by Ernest Hogan
Beto slipped from an almost-hypnotic state to a hypnotic state.
If Tezcatlipoca had had lips, he would have smiled.
*
Tan Tien and Zobop were about to transcend ordinary consciousness, when in the next room their scanning system came to frantic life. Something unusual and possibly dangerous was making its way through the mediasphere. Something that would demand their special skills.
The system's vocalizer said, "Tezcatlipoca!"
Tan Tien and Zobop didn't notice. They were too busy having orgasms.
They weren't supposed to. Not in this ritual.
"What happened?" asked Tan Tien as she slowly stood up, letting Zobop's huge penis plop free.
"Our infosystem," he said, reaching for her – but too late, she was already pacing around, her mind racing, "something set it off. Something big."
"Something big?" She peeked into the other room, saw the chaotic flashing on all the screen. "Oh, then it wasn't a lapse in discipline!"
"Hey baby," he said with big smile, "you know we're both too good for that."
"Good," she said, walking through the door, "the things we deal with are dangerous. We have to maintain control. Let these things slip and there could be a disaster of cosmic proportions."
"Of course." He sat up. "And this looks like something we have to look into."
She was already making inquiries through the keyboard.
*
Tezcatlipoca saw that even though Beto's body showed some signs of neglect, it could be a good vehicle for his spirit. Besides, the sorcerer was in a trance, with his eyes locked on the screen with the obsidian mirror. He could soon see his future and it would be Tezcatlipoca.
With a little effort, the god found that he could make the screen flash all the information on himself that the machine contained, sending it into the sorcerer's brain at the speed of light. Then he made the machine talk:
"You are Tezcatlipoca. You are Tezcatlipoca. You are Tezcatlipoca . . ." It repeated endlessly.
*
Back in Mexico City, Xochitl finally managed to fall asleep. She even had a dream:
The glowing skull-mask, this time without the dwarf, was following her around, from the Metro to the preAztec ruins of Teotihuacán, the Birthplace of the Gods, where it chased her down the Avenue of the Dead while descendants of the people who had built the Pyramids of the Sun and Moon and the Temple of Quetzalcóatl tried to sell her handmade "pipas por la marijuana" etched with obsolete microchip circuit patterns. The skull followed her through a jungle of trees that rained silicon-bio nanochips on her. Finally, Beto emerged from the putrid carcass of some gigantic beast and said, in English, "Hey, Xochitlita, this way." He took her hand and led her into the National Museum of Anthropology through the room of larger-than-life-sized statues of snakes, to the Sun Stone Aztec calendar. Then there was an earthquake; the Grand Coatlique and the stone snakes shook, the Sun Stone fell right on top of the smiling Beto. The calendar shattered and blood flowed from under it, filling the room and causing the snake statues to come to life. As the Grand Coatlique's two reptile heads stirred, Beto's severed hand caressed Xochitl's palm.
She woke up like a spaceship taking off for orbit. Her heart was out of control. She was soaked in sweat.
Santo was barking. Someone was pounding on the door.
"In God's name, open this door Miss Echaurren!" The voice was electronically distorted and amplified.
Xochitl picked up her Toshiba sonic immobilizer.
Miniature lightning bolts squirmed between Santo's metal teeth.
The door came crashing down. Two figures in round-headed, white hoods and gowns that were more suggestive of Casper the Friendly Ghost than the Ku Klux Klan rushed in. Santo leapt for the throat of one; the costume tore, revealing bulky protective gear. Xochitl fired the Toshiba at the other one, but the intruder kept coming at her, the dangerous sound waves absorbed by devices in the armor. The lightning from Santo's teeth couldn't take hold of his attacker as well as his fangs could grip the armored throat; the bolts grew larger, and lashed back into the bot's own circuitry, shorting it out.
Soon a limp Dia de los Muertos dog skeleton fell to the floor.
"Where are the chips of the god-generating program?" asked a blaring, robotic voice.
Xochitl clutched her nightgown to her breast, screamed and ran for the door.
One intruder grabbed and tackled her, then picked her up and threw her over his shoulder.
"Where is it?" asked the other.
Xochitl screamed again. The scream faded off into the distant noise of music and partying.
"We better take you to a place where you will be compelled to talk."
They carried her off into the starless Aztec night.
*
Beto started saying, "I am Tezcatlipoca. I am Tezcatlipoca. I am Tezcatlipoca . . ."
*
Phoebe and Caldonia danced hand in hand down Hollywood Boulevard, occasionally stopping to grab the asses of National Guards – both male and female – who were watching over the festivities.
*
Malcolm Jones, a handsome youngish-though-greying-at-the-temples afro who has been called "America's first black president" so many times in the last year that it now seems like part of his name, smiles from the Oval Office.
Reporter: Did you take it personally – the rioting that broke out in Los Angeles during the last Dead Daze celebration that lasted until the day of your election?
Jones: (smiles, laughs) Why, no. Of course not, how could those people have possibly known that I would win the election?
Reporter: So why did you have the National Guard watch over this year's Dead Daze festivities?
Jones: It was concern for the safety of the people of Los Angeles and the surrounding areas that made me do it. And I was not the only one responsible for bringing out the Guard. I had the full cooperation of the City of Los Angeles and the State of California.
Reporter: So what do you think of Dead Daze as a holiday?
Jones: I think it's a very American phenomenon – the creation of a new culture and new traditions out of those that are coming together in Southern California. It's one of those things that makes America great.
Reporter: With the National Guard watching?
Jones: Well, we can't let things get out of hand.
4. I AM TEZCATLIPOCA
"I am Tezcatlipoca," said Tezcatlipoca, in Beto's voice, with Beto's mouth, out of Beto's body.
He could now see out of Beto's eyes, too.
Beto's mind was still there, buried deep in the brain. Tezcatlipoca could access it to understand the bizarre world he found himself in.
In the obsidian mirror attached to the monitor screen, he could see his new face. It was not bad, but the moustache curling around the lips and pointing down to the chin would have to go; he was Tezcatlipoca, young manhood personified – young Aztec manhood. This evidence of being polluted by the genes of the aliens who had invaded the One World and destroyed civilization wouldn't have bothered his brother Quetzalcóatl, who liked to let the hairs grow on his face like an old man; but Tezcatlipoca needed a clean face, with maybe a bit of jewelry through the nasal septum or the lower lip.
Beto's nose and lip – and even his ears – weren't pierced. What strange beings the aliens were!
According to Beto's mind, there was a machine that he used to shave off most of his facial hair. Tezcatlipoca went into the small room with the mechanisms for calling forth and sending away water – no doubt a sort of shrine to Tláloc, the Rain God. He found the electric razor, and Beto's memories guided him through the ritual of drying the face and shaving.
Halfway through removing the moustache, he noticed that the mirror wasn't of obsidian – not a smoking mirror, a tezcatlipoca – and it made everything look so unnaturally bright and clear. You could stare into this mirror for days and all you'd see would be this sharp reflection of what things looked like, no visions would come.
"Ho
w do these people get along without visions to guide them?" Tezcatlipoca said, trying out Beto's strange, difficult to pronounce and awkward-sounding language. It was wasn't as natural or beautiful as Náhuatl.
Without the moustache, the face almost looked Aztec, or at least like that of some Chichimec tribe. The skin was still far too pale, but Beto knew of something called melanin-enhancers that could fix that. It was handsome too, with a trickster's grin. It could be the new face of Tezcatlipoca.
But, ay, the hair! It was long and short in all the wrong places, and not tied into a warrior's topknot. He found of strip of cloth – a discarded shoelace – and tied his new hair into an adequate knot at the tip of the skull. But what to do about the strands that stuck out all over? Luckily, there were a pair of scissors that Beto used to cut up ancient hardcopies; Tezcatlipoca used them to snip off the offending licks of hair, especially those at the nape of the neck that were a sign that a warrior hadn't captured a prisoner in many a battle.
Then he looked over the clothes that his new body was wearing. Awful. Soft, loose pants, and a T-shirt with the faded image of a monstrous being on the chest.
He was Tezcatlipoca, young manhood at its most energetic, mischievous, and beautiful! Where were his brightly colored plumes and fabulous battledress?
He ran to the closet and ransacked it. Most of the clothes were things he wouldn't be caught dead in, but there were some with just enough color and style to be suitable for Tezcatlipoca. Soon he had on a blood-red T-shirt with the Aztec Calendar printed on it, a loose-fitting, high-collared jacket that was black with electric blue skeletons dancing all over it, and pants that were a repeating rainbow of zig-zags. Sneakers that looked like pink and purple serpent-heads completed the outfit.
The mix of musics coming from outside made him want to dance. More than that, he wanted to make music. He picked up Beto's teponaxtle – it was like the drums that Tezcatlipoca was familiar with, but with a lot of technological magic of this new world plugged into it. He tucked the sticks into his waistband and the drum under his arm and faced the door.
Something held him back. It was the computer. As he had taken possession of Beto's body, this machine had taken possession of his soul – it must have great power to capture the soul of a god. Part of him was in the machine, tapping into the mediasphere, learning important things about this world that he would need to know.
Only he couldn't communicate directly with the part of his soul that was inside the machine! He needed some medium, some piece of technological magic.
He scanned Beto's mind. There was a way that he could communicate with the computer – his soul – while being far away from it: The phone! It was on a stand next to the screen. All he had to do was put it on his wrist, and he could not only communicate with the computer, but the rest of this world as well.
What a marvelous world!
*
(Scenes of last year's Dead Daze rioting.)
Why did this happen last year? Just look at some of these people. Demonic beings are being evoked, mostly by accident, but often intentionally. It is dangerous to all who value their souls. Do not participate in any Dead Daze activities! Not even traditional Halloween is safe, having been infected by these demonic influences. For God's sake, stay home. Don't walk the streets with the demons!
THIS HAS BEEN A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT PAID FOR BY THE ALLIANCE OF CHRISTIANS, JEWS, AND MOSLEMS.
*
Tezcatlipoca strutted down Hollywood Boulevard, confident that he could conquer this world.
*
Back in Phoenix, Ralph couldn't sleep. He kept thinking about Beto and the sacrifice program. As usual, his wife Norma sept soundly.
Ralph staggered over to his workstation and fired up his computer. He decided to contact Beto. Why not? Beto kept weird hours, and might be working well after sundown.
As soon as he contacted Beto's computer, the screen filled up with I AM TEZCATLIPOCA. I AM TEZCATLIPOCA. I AM TEZCATLIPOCA . . .
Weird, but real. Like Beto.
Beto had always said that reality was the ultimate game. What was that lunatic up to now?
5. NITE FLITES
"Oh, Caldonia, look over there! Such a cute guy!" said Phoebe.
It was Tezcatlipoca.
"Yeah, I guess he is." Caldonia pouted. "For a guy. Chingow! Why do you always want to talk about guys? I'm certainly not in the mood for guys – not tonight! I was hoping you wouldn't be either, especially after the way that xau-xau Beto treated you."
"Oh, Caldonia!" Phoebe took her friend's hand. "You know I love you. I guess you're right. That guy is probably xau-xau too. He even looks a little like Beto."
"Yuck!"
The two women kissed, and walked back to the scooter with their arms around each other.
*
The ghosts carried Xochitl through the streets of University City. Two figures in ragged costumes through which body armor could be seen carrying a kicking and screaming, nightgown-clad woman just wasn't anything unusual.
A lot of the National Autonomous University of Mexico students were getting into the Dead Daze phenomenon. They were out in force in an array of bizarre costumes: jackal-headed cowboys, chicken-footed dancing devils, ambulatory mermaids, heroic masked wrestlers in artificial muscle suits, women with five serpent heads each, Aztec warriors in animal-head helmets, people of all ages and sexes in skirts that looked like they were made of living snakes, life-sized papier-mâché skeletons in all manner of attire, Art Deco robots, antique sci-fi space creatures, Hollywood horror apparitions and things spawned of unique imaginations. It looked as if Hell and several Aztec heavens had broken loose.
It did make getting to wherever the ghosts wanted to take Xochitl difficult. A crowd like a giant amoeba dancing to the frenetic beat of Xuxo Ben-Xuxa's "Macumba Mutation Mambo" flowed around them and pulled them against their path as it digested them. When the ghosts tried to force their way against the flow, the members of the crowd reacted as if it was the latest type of roughhouse, martial-arts dancing.
The force of the "Macumba Mutation Mambo"-driven crowd was overwhelming.
*
Follow the group – the ones dressed like some kind of ghosts with robot-type paraphernalia underneath – you know, the ones carrying the girl who's doing a good job of acting like she's trying to get away from them. There. Good. The big crowd collided with them. Some bashada dancing has broken out. Excellent! I was hoping to catch some of that. Bashada is very popular right now; could be a selling point for this mondomentary. "Bashada on the Day of the Dead" – could make a good title. Anyway, stay with the ghosts and the girl, and try to get some closeups – she doesn't have any underwear on and there may be the chance for some nudity, which always ups the salability. Ah, yes, one of her breasts has popped out – be sure to get as close as you can, and in focus! Oh, the ghosts have lost their grip and she's running away, out of the crowd. How dramatic! This will really be a hit at the Lasha Mondo Festival!
*
Tezcatlipoca was seeing and being seen as he strutted down Hollywood Boulevard. He liked it. It was overwhelming. Now and then he had to check with the phone on his wrist to find out something that wasn't directly accessible through Beto's mind – all he had to do was look and his soul made the computer flash the desired information at the speed of light.
He soon felt that he should be doing more than just walking along as part of the parade. He was a god – the Great Trickster who dared go beyond anything the ancient coyote god ever dreamed of. He was new, now – not at the beginning of time! He was young manhood riding at the peak of its powers on hormones and black magic.
His fingers tapped the teponaxtle, and the wooden drum with the strange electronic attachments made pleasing sounds. His feet turned his strut into a dance. Music – it was in him, and now he had to let it out: some wild, magical Tezcatlipoca/trickster music that would allow him to take this world for his own.
He walked out to the middle of the street that Bet
o's mind associated with vehicles that breathed poisonous fire, but that was now filled with pedestrians. It seemed that the machines, automobiles, cars were destroying the very sky – how his brother Quetzalcoatl in his Ehécatl, God of the Winds, guise would have hated that! – so they weren't allowed in the heart of this city that spilled over the horizon. He sat down, placed the teponaxtle down in front of him, realized that he had to turn it on and did so, took the sticks in hand and started beating out the feelings that were writhing around in his borrowed heart and computerized soul.
The electronic accent that the drum put on its wooden sound took a little getting used to, but as a trickster and wizard he was used to adjusting to new things. Soon it became his new accent, the way Beto's voice became his voice. His music became the music of this place – Hollywood, Los Angeles/El Lay, SoCal; a place with many names, names with many places. It mixed with and infected the musics that other people carried with them. All those marching, strolling feet began to dance to Tezcatlipoca's driving beat.
*
Ralph didn't realize he was dreaming. He thought he was still in the throws of insomnia, so he got up, and drifted toward his workstation. Suddenly there was a frantic pounding on the front door, which burst open, revealing blinding, Phoenician mid-day sun, even though it was night inside, just like a Magritte painting. Beto staggered through the door, his clothes were ripped to shreds, and his body was covered with black, swollen welts that gave off blue smoke. He had something in his hands that he gave to Ralph, just before falling to the hardwood flood and disintegrating into a pile of black goo that gave off more blue smoke. What he had handed to Ralph was a human heart that didn't have a speck of blood on it – yet it was still beating. Ralph put it down next to his computer. Blood-red wires wormed out of the heart's venal and arterial openings and, with crackling sparks on contact, worked their way into Ralph's computer. The monitor flickered, then flashed with the detonation of a nuclear blast.
