigilant technology could find him there. The whiz kids on Ourfolk Nine were buzzing with excitement and apprehension. When the ancient beast made its historic kerploosh into the Pacific Ocean, they cheered like sports fans to drive the fulcrum of momentum.
Whiz Kid 1:
“Long live The Director!”
Whiz Kid 2:
“And if The Director should die…”
Whiz Kid 3:
“Free Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer!”
The three whiz kids had been tight from the start with Zymphonomous Bla. They shared an intense dislike for the Emperor Zow. With Bla’s help, they had engineered an escape from Andromeda. They would remain in the confines of their prison pod; but they were able to communicate freely with the worlds outside. Their prison pod, Ourfolk Nine had followed the director through the wormhole and placed itself in orbit around Earth. It was invisible to all observational technology on Earth. Only the director knew of their existence. While it was true that from time to time, a medicine man in Peru in a deep trance or a desert hippie tripping on mescaline would glimpse a set of golden orbs orbiting the planet on an astral plane; their hallucinatory revelations would be immediately cast in doubt upon the return of sobriety.
The origin of the whiz kids remains unknown.
CHAPTER NINE
More of the SAIM
The Social Artificial Intelligence Monitor maintained an incredibly high rate of employee retention. There were no firings, layoffs, or cutbacks. Raises were given often and without adding further responsibility. Salaries were enormous. And although employees were unable to exit the system once they entered, no one wanted to leave their new job. Most inhabitants of Ancient Andromeda had previously been entrepreneurs with poor health and miserable rates of failure. Thanks to the SAIM, employees were finally getting enough sleep. They were healthy and wealthy, and presumably safe. The Imperial army of Emperor Zow was large and extremely well-armed. Their prefabricated dream sequences would remind them of this any time worry would cross their minds. Over time, the employees also began to stop worrying and even take pride in their galaxy-trouncing military of drones. Besides, excessive worry led to lack of sleep. Lack of sleep meant a smaller paycheck. Things were so expensive that there was not enough time in a day to think about things. Acts of contemplation – even in places like the shower – were eventually muddled into randomness. Everyone in the SAIM, human or not, eventually quit thinking about things. Homes were cubes. Cubes had beds. Sleep made money. And dreams.
During sleep, most mammals will activate their cerebral cortex. The personal experience is of course, dreaming. It is unknown why people dream what they dream. Approaches from the scientific to the anecdotal all succeed in illuminating parts of the whole explanation. Fortunately there is imagination to bridge our way to the Land of Nod. While imagination is even less-well understood than dreaming, it does (we know) allow us to discuss the dream world and the brain while we are awake. Electromagnetic waves are emitted from the brain during both sleep and wakey-time. These various waves have been unoriginally named alpha, beta, delta, and theta. The SAIM made use of all of them. Alphas and Betas were the energy for the Central Neural Network. While it was no secret that employee body heat was the primary energy source of the SAIM, alpha & beta waves were collected and arranged as dream sequences. An employee could wake up wealthy, well-rested, and informed on all the SAIM things employees liked to hear about.
Still, the cerebral cortexes of Andromeda continued to produce delta and theta waves. For a dependable and steady machine like the SAIM, dreams can interfere from daily operations. The Social Artificial Intelligence Moderator was not a creative-type. SAIM old SAIM old. Zymphonomous Bla had planned brilliantly. It had first mentioned the problem to Zow as if it already hadn’t been solved. Neural sewage was piling up everywhere around Andromeda. This was a real danger to Zow’s wealth and power. Bla’s underhanded sales pitch was a twisted slimy web of deception which had the desired psychological effect on the emperor gadfly. After the ranting and raving was finished, Bla patiently explained that the mighty emperor would not be able to apply his proboscis to an electromagnetic problem. The emperor’s proboscis had sucked up some very large members of the Andromeda galaxy. His ability to suck and swallow on the material plane was undisputed, but neural sewage was not a material issue. After ranting and raving some more, Zow ordered Bla to fix the problem immediately and by any means necessary.
Perfect.
Bla was the only one who knew the whole truth. And it would stay that way until the end of the SAIM. Which, at that point, was not very far away at all.
Following Zow’s order, Bla returned to its terrarium and did absolutely nothing but lie around for the next week or so until the Emperor Zow showed up outside his door demanding results. Zymphonomous Bla innocently expressed its surprise that Zow had not gotten the message. Bla was of course lying; and it was a satisfying experience considering the company. It enjoyed watching Zow being confused but relieved as the emperor learned that a neural sewage system had been up and running since last week. The system sent the delta and theta waves far away from Andromeda. Never would neural sewage again be a problem.
Emperor Zow was not the type to ask where exactly the cranial crapola was headed. The giant gadfly could have cared less about the destination or the means. Zymphonomous Bla therefore withheld sharing its name for its creation.
It is unknown if Zymphonomous Bla actually created the Shop-Vac of Nothingness, or if he just knew it was nearby and how to put it to work.
Much later in the history of the Universe, humans astronomers in the Milky Way galaxy would point their radio telescopes at a black hole they called Cygnus. They would be fascinated by observations and swept away into fictional realms of theory in an effort to understand what exactly this dark hole in the universe is. Many more black holes have been found since the incorrectly-named Cygnus. Theories are more abundant than ever.
Caveman Ugg, standing at the entrance to his cave on a chilly morning in 30,000 B.C., would be struck by a vision of a giant machine sucking up stars and blowing out the planets. His sudden awareness was primal and innocent; and in many ways far beyond Galileo, Einstein, and even Hawking. In many ways, Life on Earth is but a dream. A dream made of dreams.
And it was dreams in fact which were vacuumed up by the Shop-Vac of Nothingness. Beyond the time-event horizon, a surreal fusion of matter and wave energy occurred, and the whole lot was blown out through a wormhole. It was a similar to human digestion in a single way. What came out the bottom rarely looked like what went in the top. A movie studio was created in the core of a new planet. It was undeniably the greatest movie set in all existence; and it had be
en a thank-you present from Zymphonomous Bla to an unknown director who had been prepared to die for his creative freedom. Later, as he managed the Cambrian Age of Earth from deep within, the director had written this poem in tribute to his late-friend and benefactor.
Life on Earth is dreams and dust.
It works this way because it must.
Venus to Mars, then across the stars
And back again through dreams and dust
It works this way because it must
Life has moved so many times
Here on Earth I scratch these rhymes
To a friend from the end
Who sent me away to live and to play
For awhile.
Life on Earth is dreams and dust.
It works this way because it must.
The director was fond of poetry as it stimulated the imagination. Where the dream sequences in the SAIM had been designed to replace dreams; poetry created visual and audible blossoms of expression. The director didn’t bother much with prose. There was never enough time in the modern day. Still, in the slow evolution of early Earth, a daydream or two was common for the young man at the center of the Earth. After the Earth was complete and evolving nicely, the Shop-Vac of Nothingness was disconnected from the Milky Way and stored upright in a quiet corner of Andromeda. When the modern Earth astronomers pointed their radio telescopes pointed at Cygnus, they were able only to see a dark void and a lot of electromagnetic energy around the entrance. The scientists could not see where the exit of Cygnus was pointing. It’s tough enough to use a radio telescope and find galaxies. Finding a cosmic vacuum cleaner in another galaxy’s utility closet is the Earth equivalent of trying to read a book located two thousand miles away.
If Caveman Ugg were to be raised from his tomb on the West Bank for the holidays, it would be most excellent if he could join the Pottles family at their home in Camptown, Virginia. Should this unlikely union take place, it is extremely probable that Caveman Ugg and Mr. Pottles would find themselves in the garage drinking beer and watching college football. They would exchange stories of bodily functions, power tools, and kids. Stanley Pottles would admit to Ugg that he’s worried about his son Raymond’s lack of focus. He has concerns about ADD, but he does not trust child psychiatrists or medication. Raymond is ten years old. His son is not going on drugs. The two men would drink another beer. Caveman Ugg would probably ask if he can smoke a cigarette in the garage. It is cold outside this time of year in Camptown, Virginia. Mr. Pottles, because he’s a little drunk, says yes. He steps around the family’s Subaru hatchback and turns the handle on a metal storage locker. He grabs a pack of Lucky Strikes from the top shelf and tosses one to Ugg. Trying to be cool, Stanley pulls out a small propane torch, clicks the switch, and lights his entire cigarette on fire. He and Ugg enjoy a good laugh over that one. Stanley Pottles knows he’s not cool. But sometimes where he’s had a few beers, he has fun trying. Ugg would inspect the propane torch and marvel at the clean and easy flame. The men would smoke their Lucky Strikes.
There might be some long pauses.
And then finally…their eyes would come to rest on the Shop-Vac in front of them. More moments would pass as the two men arrive at the definitive male-bonding, beer-drinking question. This existential inquiry regards all Life on Earth. It is the decisive question.
Stanley Pottles and Caveman Ugg would begin to glow softly as they pondered the machine which had somehow created everything they knew.
Standing there in the garage sipping beer and smoking Lucky Strikes, the two men would drift seamlessly into the ultimate question regarding the Shop-Vac of Nothingness.
How many horses power are required to run a contraption that size?
CHAPTER TEN
Gifts from the Sky
After screaming through the atmosphere and plunging into the Pacific Ocean, the ancient reptile was nearly halfway down Mariana’s Trench before it had to swim under its own power. Its giant wings unfolded and the creature descended the Southern wall. Mariana’s Trench extends 36,198 feet underwater. Over 11,000 meters below the surface of the ocean.
Some call this inner space. It is even more foreign to modern surface dwellers than outer space. Outer space is beyond the Earth’s atmosphere. Inner space is thousands of atmospheres compressed under miles of water. From the surface, we call Mariana’s Trench the deepest place on Earth. At the bottom of the deepest place on Earth, there are two doors. Behind door number one we have the bad stuff. In order to create compelling reading material, the bad stuff of course has to escape for awhile. And behind door number two, we have good stuff that will soon be invaded by bad stuff only to have ok stuff make good stuff. There is also a door number three. The plot thickens. Perhaps it was a tablespoon of sassafras or a golden roux which thickened the gumbo. Perhaps it was only leftover rice. A gelatinous mass would indicate the misuse of corn starch. Arrowroot is too straight for what is about to happen.
Back on the surface of planet Earth, it is the present moment. Some 7500 miles east of the South Pacific, a man awakes for yet another day in Individual Purgatory Capsule XP481. Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer stands on the parched clay of the Mexico desert and cracks the seal on a bottle of potato vodka. It’s a good batch. He swills deeply on the vodka and swishes it around in his mouth. Then he spits it out, aiming his head up at the sun. It is his morning routine: a defiant homage to existential depression.
Purgatory sucks. There is nothing to do but drink and try in vain to grow potatoes. Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer has no idea how or why he is stuck in the desert trying in vain to grow potatoes in the parched clay of the Mexican desert. Each and every morning, Manuel faces off with the sun in his usual stance (right foot forward and a scowling face dripping with potato vodka). What’s different today is that something actually happens.
Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer was leaning towards depressive when he went to sleep last night. However he seems to have woken up on the wrong side of he parched clay. Now he is fired up. He spits another mouthful of vodka at the sun and thinks to keep a swig for himself. Manuel is immediately ashamed at his selfishness and hurries to refill his mouth for another rebellious discharge of frustration. As he is titling the bottle to swig, a bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold tequila falls from out of nowhere and breaks his nose.
The impact flattens Manuel in the dust. There is a satisfying “coink” which dissipates unheard into the air. He lies motionless for a few minutes. Finally, he gets up. Slowly. His broken nose is bleeding. He wipes the blood off on his dusty shirt sleeve. Now both his face and his shirt look worse. Manuel surveys the desert around him. Through slightly hazy vision, he spots the tequila. He walks towards it and picks it up, wondering if the glass is still intact. It is. Manuel cracks the seal and begins to drink. By his third swig, he forgets that his nose is broken. By his fifth swig, he has an agaves-based hallucination of a sofa pit lounge and a large video screen. The video screen and the sofa complex are inside a golden ball that’s flying around Earth.
Manuel is seeing directly inside the prison pod of Ourfolk Nine. He’s looking directly at the whiz kids, who are waving. Unfortunately, he has no idea what to look for in a satellite prison pod. He sees three guys sitting on a couch watching a screen. When Manuel’s face appears on the video, the men face him and cheer. Manuel takes his ninth swig of tequila. He belches and blinks twice. The whiz kids are still there. And they are still cheering.
The whiz kids wave and shake their fists and shout “¡Estar loco por tequila!!!”
They give him a group thumbs-up. He is standing in their wormhole after all. Manuel continues to stare at the sky long after the wormhole dissolves. The last thing he heard from the citizens of Ourfolk Nine was “¡Bueno!!!" and "¡Loco!”. Then he is standing alone again in the desert. Just like any other day. Except that for some strange reason he has in his possession not only a broken nose, but a bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold tequila. Pessimistically,
the bottle was still over half full. He takes his tenth, eleventh, and twelfth swigs in rapid succession.
Extraterrestrial contact and all he can do is get drunk. Such is the purgatorial life. In his defense, it was the whiz kids themselves who gave him the booze and the broken nose. Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer has never had tequila of any sort until now. Presumably the whiz kids know exactly what they’re doing here.
By this time, the ancient six million pound reptile named Lucifer had reached the bottom of Mariana’s trench and entered the Earth’s core through door number two. His half-brother Leviathan had provided the exact coordinates and dive trajectory. A crystal key inside door number two was set in motion, and door number one ground open for the first time in a thousand Earth years. Hubert T. Exerhoff was at this point stepping onto the platform of a city bus in Boston. His first air biscuit of the day will soon be acquainting itself with the passengers seated around him. He is unhurried and pleased to be finished with work for the day.
