''Maybe there's nothing more to this life than smoking salvia, but it can be lot more. It's up to us, not the structure of the universe.''
''I guess you're right, my friend. I'm giving up. Let's take a bow.''
Chapter seventy
A different point of view
I dug. I dug and I dug inside my head until it all came back to me, until I remembered everything. Everything. Yes, I've found Basajaun. He didn't do this to me. Eric Deeds did. Because I asked him to.
Because I asked him to.
Truth liberates, they say, well here it is. Yes, I crossed the border, went to Tijuana, because that's where Basajaun used to live before he got here and started pushing dope. I had to find him, and this was a place to start. I didn't see any other way to get dad out of the pen. So I got to Tijuana, unarmed, plain obvious gringo, with some cash in my pocket, and a couple of sentences of latino I could mutter. I thought, I'll hang around schools, and look for kumbaya boys, if he stares back at you when you stare at him, you've found him. I've found him. I thought, I'll offer him cash for info on Basajaun, but boy pulled a shank on me, and snarled in latino, I didn't understand him a word. And then this girl appeared out of somewhere, argued with him, and he left. Alma. She's his sister, she told me latter. I told her everything. I begged her for help. I made her feel so uncomfortable that she couldn't say 'no'. She took me from one dark pit to another, until in one such pit I found Jorge. An old house where he lives with his mom and dad. I told him who I am. He pulled a gun on me. And he told me everything. How dad hustled him into the robbery, and when shit went down, he invented the hypnosis story, to save his ass.
''If I had thirty million dollars would I be living here, vato?'', he said.
I left, and went to Victorville to talk to dad. I told him I found Jorge. He raged at me. He told me to speak to no one about my trip.
''Don't ruin this for me, boy, not now when I have a new trial and public on my side, when I've fooled everyone from lie detectors, shrinks, DJs, U2, Vivienne Westwood, Oprah, and whole fucking public!''
He shattered my world. Neither once did I doubt his innocence, and now... I wanted my world back, I wanted last two days gone from my memory. I found an add for hypnotist Eric Deeds in the papers. I called him. I told him what I need. For three hundred bucks, he agreed.
''Wind whispers through treetops. It's completely dark. You are walking on the gravel road. The gravel crackles under your feet. Now, you have stepped into the river, you're going on, and water reaches up to your chest. It's Lethe. Drink from it. Drink, and it will wash you away, and wash away your memory...''
Who is this Eric Deeds? An occultist? I opened my eyes in one of the halls of Pine Cone Center, with no memory of how I got there. There, he assembled a group of his followers, and did something to them, they started seeing things. Whatever it was, it didn't work on me. Maybe, some kind of mass hypnosis. Or chemicals. Or both. I don't know. They say that every hypnosis is auto-hypnosis. Maybe they saw things they wanted to see. All I know is that it wasn't real. There's no such thing as magic flying mushrooms.
And what do you do now Zeke, when truth has liberated you? I don't now. I'll sent a friend request to Alma, and see what will she say, although I'd say she had enough of me. Maybe I should point out that I'm Zeke Holodnik jr., son of the man from 'Free Zeke Holodnik' shirts. People think it's a name of a band.
Chapter seventy one
The End
''They like, gave me a motorcycle and a cell, and then I like, get calls from this dispatcher chick, she gives me addresses, and I go there to see what do they want, and people mostly want to go get them groceries, and stuff.''
''Sounds cool. Did you have any weird requests?''
''Well, you know, sometimes kids under age ask you to go get them booze, I don't know, sometimes they ask for drugs and shit.''
''Seriously?! That's crazy, man.''
''Yeah... Once I did a 'run' for Rob Bourdon.'
He doesn't know who that is.
''Rob Bourdon, the drummer of 'Linkin Park'.''
''Shit, seriously?!''
''Yeah...''
''What did he want?''
''To get him something from some specialized pharmacy store in Beverly Hills. He gave a good tip.''
''Did you tell him you play too?''
''Like, when, man, there was no time. Plus, we don't even play the same instrument. I don't know, I thought it would come off pathetic. Plus, I don't even have a band anymore...''
Maybe I should have. Too late now anyway...
''Anyway, before I got into this, I had this really sweet job of walking a dog for this little girl, who's dad is fat on dough. She was paying me from her allowance. I was making more money than most people with regular jobs. Imagine that.''
''Why did you stop?''
''She got bored of the dog and gave him to her friend from Italy. Sweet dog. Alaskan malamute.''
''Yeah?''
''Yeah.''
''What did you say was the name of your second band?''
'' 'Amateur attempt'. I can't believe you didn't hear for us, Raja, we had so many sold-out gigs in the city, we toured Europe music festivals...''
''I kinda dropped out of the music scene, I was busy with so many other things...''
Yeah, I can see that, he doesn't even know who Rob Bourdon is. Raja was a big fan of this high school band I played bass in, 'Plastic palm tree'. He was always jumping and screaming when we would play, even though we played Hawaiian tunes. Back then, he was serious about becoming a musician, I remember showing him how to play guitar. Anyway, we stopped playing after high school, when we went separate ways.
''There's like, still fifty people in front of us, I thought this will go faster...''
''Getting your book signed by Stephen King?! No way man! Whenever Stephen's signing books, there's always a long line. I didn't know you're a Stephen King fan.''
''I'm not. I'm not a fan of books, to be more precise. I haven't read one since high school.''
''Like, seriously, dude?! You don't read books? You're a weird man, Funky. I'm a massive Stephen's fan.''
''No... It just takes so long to read one.''
''Why are you here then, man?''
''I told you earlier. I'm working. I'm getting the book signed for Charlie Adam, he'll give me fifty bucks for this. You remember him, Charlie Adam? He didn't go to our school, but he was there all the time, Samantha Miles boyfriend, remember?''
''Yeah! Yeah, I remember, the blond guy...''
''No. You don't remember. Charlie was never blond, you mixed him up with her brother.''
''Oh.''
''Anyway, the dispatcher chick sent me to this address, and he opens the door, and we recognized each other. I gave him my cell number, so whenever he needs something, he calls me, that way I don't have to share anything with the firm.''
''Clever boy, Funky. Working around the firm.''
''Yeah, well, otherwise I would never earn anything.''
''So, he's doing well, when he's paying you to do things for him.''
''Yeah, he is. His dad bought this online company for him, where kids go and post their homeworks, and pay, I don't know, three dollars, and then people from India and Pakistan and who the fuck would know where, do their homework and get half a buck for that, Charlie keeps two and a half.''
''Such a fuckin' ripoff! I can't believe somebody came up with an idea like that!''
''Well, as you see, Raja, someone did...''
Still lot of people in front of us...
''Make sure to check out our song '1986', my favorite, it's awesome, you'll like it.''
''Why 1986? Isn't it always 1984?''
''This has nothing to do with 1984, this is a song about Chernobyl disaster, which occurred in 1986. It starts with this really tender ethereal tune and lyrics are whispered over it, like reflecting the sounds of early spring, then it gets noisy, industrial, clanging of the machines inside, than it explodes, and the song goes full
metal, reactor rupture, screaming and everything, it gradually disappears, and switches back to that first tune, sounds of the early spring. It's over nine minutes long.''
''Sounds awesome, man! Can't wait to hear the song!''
''Yeah, that's my favourite, but our most famous song is 'Shooting shit in Hollywood'.''
''About drugs?''
''Yeah, about drugs. It was the idea of Emil and Bee, lead guitar and bass man, all the songs are their ideas. They wanted to do a song about doing drugs, that works like a cartoon, you know, has a cartoonish story and silly rhymes. It starts with Emil's instrumental of 'Looney Toons' tune, and continues with some crazy kids melody. And over it, each of us raps out, in ridiculous voices, a verse about our adventures of tripping in Hollywood. You get to hear me rapping on that one.''
''Sounds crazy, cuz. Sounds like you were making a lot of crazy songs, and doing lot of drugs.''
''We were. But, I don't do that shit anymore.''
''Why did you break up?''
''Well, technically we didn't. We're on hiatus. Emil had an encounter with his ex wife, against which he has a restraining order, he was probably drunk and drugged, and I don't know what did he do to her, but he's doing time now. I hope that we'll get back together when he comes out, but I don't know... It was all too crazy to last.''
''God, I missed out a lot. How much time passed since high school?''
''I'm taking your energy'', said this one girl, who's turn it was to get her book signed, and pulled a .38 out of the book, and pointed it at Stephen King. She shot him, and he just fell down.
''Is this for real?!''
Security disarmed her, and pushed her to the floor, and more of them came from the outside. I guess it is for real. I got lost quickly, I didn't want to be around when cops come, I have a pack of blunts in my pocket. It's not for me, it's for some kids that pay me to obtain it for them. I don't do that shit anymore.
I went outside. What do I do now? Now, I'm not going to get the book signed. It's a fat book. Six hundred pages at least. No wonder a small .38 fit inside. If he wrote a thinner book, maybe he wouldn't get shot by a psychotic fan. And I would get my fifty bucks. Fuck it, I'll sign the book, how will Charlie Adam now that it's not Stephen King's writing?
Dear Charlie,
I hope you'll enjoy the book
Sincerely, Stephen King
There. Looks good, right? Maybe I should have used cursive. Too late now.
Fuckin' Convention-con.
Maniacs in The Fourth Dimension Page 19
