by Spark, Luc
“Now sir you will proceed to wherever you were headed, you will speak to nobody of this, you won’t even murmur to our local wildlife, you won’t so much as fart out what happened… if you do ill find you and unleash the dogs of war, do I make myself perfectly crystal clear?”
Thomas eager to get away and shrivel into blackness stuttered.
“Ye Yes mister guard you won’t see or hear no blabber from me, am I free to be on my way?”
The guard had no further use for the pathetic drifter, so he gave Thomas the clearance he wanted.
“Sir under the authority of Prince Vlad, you are hereby cleared to go about your business, but don’t return here or your head will be mashed into potato batter, be gone!”
With this, the guard trotted off to the tavern on a mission to get himself obliterated on reduced priced ale. Thomas made his way one foot before the other along the winding mountain road, images off his boss and cheating wife made his brain feel like it was bleeding fire. Before the road began to produce the first level of slope and elevation, Thomas could hear a rustling coming from behind a row of conifer trees, within a split second or perhaps a minute due to Thomas’s weakened senses, a brown bear native to this part of the world, charged up to him and bit him right on the snout. He felt the proboscis fly off from his face and into the distance… the bear had ripped it off with amazing force and flung it off into the valley down below. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time but hold on a second… The reality was that Thomas had torn off his own snot filled snout, but his destroyed soul had to make excuses and make him look the victim. The winding road was now under his feet, and after a days’ worth of exhausting hiking, he arrived at the entrance to the cave of depression.
The cave was tucked away nicely under a cliff that rose almost fifteen hundred feet to a snow capped top. The walkway up to the cave was filled with animal droppings, the smell rousing Thomas to know that he was going to like this place. Etched around the edges of the apparent doorway, was lots of images of various types of death and ways to be made bankrupt. In fact, every single form of human depression and weakness was in some way paid homage too. Some person or persons had been here before him, perhaps the world was filled with lots of people who had failed their lives, and who could not bear to carry on. His miserable feet entered the cave; the stink gave way to something even more grotesque, some corpses of old men who by the look of things had committed suicide by throttling each other until they gave out. Fly larvae were inside the eyeballs of both men. One had a pirate hat on and the other a nobleman’s hat, it was highly probable that these two sad lummoxes were members of Romania’s traveling theater. The audience had obviously hated them and their sad excuses for a theatrical performance. Depression always wins in the end, and it had taken these two to this cave and to inevitable death. Thomas was already feeling more and more at home with this cave of despair and stench. The universe outside with all its stars and asteroids and taxation policies and women of the night could go to hell, nobody was going to bother him in his enclosure. Life was going to get more and more stinky and foul and wretched… and Thomas loved every minute of it… the loathsome sycophant.
Trans-Siberian Railway, Russia, 1979
Our archaic and highly unlovable German by the name of Jürgen was making his way to an unknown military base via an armored train from a derelict eastern Moscow train yard. The frozen tundra outside the fogged train’s windows looked practically uninviting, like any cliché you can associate with the Siberian landscape, Jürgen felt like he was traveling to the end of the earth. The armor was thick and weather stained on this train to the base, Jürgen was scheduled to rendezvous with a Russian general named Kozlov. During Jürgen’s hasty briefing at Moscow, the commander in the room had kept hazy on the details of what Jürgen’s exact responsibilities would be in his post. All Jürgen cared for was how much cash roubles he would be able to demand for this most cloak and dagger job.
After a short, almost bus hop like journey Jürgen arrived at what his crazed mind told him must be the designated base. On a long stretch of tarmac was a black Lada with spiked tires, essential for this part of the world. Dressed up in the customary black coat and Cossack hat was presumably the driver, he was puffing anxiously on a fat cigar. The train came to the end of its tracks and gave out its exhausted hiss of steam. The Lada was a complete and total dung heap from the depths of Satan’s junkyard, the fragile and corroded exhaust on the backside of it, looked like it was about to fall off, the radio aerial was nothing more than a coat hanger covered with flex. Jürgen made his way over to the Lada; the driver gave some final puffs on his lung blackener and broke into his intro speech.
“Comrade Mixope welcome to your assigned post, Russia welcomes you with open arms”
‘I would much rather prefer it if you Russians welcome me with an open wallet comrade’ Jürgen thought to himself ruthlessly.
The driver gave his order.
“Comrade we must make haste, the general is in his bunker waiting for your arrival, and he is not a man who is used to being kept waiting”
Jürgen opened up the passenger side door and sat his pimpled bottom in the cold as a mortuary slab seat, the immense coldness sending his body into spouts of shivering.
The Lada’s puny and docile little one point five-litre engine whirred into life, and the vehicle began its trek across the frozen tarmac towards the dome shaped bunker five hundred yards to the east. Jürgen could see to the right of the bunker was a glorious piece of German engineering-the Heinkel he162 salamander, the pride of the Nazi air fleet towards the end of world war two. This aircraft had been touted as a revolution in its time; its jet engines were so advanced that if it had entered service fully it would have caused a major problem to the British and American forces. This model was in pristine condition, the general obviously had some financial clout to be able to afford such a machine to be housed on his base. Jürgen felt a deep and sickening sense of pride for the amazing aircraft, even though he knew it had been built for evil purposes he also knew of the fact that it was so advanced that on the flip side it spawned the current days huge fleet of jet engine commercial and fighter planes, fact was that our unscrupulous German had one of those glue together models of the salamander at his Berlin apartment. The only laughable thing about this particular aircraft is that it had been primarily manufactured out of wood, but you cannot have everything.
The night sky was clear as anything Jürgen had ever witnessed, not a trace of pollution was evident here. Overhead shooting stars made their pretty presence known. Jürgen could swear he could see the northern lights from this place, although that was highly improbable-maybe the second-hand cigar smoke was mashing his mind. The driver was in his own little world, singing some old Siberian folk song; thankfully his voice was not as ugly as his bottled smashed face. With the five hundred yard journey complete, they came to the front of the domed bunker, outside two burly guards were stood, both armed with night sticks, serrated combat knives and the customary ak47-primed and ready for the kill. Jürgen began to step out of the crumbling motor, as the driver gave him his send off.
“The very most of luck to you comrade, you will soon get used to the sub-zero temperatures here, and may your post bring you vast wealth-goodbye I go for vodka and a game of roulette with Ruslan”
Our ambitious and conniving German made his way up to the front entrance, the biggest of the guards held out his nightstick to stop his progress.
“Comrade, may I see some form of identification, purely standard drill I’m sure you appreciate?”
Jürgen had been kitted out with the relevant documentation for clearance; he reached into his windbreaker and showed it to the guard. The guard took the paper and quickly scanned it, then with a warm smile he handed it back.
“Welcome to the generals bunker Mister Mixope, he is down at the bottom level waiting for you in the command room, head down the steel stairs and take a left at the T-junction, have a good day�
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Not needing to be told twice Jürgen-the schizoid, made his way into the bunker and down the freezing cold steel stairs, the noise his boots made on each step made his ears throb, once at the T-junction he swung a left and sure enough there was the door to the command room. Another beefy guard-over six feet five with the stature of a Kodiak bear was stood with his ak47 in the primed and ready position, so once again the documentation was handed over. A security monitor camera was sweeping the corridor, and Jürgen knew that he was about to enter into some major cloak and dagger operation. He got himself into the command room, and like some proud lion, the general came over and offered his hand to shake. The pair engaged in the pleasantries that always begin a new working relationship, all around this room was overhead projectors and immaculately polished tables which were overlaid with blueprints. These blueprints turned out to be various designs for some new advanced military weaponry. General Kozlov spoke with enthusiasm.
“Comrade Mixope I welcome you to my command bunker, and look forward to a long and fruitful relationship with you-please welcome to Rain Arcane (Дождь тайный), otherwise known as, Russian covert operations-very secret yes”
Like Jürgen needed to know this was covert and secret, but the general’s immediate desire to confirm proved he was not going to pull any punches.
The general went on to outline why Jürgen had been drafted into this post, he had been short listed from a lengthy group of candidates from all the worlds’ top universities. Apparently, some of his agents had been sweeping for potentials at Berlin when Jürgen’s name had been passed on by an unknown person.
The general offered our rat of a scientist some vodka, and not wanting to seem ungrateful Jürgen accepted and drank a whole shot like it was tap water.
With a brief outlining of his responsibilities in his post, Jürgen swiftly moved the topic onto the fee he would be able to command for his intelligence. The cash register soon lit up in his eyes when the general overlaid the organizations pay structure. As luck would have it Jürgen was going to floating just underneath the top earners-like the general himself, but there was the potential for advancement and hence a chunkier pay cheque. Life was working out to be pretty rosy and profitable for the German, he pondered for a moment his old flatmate Marcello.
‘I wonder what the religious servant is up to right now, probably doing some more frivolous praying to his puppeteer, rather him than me and that’s for sure, now time for my head of research nap-this is going to be a cinch’
Milan Cathedral, Milan, Italy, 1979
Outside the enormous and elegant stained windows of the cathedral, the wind was gently caressing the lines of headstones on the graves of Milan’s most respected dead people. To be buried in the grounds of the cathedral was a great privilege and honor to the stiffs, although they could not really know, seeing as they had no means to do that.
Unless of course, their spirits were looking down from what we perceive to be heaven and observing their underground beds in the physical world. Marcello was in the back room of the cathedral, and joining him was the priest he had recently succeeded. The priest was passing on some friendly advice to the ambitious Marcello. The priest was a rounded man of sixty with almost comical like spectacles and a whacking great wart on the end of his nose. The almost computer like brain of Marcello was absorbing all that the priest had to preach to him, and the overriding fact was that he was grateful for the succeeded priest’s time.
Priests like any other human being in any profession around the globe, have a limited shelf life, the controlling body for the cathedral wanted to take the Catholic faith in Milan into the twenty-first century and they saw Marcello with his youthful swagger and charismatic aura as the ideal front man for this popular holy establishment.
An underlying nervousness was lurking in Marcello’s stomach, like any new venture he felt a tad concerned about whether the faithful congregation would take to him or not. He needed them to be hanging on his every word, to be totally enthralled and inspired by what was coming out of his mouth. All his years at university studying religious courses could not prepare him for the uneasiness of his first service to the masses. Despite this, the succeeded priest used all his soothing tones and extensive knowledge to bring Marcello into a positive state of mind. The rounded priest was heading off to the Vatican to take up the position of researcher into spiritual signs from around the world. A respected post and also detested by some down players within the Vatican, but that was to be the round and spectacled priest’s new port of call. With all his experience passed on to the best of his aging ability, the chubby priest gave Marcello the customary Italian kiss on the cheek and made his way to the parked silver Mercedes Benz 280E outside the cathedral grounds. Marcello felt very much enlightened and relaxed from his parting speech, and he followed the priest to the Mercedes and waved him goodbye as the vehicle made its way to the interchange and then towards Rome.
Some of the locals began to file into the cathedral, the usher boys were handing out the day’s hymn books. Marcello took a brief look in awe at the size of the spires of the cathedral, looking like colossal fingers pointing to God’s kingdom for the just and righteous. One in particular local caught Marcello’s eye and indeed his attention. This local was fitted out in the sort of attire you would associate with any typical Italian gangster, a black leather jacket, and shoes shinier than the floor of Westminster Abbey, and let’s not forget the small ponytail at the back of his knife scarred face. The bloke introduced himself.
“Father my name is Loris, I am a Sicilian just come over today to see my niece in Milan, but one of my friends told me that Milan’s cathedral has a new priest, so I had to see this for myself” Marcello was not too sure how to react to this, the man was obviously a seasoned criminal but still had deepness with God, his intentions must be sincere Marcello’s brain fathomed. So he replied.
“Signore Loris welcome to the church, I am father Marcello and yes I have recently succeeded the ex-priest here, I hope to bring many years of service to the local community and to tourists like you, please venture inside and make yourself comfy for my first speech-and feel free to give me some feedback at the end”
“Father I am going to look forward to what message you have to convey, may the Lord himself guide your soul and keep our faith strong for the new millennium and beyond-I take my seat now, I must sit at the front because I don’t like to stare at the back of people heads”
The Sicilian made his way through the huge arch entrance and into the front row of pews, the ones more polished than the ones towards the rear-for the obvious reasons to give off the right impression to people sat behind. All was set the clock was ticking and Marcello was about to make his first step into his chosen career of righteousness, this speech would set the tone for the rest of his life, could he hold the attention of the congregation on his message? Could he deliver the message with moxie and confidence unnerving? And more importantly, did he truly believe what he was saying to the people, or was the knot in his stomach something more sinister than he could put his finger on? With everything to lose and only reputation to gain the clever clogs fresh priest, made his way gracefully to the pulpit to deliver to the wide eyed public his message, let the wheels turn in motion-time for the voice of God Marcello style…
Telekinesis & Paranormal Research Centre, Moscow, Russia, 1981
Some folk discount the validity of the existence of the paranormal and anything regarding individuals who can for example bend spoons with their minds. The general population are natural skeptics who have been brought up to neglect and disavow all knowledge of their born gift of object manipulation and a whole host of special abilities. This facility was the holding center for “gifted” persons who had used their powers for ill use. Imagine the scene, it’s a cold and murky night on the streets of Riga, Latvia, one down and out man by the name of Dmitri is shuffling along the alleys looking for cash notes that might have fallen out of some well off and reckless per
son’s pocket. This man was once a lecturer at the city’s most prestigious college but with the breakdown of his marriage and the eventual divorce proceedings, he had been left with nothing and nowhere to lay his woes. What happened on this night was going to put him in the frame for assault-although unintentional; the courts didn’t care much for that. A gang of local youths was up to their usual no good, throwing bricks through car windows, mugging old lady’s on their way home from the hypermarket. One cheeky and confrontational style youth clocked onto Dmitri’s presence and began to push and shove our paranormal being. To cut the story short because we have to press on-Dmitri begged and pleaded to be let go, it appeared he had an uncontrollable form of telekinesis that would grow into a rage and become unstable if he was provoked. With the youth being the unwise and immature cheese wiz that he was, the youth kept pushing the envelope with Dmitri until he witnessed first-hand the power of Dmitri’s object manipulation.
Picture this youth being hurtled through the air, at least twenty feet in elevation and through a glass window in one of the drab concrete apartment blocks lining the next street face first like a rag doll. The ferocity of Dmitri’s powers had caught the attention of one of the agents who scout for the center. The president of the facility himself specifically requested that Dmitri be detained, probably so he would not get his own head on the chopping block for why Dmitri was loose in society and free to “Harm Innocent People”- the president had to answer to the KGB or at least a group of high ranked men with pipes, sunglasses and black suits who claimed to be from the Russian secret service-although this was never proved.
