Jim Morrison's Adventures in the Afterlife

by Mick Farren

  The fat man ignored her. He glared at the bartender. “I said give her another.”

  The bartender started the pouring routine, but with an attitude that made it clear the fat man was on his own. When it was done, the fat man leaned close to Semple. “Drink it up, girlie.”

  Semple shook her head. “I told you already. I need a moment.”

  A fat hand was on her thigh. The fingers were digging into the muscle, tightening their grip until it was hard enough to bruise. “I said drink it, bitch.”

  Semple let out a short, angry breath. “Okay, okay.”

  The fat fingers relaxed slightly. Again she picked up the dish with both hands and raised it to her lips. Suddenly the fat man’s arm was in the way. His hand clamped roughly on her breast. Semple slowly and patiently lowered the dish, exhibiting every ounce of jaded weariness that she could summon. “Either I drink or you feel my tits. You’re going to have to make up your mind, because to do both is physically impossible.”

  The fat man’s face turned beet-red. He came half off the stool, hauled off and slapped Semple hard across the face. Semple was knocked all the way off her stool and the blue glass dish went flying. It spun like a Frisbee and shattered on the far wall. The fat man was breathing hard. “Sewer-mouthed outland whore!”

  As the bartender protested, the fat man stood up to hit her again, but he was flabby and out of shape and Semple wasn’t. Her knee snapped up and, despite her blurred vision, it connected with his groin. She must have gotten his testicles, too, because the fat man doubled over with an almost girlish scream. Semple didn’t wait around to see what the bartender would do. She was going for the door with all the speed of self-preservation. Her single instinct was to run, into the dirty daylight and away. Except that, right outside the door, unable to check her headlong flight, she collided with something large and hard and blue. Her outstretched hands encountered what felt like the plates of a giant insect. She looked up and found she was staring directly into a blank, unforgiving visor. Blue gloved hands gripped her wrists. “So what seems to be the problem here?”

  A second blank mask joined the first. Apparently the cops in Necropolis were at least a head taller than the rest of the population. This one repeated the question. “So what seems to be the problem here?”

  Semple wanted to point to the bar, but she couldn’t. The cop still had hold of her wrists. “In there . . . this man . . . ”

  The second cop peered into her face and turned to his companion, the one holding her. “No mark.”

  The first cop also looked and nodded. “No mark.”

  The cops’ voices came from their helmets muffled and metallic. The first cop looked at the second cop. It was like a conversation between two not particularly bright robots.

  “Going to have to take her in.”

  “Yes. Going to have to take her in.”

  Before she could resist in any way, Semple was spun around by the officers; a framelike device of stainless steel clamped over her wrists. The next cop-voice statement was even more robotic, intoned as a legal ritual. “I arrest you as an unregistered female wandering at large as defined under Section Ninety-three, Subsection Forty of the Code of Anubis. All future conduct will become a matter of record in this case. I say again, I am arresting you. Do not resist or you will be immobilized.”

  It had all happened so fast that Semple was too stunned to resist. She allowed herself to be led away. Somewhere behind her, other officers had arrived, and the fat man also seemed to be under arrest. It was a fact that offered her little comfort.

  Long Time Robert Moore handed Jim a fat joint of the finest Hawaiian herb rolled in wheatstraw paper. “Figure we did the right thing back there, Rock and Roll.”

  “You mean getting out of town?”

  Moore nodded. “I surely do. When them Caribbean Mystères get to jooking, I always believe it be time to duck and cover, if it ain’t time to plain duck and run.”

  Jim took the joint with a certain resignation. Here he was, taking drugs in yet another car, on one more road to who the hell knew where. The story of his life also seemed to be becoming the story of his death. The truth was that he was less than happy about being ordered out of Doc Holliday’s little town. He had hoped the place might have provided him a refuge for a while, a place to chill and maybe get a handle, to reconstruct his memory as far as he could after the destructive craziness of the Moses orgy. He had even been hoping to get to know Lola. He’d thought he might be able to avoid having to run through the darkness yet again, but here he was doing exactly that.

  “I thought you were pulling out anyway. Like going to the Crossroads.”

  “We’re going to the Crossroads now. That’s for sure.”

  “You want to tell me about the Crossroads?”

  Long Time Robert shook his head. “No.”

  “No? Just like that?”

  Long Time Robert Moore’s gravel voice exhibited a definite trace of irritation. The old man might have chops close to divine, but he was one closemouthed son of a bitch. “Listen, Rock and Roll, you gonna find out about the Crossroads soon enough. In fact, if I have you figured, you already know plenty about the Crossroads.”

  “I do? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “You been to the Crossroads.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “Sure you have. You just ain’t recalling it right now.”

  Jim drew hard on the joint, deciding that his best policy was probably to shut up and try to avoid annoying Robert Moore. Whatever was coming next would be on him soon enough; there was no point in talking about it. As he passed the spliff back, he glanced into the vast rear of the Caddy and smiled at the Marilyn blonde. She returned his smile with a sexy pout and a recrossing of her legs. That seemed to be her entire repertoire of social communication; Jim began to wonder if she could talk at all. It was hardly his problem, though, and he eased back into the soft leather of the lavish front seat, a virtual in-car armchair, as large as a first-class seat on an airliner. Maybe later Marilyn would serve cocktails. He stretched his legs and did his best not to think. The interior of the car was an easy place to do this, cozy and womblike, an enclosed capsule of safety, reefer, soft darkness, and moving luxury. The only light was the muted green glow from the dashboard, giving it a sense of almost submerged submarine protection in which all possible futures could be held at bay.

  Jim narrowed his attention to staring idly out of the window. At that particular, subjective moment, the car hardly seemed to be moving through anything like regular space-time, traveling on a twisting ribbon of unsupported highway that ran through a three-dimensional forest of tall, slender, crystalline pyramids, each of which radiated its own internal blue-green light. Small spheres, Day-Glo red and vibrant acid yellow, drifted overhead in untidy clusters of a dozen or more, just above the peaks of the pyramids, like strange flocks of animated bubbles. Jim wondered if, somehow, the car had switched to traveling on the molecular level. This was, after all, the far country where just about anything was possible.

  As soon as he had started to take the pyramids for granted, Jim was surprised to find himself staring at a radically altered landscape. He didn’t remember dozing, but he could hardly recall a transition. “I guess it’s just one of those missing holes in time again.”

  Robert Moore glanced sharply at him. “What you say?”

  Jim shook his head. “It was nothing. Just talking to myself.”

  “Sometimes that’s the only way to get an intelligent conversation.”

  The spheres and pyramids had been left behind, and now the Cadillac was rolling on a perfectly normal two-lane country blacktop, under a pitch-black night sky filled with bright, unwinking stars. A huge orange moon hung close to the horizon, and cornfields, flat as a billiard table, without a tree, building, or even a grain elevator to break the monotony, stretched as far as the eye could see. “How did we get to Kansas?”

  Long Time Robert Moore looked at Jim as though he were crazy
. “This ain’t no motherfucker Kansas.”

  “It sure looks like Kansas.”

  “I’m telling you, Rock and Roll, this ain’t Kansas. And you ain’t Dorothy and I ain’t Toto.”

  As they continued deeper into what Jim was now thinking of as the corn belt, he started to see huge geometric shapes, hundreds of feet long, stamped in the standing crops, circles within circles, joined by the straight lines of extended radii, so they formed complex and enigmatic patterns.

  “Crop markings?”

  Robert Moore nodded. “Get a lot of them ’round these parts.”

  “You ever meet anyone who could read them? Anyone who knew what they meant?”

  Robert Moore shook his head. “I did try playing them a couple of times.”

  “Playing them? You mean like musical notation?”

  “I tried it, but the tunes sounded like shit. All these Neil Diamond chord progressions.”

  “You still think they’re some kind of giant song chart?”

  Moore turned and looked at Jim. “You know something, Rock and Roll?”

  Jim sighed. “You don’t like me asking questions.”

  “I got a question for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How come you gave up singing?”

  “Who said I gave up singing?”

  “I’ve heard it all over. You ain’t sung a goddamned note since you fucked up on dope in Paris.”

  Jim couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That’s bullshit.”

  Long Time Robert shot him a sidelong glance. “Yeah? So when did you last sing, Rock and Roll?”

  “I don’t know. I have this problem with my memory.”

  “So how do you know what I’m saying is bullshit?”

  Jim shook his head in bewilderment. Maybe it was true and Long Time Robert Moore was right. He didn’t know anything for sure. That’s why he’d wanted to hang around Doc’s town for a while and sort out a few of these problems. “I need to think about that.”

  “Well, don’t take too long, boy. We’re coming up to the Crossroads.”

  Jim peered through the windshield. It was just as Robert Moore said. Up ahead, a second country road intersected the one they were on. As far as he could see, the two made a perfect right angle, slap in the middle of unsignposted nowhere. As they came to the place where the two roads met, Long Time Robert Moore slowed the car to a halt. “So I guess this is far as we go.”

  Jim was tempted to ask Moore what he was expected to do now, but he knew that he was unlikely to receive anything but some down-home bit of Zen by way of an answer. Either that or the question would be countered with another question. The bluesman shut off the Cadillac’s engine. “Think I’ll take me a look around.”

  Before he got out of the car, Long Time Robert Moore reached around behind his seat and pulled out his guitar case. He took it with him when he climbed out. This puzzled Jim. Was the old man intending to serenade the deserted Crossroads, or maybe try to play the music of the crop circles again? Jim couldn’t believe that he didn’t intend coming back to the car. After he made his exit, Long Time Robert Moore didn’t seem to be in any hurry. He walked a short distance from the Cadillac and then stopped and looked up at the sky. Jim turned to the blonde in the back. “You have any idea what’s going on?”

  Marilyn merely shrugged. Her face formed into the familiar, extended upper lip pout. Still Jim couldn’t fathom what she was. Some oddity who had taken Monroe’s form along with a vow of submissive silence? A sex toy that Long Time Robert took on the road with him? Jim knew this was another puzzle to which he would probably never have a solution, and he decided the best thing he could do was get out of the car himself. He walked slowly to a spot near the old man, but maintained sufficient distance so he would not be accused of crowding or following him. Without Jim having to say anything, Long Time Robert turned and looked at him. “You’re wondering what I’m doing, ain’t you, Rock and Roll?”

  Jim half smiled and nodded. “Yeah, I’m wondering, but I didn’t want to ask.”

  “I’m just waiting for my next ride.”

  “What next ride?”

  Long Time Robert Moore pointed to a spot on the distant horizon. “Look there, Rock and Roll, it’s coming now.”

  A small orange light had appeared at the horizon. It performed a swift, jittering dance and then came directly toward where they were standing. After experiencing the arrival of the Haitian Mystères in their blaze of static, Jim watched the fast-moving light with a certain apprehension. The object halted directly over them, silently hovering. Jim looked up at it in baffled amazement. “This is a joke, right?”

  Above the two of them, some forty feet in the air, nothing less than a flying saucer floated in total silence. Long Time Robert Moore’s face was expressionless. “I don’t see no joke. All I see is that there UFO.”

  Still Jim couldn’t believe it. The saucer was the classic design, the kind that was supposed to have crashed at Roswell in 1947, a large disc like an inverted soup dish with a kind of upper turret mounted at its center. The orange light was just the glowing domed top of that turret. On the underside were three large hemispheres that were supposed to have something to do with its means of propulsion. Jim could feel his hair starting to stand on end, just as it was supposed to around flying saucers. “That’s an Adamski saucer.”

  Robert Moore looked blank. “I don’t know too much about the makes and models. Just looks like a saucer to me.”

  “George Adamski. Back in the early fifties, he was the first guy to claim he was contacted by aliens.”

  “He wasn’t the first guy.”

  “He claimed to have taken pictures of saucers just like that one. They were all discredited as fakes.”

  Long Time Robert seemed unconcerned. “Looks pretty real to me.”

  “But what would real aliens be doing here in the human Afterlife?”

  Robert Moore grinned. “Them aliens get everywhere. Here, life-side, everywhere.”

  “You’re going off in that thing?

  “Sure am.”

  “Jim could hardly believe this. “You gonna be singing the blues on Zeta Reticuli?”

  “I got friends in high places.”

  “Can I come, too?”

  Robert Moore shook his head. “I don’t think so. Them alien guys are kinda choosy about who they pick up.”

  No sooner had the bluesman spoken than a beam of white light stabbed down from the underside of the spacecraft. Long Time Robert Moore was in the exact center of the beam, but Jim was also caught in its periphery. The saucer started to descend, and Jim, now definitely awed, backed quickly away. Robert Moore also took a couple of steps back. The beam of light was shut off and the saucer dropped to just a few feet from the ground, creating tiny dust devils on the surface of the road. For almost a minute, it remained perfectly stationary, and then a hatch slowly opened. Blue light streamed from its interior, and a narrow ramp extended until it was touching the ground. Long Time Robert Moore turned and looked back at Jim. “So I’m gone, Rock and Roll. I’ll be seeing you.”

  Carrying his guitar case, the bluesman walked quickly up the ramp. At the precise moment that Robert Moore set foot on the ramp, the Cadillac simply vanished, as though it had ceased to exist now that the bluesman had no more use for it. Jim could only assume Marilyn had gone with it. As Jim watched Robert Moore disappear into the interior of the saucer, a sudden angry impulse took over. Screw the bunch of choosy aliens. He’d had enough of aliens during his life on Earth. They’d always been out there somewhere, lurking in the shadows, materializing and vanishing, bothering pilots, annoying the government, kidnapping travelers on lonely roads, scaring Vern and Bubba while they were fishing in the swamp. The guppy-eyed, gray-skinned, three-fingered little bastards had never deigned to reveal themselves. They never landed on the White House lawn and said, Take me to your leader. (Although, in Jim’s lifetime, the leader would have been Richard Nixon, so who could blame them?) They
’d teased him enough. Finally a saucer had appeared and Jim Morrison was damned if he was going to be left behind wondering. He’d find out the truth once and for all. Either he’d see the aliens as they really were or, if the whole thing was sham, he’d know who was behind it.

  Without weighing the possible consequences, he darted forward. The ramp was beginning to retract, but Jim jumped, gaining a footing on the moving metal. He swayed for a second like a surfer, struggling to get his balance, and then he dived after Long Time Robert Moore, straight through the entrance and into the craft.

  Say what you like, aliens can be

  a goddamned pain in the ass.

  All of Semple’s instincts told her that the jail had been deliberately designed the way it was, ludicrous inefficiencies and all, and that its creator had done his work with an abrasive attention to viciously absurdist detail. Confirmation was all around her. It was born on the tepid air, thick with the reek of ammonia and dirty plastic mattresses. It was swallowed morning and evening with the gray cardboard slop that passed as food. It came with the mass of contradictory regulations that regularly ground everything to a bureaucratic halt for hours at a time. The very walls vibrated with it, along with the waveforms of sighing misery, and the constant undertow of confined penitentiary echoes. It was even underlined by the way all color had been washed out of the equation. In many respects, the perfect summation of the entire oppressive ambience could be compacted into the form of the four-hundred-pound female guard in the reinforced glass booth who was currently staring at Semple as though she were a logical impossibility. “You have no paperwork. How can I process you through when you have no paperwork?”

  Semple stared back at the guard from her side of the glass. Revulsion and slow-burning anger were a given, but she was all too well aware of the pointlessness of any demonstration. Confrontation with a system as convoluted and tangled as the Necropolis City Jail would amount to issuing an open invitation to institutional violence. Semple, once she was past the first shock of arrest and incarceration, had resolved to roll with the absurdities of the program until she had a handle on her new surroundings. After all, didn’t she preside over a place not dissimilar to this back home in her own environment? And wasn’t the primary operating rule that prisoners never be allowed to win a point?