by Tom Schimmel
Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer is currently hallucinating. His rapid ingestion of new and volatile cactus liquor has led him so see a potato patch growing rapidly over his boots. He is laughing and trying not to trip over the vines or fall down. He sings a garbled melody to the sky in praise of the new vegetation. Manuel’s vocal efforts are presumably in Spanish, but at this point he is so drunk that no actual words are being formed.
If Alvin the Chipmunk ate a bottle of Quaaludes, stuffed his checks with buckshot and peanut butter, and sang “Bohemian Rhapsody”, he would still be cuter and easier to understand. Make no mistake here. Manuel is FUBAR.
“FUBAR” meanwhile is exactly the term a young radar operator used when trying to describe the signal he was receiving from deep Indonesian waters. Had his commanding officer preferred more description, the young sailor would have explained that the recent disturbance below the surface had fried his screen.
Somewhere near Allentown, Pennsylvania two second shift steel workers are saying hello. Steel Worker #1: “How the fuck did you get uglier overnight?”
Steel Worker #2: “I had a dream about you asshole!”
(together): “HAAAA HAAA!”
A coffee pot spurts and burbles to the end of its brewing cycle. It is located in a call center in Houston, Texas. The office manager has signed twelve-month contract with the exclusive provider of brew pouches. There are eight months left on the contract, and so far no one has complained about the coffee.
Customer Service Specialist, Bob Barker (no relation) pours a cup for himself as his lovely co-worker Jane Fonda (no relation) enters the scene. Jane is taught, curvy, and speaks with a sweet cowgirl accent. She is very competent and appreciated around the call center. Recently she surpassed her volume quota and was promoted without pay to be the call team leader. Her direct supervisor has assured her this is the next step to her growing success. Jane Fonda is 28 years old. Bob Barker is much older, and happily married. But sometimes when he sees Jane Fonda pour coffee, he wishes he wasn’t. Jane smiles reflexively upon seeing Bob and greets him the way everyone greets everyone. It is a required procedure of their employment at the call center. The reason is not sinister, but rather an effort by Human Resources to
“… accommodate the various accents and natural heritages of our Customer Service Specialists. By following a standard protocol for personal interaction, our team members are assured of positive and productive working environment.”
Now it is of course no secret that the above reason is bullshit. All of the team members knew that the rules were in place to reduce conversation and avoid the sort of lawsuits that can arise when, for example, Mr. Habib’s joke about the little man at the water cooler was considered funny by both Nancy Preston and Natalia Kurchevnya; but had been misinterpreted completely by Lateesha Bottoms as a strong sexual innuendo. Lateesha had been fired, while Habib kept his job; but the company did not like paying $50,000 to Lateesha Bottoms and $70,000 more to her lawyers. The standard greeting was soon to follow.
Jane Fonda and Bob Barker are both African-American. Both retain a distaste of ghetto-speak in their culture and have learned to pronounce their words clearly. It helps a lot to improve their careers and salaries. But it is not the words they speak which lights up Bob Barker. It is Jane Fonda’s sweet Texas accent that makes all the difference.
JANE FONDA: “Good morning Bob. How are you today?”
BOB BARKER: “I’m fine thank you. And you Jane?”
JANE FONDA: “Fine thank you.”
Same old, same old.
A restaurant worker in Reno, Nevada spills coffee on a customer while a hospital worker in Englewood, Colorado mops up the floor behind a discharged patient. Life on Earth, with a few dramatic exceptions, is perfectly normal.
The one called Leviathan had grown very big indeed. A creature armed for the deep ocean, but built to think. Leviathan had many, many brains growing out of his body which were busy doing many, many things. The ancient Mosasaur had recently gotten up to racing speed. Each of his brains was a pyramid, and each had an eyeball top and center. Nothing on Earth was smarter than this ancient creature, and few had more eyeballs. There was not a single form of human technology which could physically approach undetected. When threatened, Leviathan would not fight. Not usually anyway. He preferred to teleport around the oceans, leaving the local operators of deep-water sonar and radar with equipment that was FUBAR, to say the least.
As Leviathan grew larger, he has become much easier to locate Leviathan was finding the situation enormously inconvenient. His thought channeling power was greatly reduced on the run. He needed to sit still, and recently that had become very difficult. Norwegian submarines were tracking their coastal waters aggressively. They knew the sonar profile (huge) and also to stay away. Quite a few sleek nuclear submarines had detected Leviathan. Those which had foolishly attempted a rendezvous had never been recovered. The Norwegian Sea had cold, clear water, and Leviathan enjoyed being near to his cousin Nessie.
She was a monster all right, just like his sister; and he loved them both. At the first ping of deep water sonar waves, Leviathan chose to exit the Indonesian depths and relocate offshore the Canary Islands. These were safe waters without much in the way of naval fleets and underwater listening technology.
Leviathan had exactly one brain of his millions dedicated to compassion. Why he even had one is a mystery; but likely this anomaly of kindness is a carryover from his young life as a Nommo in the Sirius star system. It was heavily outnumbered, but persistent in relaying sadness that deep water sonar was killing the whales and dolphins. Meanwhile, a brain dedicated to taste reported that it too was sad about the whales and dolphins and all the other fish; but only because they tasted good. Leviathan was a very busy Mosasaur, and he was running the show on the fly Lucifer meanwhile, is twenty thousand leagues under the sea. He is thousands of miles below the city of Boston, and preparing for a fight as he opens door number three at the center of the Earth. This is the fight that the whiz kids have been waiting for since the beginning of Life on Earth. The whiz kids are the only audience. They’re a small crowd; but they bring game. Volume is paramount. They stamp their feet and shout:
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!”
Swaying and staggering around the parched red clay of the Mexican desert, Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer has no ability to perceive what is happening at the center of planet Earth. He is drunk on the tequila that fell from the sky and broke his nose. He has finished the bottle. He has drunk every last drop. Any blood lost in the breaking of his nose has now been replaced by Cuervo Gold.
Manuel is plastered, pickled, polluted, and pie-eyed. He is ripped, smashed, bent, and totally trashed. There is an imminent threat to the entire planet thousands of miles below his boots; but Manuel is so utterly wasted that he can’t even feel his boots. Or even his legs really. Swaying in the gentle desert breeze, there is only one thing that Manuel the manic-depressive Mexican potato farmer knows for sure. He would like a cigarette.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
What was (until recently) Behind Door Number Two
The basilisk had discovered planet Earth shortly after the Nommos had built the pyramids. The director and the whiz kids worked with the amphibious race anytime they wanted to stop in, and say, teach people how to irrigate and farm. And so the Tigris and Euphrates rivers were diverted. The water surrounding the pyramids drained and created fertile delta lands. These deserts in the north became bountiful along the river banks. The basilisk did not have another name, and she preferred it that way. After avoiding Lucifer and his fifty-foot penis for millions of years, she had found a perfect place to reproduce. In this lush and fertile land, humans were fruitful and they multiplied quickly. The basilisk would wait for their lovemaking to subsi
de, and when the lovers left their nest in nature, she would slither along the fluids which remained. Her young tended to be on the small side. Usually they grew less than ten feet long. It was not the size of her offspring which had concerned the director and the whiz kids. Rather, it was the velocity of her breeding cycle.
During early discussions with the director, he was clear with this immigrant reptile that she was to breed only once per year. She of course did not abide, and her young began to encroach on human life. As a result she found herself in prison. How this was accomplished is not known. There are anecdotal accounts of bright lights at sea; and also the biblical tale of Saint Michael the Archangel whipping her ass and taking her into custody. The basilisk was locked up tight with no way to get out. Unless she were to become the subject of a truly spectacular jailbreak.
With a little help from Leviathan to summon and direct the operation, and a daring maneuver by Lucifer came all the way from Jupiter just to dive down Mariana’s Trench and set her free, the basilisk knew only one thing. She was hungry. Being in prison for a thousand years will have that effect on a lady. She was a lady, at least by technicality. She maintained the reproductive organs of her original form. Her genetic output had been altered in a mighty fashion, but in her gonads, she was one of the unfortunate Nommos who had been horribly burnt when the Imperial Army of Andromeda, acting without a leader and in total chaos, opened fire on her glowing planet and destroyed the atmosphere. She and her brother had survived, and had undergone the genetic surgery which provided their burnt flesh with reptilian forms. They were smart, pissed-off, and well-suited for both interstellar travel and fighting. Apparently, Leviathan had convinced Lucifer that the basilisk would mate with him if he set her free. The one called Lucifer has always been a sucker. The basilisk has promised him children many times, but always in the future. She is a big girl, but Lucifer weighs six million pounds. Even a basilisk has her limits.
The director meanwhile, had this very Lucifer in his custody by having done absolutely nothing. Due to his enormous size, the reptiles’ wings had wedged against the walls of Mariana’s Trench. His head was jammed in the opening to door number three. It was very much like fat Santa stuck in a chimney. The director pointed this out.
Lucifer was not amused.
After he calmed down, the director pulled up a wooden stool next to Lucifer’s head and they had a little talk. This was not an interrogation. More like a getting-to-know-you kind of talk. It was a man to giant reptile kind of talk. And talk they did.
Lucifer told the director about the atmospheric collapse around Sirius B. He also spoke about life before the attack. When he had a different name and did not weigh six million pounds. When he was a normal-sized amphibian called a Nommo. He had been a happy child who glowed steadily. Then the Imperial Army of Andromeda had ended it all on a few short minutes. Some of them had been rescued, but were permanently disfigured. He and the others called themselves The Burnt Ones. Water felt caustic to their melted, leathery forms. Their consciousness had been isolated and they were angry. Living on Sirius A as a survivor refugee was torture as they watched the others enjoying life with slippery skin.
He and the other survivors had conferred with the leaders of the Nommos. The exchange was polite and to the point. The Burnt Ones had requested genetic transformation and the freedom to leave Sirius A forever. The residents were presented with the request, and also agreed that this was a solution. The Burnt Ones were obviously in great pain. The request had been unanimously granted. Lucifer told the director that saying goodbye to the Nommos was the most difficult thing he has ever done, including swimming down Mariana’s Trench to where they were having this little chat. He was surprised to learn that the director was also from Andromeda.
Eventually the conversation rolled around to door number one and the fact that it was now both unlocked and open. Lucifer admitted his surprise when the basilisk simply slithered past him. He asked the director if she left a message for him. The director replied that she may have been a little hungry. Lucifer hadn’t thought about that. He had been thinking about mating with the only female in the universe potentially capable of withstanding his colossal girth. He thought she would have been happy to see him. Oops.
The basilisk had indeed slithered by her erroneously endowed liberator. Straight to the surface she shot, and teleported for the first time in a thousand years. It felt great, but she was out of touch with modern Earth. Acting on information that was centuries-old, the basilisk had determined that the locality of Boston would be a wonderfully unsupervised wilderness where she could slither freely and eat all sorts of wildlife and natives.
She ended up instead inside a city bus which was much too small and smelled very bad. Still she was too hungry to wait for dinner, and so devoured the locals before bursting the frame of the bus into shreds. The bad taste in her mouth was getting worse. She was a big girl and a good eater, but her choice of dessert was unlucky, to say the least.
The basilisk kept burping up the taste of Exerhoff.
Her victim’s full name was Hubert Theodore Exerhoff, and his large intestine was stuck in her teeth. She could not teleport, and she had no dental floss.
The large intestine of Hubert T. Exerhoff continued to brew thick clouds of Moroccan curry fart. It did not seem even slightly affected by having been removed from its owner’s body. Today is not the same-old same-old. On this particular day of Life on Earth, television news breaks early across the Eastern seaboard. A seemingly incompetent bystander is interviewed on-site; and he will swear that the belch of the basilisk is the worst thing he has ever smelt in his entire life. While the man weaves in and out of focus, a caption pops up on viewer’s screens.
“Dwayne – truck exploded”.
Now the TV viewers of Bostonian news know that the guy on the news in Dwayne. What TV viewers don’t know is that Dwayne is a semi-driver who pulled into Boston after driving over three-thousand miles in sixty-five hours. This is his normal routine and regular route. Dwayne leaves home late Saturday night. He drives inland of the Atlantic coast all the way to Miami International Airport. After backing into an available service dock at the American Airlines Cargo Terminal, Dwayne loads up with salmon fillets from ocean farms in Chile. The farm-raised Atlantic salmon fillets are skin-on. Wrapped individually in plastic bags and placed in lined Styrofoam boxes with gel cooling packs, the Styrofoam boxes are sealed with packing tape and shrink-wrapped on wooden pallets. Dwayne prefers to arrive in Miami before ten AM so he can be loaded up and out of Miami before afternoon rush hour starts. Dwayne has a fifty-three foot trailer for his Volvo VN. Gross Vehicle Weight for the return trip to Boston was 73,508 pounds. Thirty-six tons of South American fish, European built semi, and North American driver made their way into Boston at 5:30 this morning. Now it’s 5:30P.M. Dwayne has been awake for sixty hours. To compensate for the sleep loss, Dwayne snorts crystal methamphetamine when he’s on the road. The round trip takes forty-eight hours, and twelve more after that to make his stops and help unload the shrink-wrapped pallets of individually-wrapped and farm-raised Atlantic salmon fillets. Dwayne has to stay awake for all of it. If he took on another driver he never would make enough money to be what he mistakenly considered “happy”. When Dwayne is finished with his work, he heads to a bar to drink off the speed before he returns to his wife and family. He parks his rig at an empty loading dock next to Maverick’s. It’s a city bar that he chooses because of the parking. He’ll sleep in his tractor’s bunk tonight and drive home when the alarm wakes him up. His family knows the routine as well as he.
Dwayne stops in the alley to light a Lucky Strike.
The cigarette slips from his hands and falls into a puddle.
Good thing too.
The basilisk in the parking lot had been bloating uncomfortably. Her vast biological systems compensated by letting loose a series of tremendous belches. The gas buildup was too near the front end of the ancient snake for any other solution. The burp of the
basilisk blew out all the windows in Maverick’s Bar. Patrons found themselves deaf, nauseous, and surrounded by an unmistakably foul cloud of ass gas.
As eyewitness Dwayne will tell viewers of TV news:
“This giant snake lizard thing was burping up yellow fart clouds that was making my eyes water! I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to say fart on TV. Sorry kids. But that dang lizard just kept on gettin bigger and bigger and burping louder and louder. The smell got so bad I couldn’t see. Then she just exploded and took my rig with her.”
TV viewers watch as the camera pans the surrounding area….
(Voice of TV news reporter)
“As you can see, the site of the incident is completely covered with raw salmon. As far as we can tell, there is no evidence of reptile parts. We’re just left with a blown-up semi, a lot of raw fish in small pieces, and the truly obnoxious smell of someone passing gas.”
The news camera is back again now with Dwayne. Dwayne’s face is partially eclipsed by the large microphone in front of his mouth. Dwayne is more than a little tired, but he remembers clearly what he saw and heard and smelled in this parking lot.
TV NEWS REPORTER: “Dwayne, it you couldn’t see because of the smell, how do you know what happened to the giant lizard?
DWAYNE: “I heard a big POP! And then it started raining fish.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
