The sacrifice. He must tell the Prince of the sacrifice.
“Oh, great Prince,” he said. Could the master hear him? Of course, he came. Don’t show doubt. Don’t have doubt. “Oh, great Prince! Feed!”
He dropped his hands to present the sacrifice. The tourist. He glanced down. The Marine was holding his throat. He was twitching. A live sacrifice.
Again he commanded. “Feed!”
And a bolt shot down into the body at his feet. He watched as the body tightened, convulsed. He saw the eyes of the once-man glow cyan, and then the man that had been a Marine began to shrivel into a used husk.
Keller began to laugh, to laugh aloud at his master’s feasting. A hideous laugh, a cackling laugh, because the promise was that the power would be his.
And then he noticed something. Something on his outstretched hand. A slight red smear between his thumb and index finger. He rolled his hand over, saw the blood, the blood from the chicken girl’s face. He wasn’t supposed to have any blood on him.
Keller stopped laughing.
This was bad.
This was the tourist’s fault.
He saw the arc leap from the eyes of the Marine to the tip of his bloody hand and felt the immediate convulsing of his muscles as they seized and went taut. With a jolt, his neck snapped back. The indigo orb appeared to have grown, to have magnified. But it had not grown in size, rather it had grown closer. No, he was rising, floating upward toward the orb.
The indigo orb.
The Blue Prince, with his countless flaming electrical others, lathering and dripping, spewed around and away from his ageless manifestation. Keller, frozen in suspension, watched as a great pool of cool, chromium blue liquid metal formed on the surface of the sphere. He witnessed the hues of the cyan lightning and the darkened sky ripple across the puddle, and then he saw the reflection of the city behind him, around him, he saw himself mirrored in the heavy, wide face of the chrome, which had protruded toward him in a great chromium column, come to meet him.
Keller, filled with warmth and light as his master enveloped him, entered him.
The euphoria. He was the conqueror, he was the blessed, the eternal dream had begun. And then the dream became a nightmare, there were many thoughts, many visions, ancient visions across universes and eons, many hideous, heinous visions.
And then something final, a last echoing thought, the last that was his own before the master ate everything else away.
Who’s the idiot now?
~*~
Keller rolled his head across his shoulders and then slowly shifted his gaze toward the remnants of the herd. Except he wasn’t Keller anymore. There was still some Keller in there somewhere, though whatever was left could never really be called Keller, now that the Prince had his way with it. Even if that life force had the body back, it could do nothing but curl into a ball and drool. Marred, scarred, and broken beyond repair. But this Keller. This Keller was fine. He was quite fine, in his new ride. His Queen had told him there would be plenty to eat, and he was hungry, and this new ride was hungry, and his others were hungry. He stretched his neck again. This was going to take a little getting used to.
What fun.
He had been watching the tourists left on the observation deck—the families, the couples, the Iowas, the Idahos, the I-doe-knows—since he had arrived. They were freaking out. All in their own way. Some began to scream, some froze in place, others, rats that they were, scurried toward the door to get back in. They began to push, to shove. Many had remained outside when the orb appeared, when he appeared, confused as to how to find the single exit.
Keller’s freak show had blocked the path of many.
They watched as that big blue electric ball turned into metal and shot itself… around? Into?
He was sure they had no way to define what they saw.
And the man was standing. The tall, scrawny, blonde mop-haired man was standing.
One of the… tourists… No, that was a pet word for the herd… Humans. Yes. One of the humans was looking at him. Keller, the new Keller, searched for a social response. Etiquette is key, he smiled, a wide, wild smile. He could almost see the reflection of his cyan eyes bouncing back at him. He couldn’t really, but the eyes… Yes, the humans had the right words—the windows to the soul—well, close enough, no matter the species, no matter the world, his eyes, two, five, ten, or a thousand, didn’t matter, they always lit blue.
The vocabulary in this ride, the nomenclature, very limited. They sure did send a stupid priest. He would have to find someone smarter to snack on. The humans couldn’t all be this dumb.
Keller heard a rhythmic twap-twap-twap behind him. He spun to follow the sound and discovered, stretched out beneath him, the city of New York, the southern tip of the island, Staten Island, Brooklyn, and Long Island beyond. This was going to be a feast. The twapping became louder, and up from below rose a glass ball with twirling blades on the top. He shook his finger at the flying machine and said aloud, “A chopper.” What fun. To his right he saw another with two white stripes painted on its side. An eleven. He waved.
And then Keller strode toward dinner.
It had been a long few millennia.
He sent out a command. He hungered for something more than the predecessor of his new ride.
“All of this is ours to eat! Food’s on!”
~*~
SMOKE
Bob Williams
~*~
“Smoke,” he said.
The man stood outside the building looking up at the marquee. It was an offensively cold night in downtown Seattle, and he desperately needed respite as his fingers were quickly losing feeling. His beanie was pulled down snug over his ears, and his scarf was wrapped tight around his neck. His hands were jammed deep into his pockets in search of the funds that would rescue him from the bitterness of the evening, and his life.
He cautiously approached the door, cupped his hands, and peered through the glass. Nothing. That was odd. The place looked empty inside. He knew that feeling. The hand-painted A-frame sign that sat out on the sidewalk clearly said “Open.” There was even a crudely painted arrow that pointed towards “an unforgettable experience.” Confused, he stepped out to the curb and looked up once again at the marquee. It still read “SMOKE.” Although this time there was a radiant surge to the neon sign, then a pop, which caused him to look away. When he gazed back toward the sign, it had gone dark and lifeless.
SMOKE was turning into a metaphor for his life, and he wasn’t interested in hanging around to re-live it. Although he couldn’t quite remember how he had come to stand in front of this building, he knew he needed to leave. Daniel had a lifetime of poor decisions tucked nicely into his back pocket. This wasn’t going to be one of them. Turning to walk away, he was startled to hear the wail of a saxophone accompanied by the sound of a thousand voices. A heavy layer of smoke wafted from the interior of the establishment, and a large black man emerged wearing an ornate top hat, and undoubtedly the finest suit the man had ever seen. “Welcome to SMOKE! We’ve been expecting you.”
“I don’t understand,” said the man.
“Do not worry, my friend! Come!” his voice boomed in a welcoming but precise Caribbean accent. He held the door open with one massive hand while gesturing for the man to enter with the other.
It was an unbelievable scene to absorb. New Orleans jazz threw a blanket of good times over the room as the smoke mingled mysteriously amongst its guests. As if his brain could not comprehend what his eyes were seeing. Through the smoke-filled haze that enveloped the entire room he saw hundreds of people. A large portion of the crowd was carrying on conversations, laughing, having the time of their lives. Others sat alone, outwardly confused and out of place.
“What’s with the sad people?”
“Dey are newcomers. Like yourself! They have yet to feel da smoke.” He drew out the word “feel” as if giving the smoke a physical property.
“What does that mean? Feel the smoke
?”
“Da smoke is life.”
“Mister, this dance we are doing is starting to get on my last nerve. Tell me what’s going on here. How come I couldn’t see all these people when I looked in from the outside? What is this place?” the man said with an air of desperation.
The smile quickly vanished from the dark man. He seemed ever greater in stature than he was previously. His eyes bore into the man and when he spoke, the joy was gone from his voice.
“Da name is Samuel. I understand your plight, Daniel…”
“How do you know my name?”
“Daniel, you must listen to me. You are here because it is time. In order for you to gain da understanding you seek, you must first turn and face da smoke. Yes. Dat is right. Now, concentrate… see da smoke,” he said.
“Okay. I’m looking at the smoke. Nothing. Now what?”
“No, Daniel. Do not look at da smoke. See da smoke. Focus on da essence of da smoke.”
Daniel closed his eyes and attempted to filter out the multiple layers of curiosity and fear as he struggled to find his center. This whole situation had become serious so quickly. He needed to understand. He took one final breath and exhaled while opening his eyes.
He stared at the wistful layers of smoke as they hovered in the air. As he stared deeper into the smoke the layers began to intertwine, as if merging together to form an image. Impatience and frustration were badges Daniel had pinned to his chest years ago. He felt them both in excess as his initial straining into the smoke yielded no fruit.
Slowly the picture began to form in front of him. To his horror he saw himself lying on the sidewalk in a pool of blood. It was an image of crystal clear precision that was born of the smoke. Daniel slumped, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Do you see it, Daniel?” asked Samuel.
“Y-yes,” he stammered.
“Step into da smoke, Daniel. Breathe deeply.”
Daniel stepped without hesitation into the smoke-filled center of the image. When he was completely amassed in the center he took in the smoke. Almost immediately, he saw himself cutting through the alley that was close to his home. His hands were dug deep in his pockets, and warm air escaped his mouth into the frigid night air. He looked to the street light that protruded into view from just outside the wall of the alley and was thinking how great it was going be to return to his warm apartment after such a crummy night.
He didn’t notice that a person had emerged from the darkness until he felt a sudden, very distinct pain in his midsection. He cried out, falling to the frozen ground clutching his stomach. He felt his assailant checking the interior and exterior pockets of his coat. He felt the removal of his wallet and watch. For an extra piece of cruelty, Daniel’s murderer chose to kick him one solid time in the exact location of his already bloody wound.
The night was so extremely frigid that Daniel’s gut wound steamed as the blood flowed endlessly from within. He fumbled through his pockets in search of his cell phone in hopes of calling for help, but it was nowhere to be found. His assailant had taken that as well. There was no help coming. There wasn’t time anyway. He would die soon.
This isn’t fair, he thought.
Samuel put his massive hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “Do you feel da smoke, Daniel?”
“Yes. I’m dead, then?
“No, Daniel. Not yet. But you are indeed correct. It is not fair what has happened to you. That is why da Smoke chose you! You do not have to go, Daniel. You may stay! Here with us. With da Smoke! Or you may go. I do not know what awaits you, Daniel, if you choose otherwise; however, if you choose to stay with us, your glass will always be full, the music will forever play, and your bitterness will disappear.
“You have mere moments to decide, Daniel. What will it be?”
Daniel was thoroughly overwhelmed. Self-doubt had followed Daniel through life like a couple of old one-dollar bills that can live in your wallet forever. What was he supposed to do? He’d never come close to having any type of Heaven or Hell conversations with any of his friends or family. What was this place? It didn’t feel like Purgatory. This place, Smoke, felt… good. If the few people in here hadn’t accepted what they saw, that was their problem.
He wasn’t going to fool himself. He was very distraught at having been murdered. Daniel was cut from a creative gene. He had lots of ideas. He had big plans. But there it was, wasn’t it? He had had big plans. In the blink of an eye, all of that was gone. So what should he do?
He made his decision. He turned to Samuel, grabbed a glass off the tray as the attendant walked by and said, “Cheers!”
Samuel busted out a huge smile, and with his arms spread wide, he boomed, “Welcome to Smoke!” and laughed heartily as he put his arm around Daniel’s shoulder and they slowly vanished into the smoke-filled haze.
~*~
NATURAL BORN ALIEN
Will Swardstrom
~*~
The following is a transcript from a news report the night before the United States Presidential election, sometime in the not-too-distant future. The reporter would like to note that any resemblance to any politicians, alive or dead, is probably intentional.
Washington, D.C. - Even before this election cycle started, it was clear this one would be different. When all the votes are cast and counted, there is no doubt the next President of the United States will be a legal alien. Of course, as the American people have learned, this alien isn’t from another country, but rather has his roots on a different planet.
Robunthiquipalthinatchyyl Walters, who goes by the Americanized name of Bob, has slowly but surely emerged as the frontrunner in this year’s election. Through each and every misstep, Bob Walters has endeared himself to the American people. And now, on the eve of this historic election, we take a look back at how Candidate Bob Walters became the presumed President Bob Walters. His first obstacle was the Constitution. Specifically, the three requirements the U.S. Constitution spells out for prospective Presidential candidates.
“Technically, he did qualify,” Republican strategist Lou Tarken said just before the first Presidential Primary election. “The Constitution is very clear, and the courts ruled that Bob Walters was just like any of the other candidates in this year’s election.”
Looking back at the U.S. Constitution, the founding fathers outlined three specific qualifications to be President. For well over two hundred years, the electors have followed those rules, and here we are, on the cusp of another election and those rules may bite us in the end. What are those rules, specifically?
Article II of the U.S. Constitution spells it out: “No Person except a natural born Citizen, or a Citizen of the United States, at the time of the Adoption of this Constitution, shall be eligible to the Office of President; neither shall any person be eligible to that Office who shall not have attained to the age of thirty-five years, and been fourteen years a resident within the United States.”
So how did an alien from another world hijack the U.S. Presidential election, legally and legitimately?
“It would be easy to assume that an alien like Bob Walters would be extraterrestrial. I would say it’s safe to say most of the country did so in the early stages of the race,” Laura Walcott, Director of the Independent Electoral Review, said. “His name itself—Robunthiquipalthinatchyyl—is ridiculous, but when you add in the greenish-blue skin, hair that spontaneously combusts, and his nearly nine-foot height, it was clear there was something different about this man. He actually flew under the radar—literally, he can fly, too! But, his lawsuit against the federal government on a Freedom of Information Act request changed all that.”
That request opened a lot of eyes across the world. When Bob filed his suit against the government requesting an obscure video, he alerted the nation and the world to his existence. The FOIA requested a video filmed nearly forty years earlier at an Army Base in New Mexico. He claimed it was Area 51, but the government refuted his claims. Public perception tended to lean the other way and in
the end the appellate judge in Albuquerque granted Bob’s request. He immediately released it on YouTube and the entire world witnessed Bob Walters’ birth.
Timestamped in the bottom right corner on July 9, 1978, the grainy video showed a shaky shot of an alien birth. A being that looked a lot like Bob, with a few extra...glands...was lying on top of a stainless steel table. The huge alien figure grunted and screamed, eventually pushing a few dozen slimy globules out of...somewhere. Even after the video was viewed a few billion times, no one was exactly sure how those alien infants were born, but regardless, some unidentified military grunt was at the end of the table, gathering the squirming blobs into a plastic tub.
“It might’ve been the grossest thing I’d ever seen, but it sure made me feel that Bob Walters knew what it was like to be one of us. You know...someone who’d been pushed around his whole life,” Fredrick Rothchild, a junior political science major at the University of Illinois, commented after the second debate.
The government confirmed that Bob Walters survived the birth, but his few dozen brothers and sisters didn’t. It turned out he was missed in the birth event, and the alien mother gave birth to him last. Somehow in the process, she was able to impart a special maternal gene to the fledgling child—a key part of the birth the other siblings missed out on. Soon after, Bob’s mom passed away as well, and Bob was raised by an Army doctor by the name of Walters deep in the New Mexico desert.
So, born in the United States. Check.
“It’s more than what we could say about Obama,” Gene Coulson, a conservative columnist from Alabama, said when the verdict was determined. “He served as President for eight years and never answered for that sham of a birth certificate. At least with Bob Walters, it’s clear he was born in this country. The government said so.”
And since the video was recorded nearly forty years earlier, the answer to the second qualification was answered. And Bob didn’t even have a passport, so he fulfilled the third qualification of being a resident for fourteen years as well. Check, check, and check. All set and ready to run.
Tales from the Canyons of the Damned: Omnibus Page 4
