All that it is missing is the Ewoks

After eating a soy protein plate with extra green stuff, followed by reading up on the newest fashion designer haircuts in We Give A Shit magazine (mullets are back in, according to this particular periodical that most people couldn’t give two shits about,) I received a text from Riker that they were ready for reality #3. I tossed the magazine into the recycle bin and made my way to the Portal room.

Riker and Texas greeted me as I walked in. I noncommittally waved and sat down on a swivel stool to change out the battery in my datapad. Lab Cutie #7 sat down next to me and asked some health-related questions, which I answered without any problems. Next, she pulled out a Geiger Counter and waved it in front of me.

“Umm.. I thought you said the machine was safe,” I loudly said to Riker as I watched the wand go up and down.

“It is safe,” Riker assured me from behind his Holomonitor. “We are going to check you for radiation from the realities you are coming from. The machine doesn’t give off any radiation. You are protected from the machine’s powerful radioactive output. Don’t worry,“ Riker smugly smiled, “You have nothing to worry about from the machine. What we worry about is the realities you are coming from. What If you walk into World War III? You have to be cognizant of these things, Vincent.”

“Hmm,” I muttered. “You’re right. Let’s just hope I don’t run into World War III. ‘A guy from another reality, a janitor, and World War III walk into a bar…”

“I don’t get it,” Texas snorted. “Why would World War III walk anywhere?”

“Never mind. It wasn’t that funny to begin with. We ready?”

“Step on up!” Riker exclaimed, and everyone in the room started clapping.

“Okay, are you guys gonna clap every time I step up here?” I questioned. “Cause if you are, it’s going to get real old, real fast.”

“Sorry Vincent,” Riker apologized, his face slightly red with embarrassment. “We rarely get excited about anything. Can we golf clap, or at least whistle?”

“Sure, whatever,” I responded as I stepped onto the platform. “Just take down the enthusiastic clapping a notch.”

“Who doesn’t like excited clapping, and Little Debbie snack cakes?” I heard Texas mutter under his breath.
I sighed. “Let’s get this going!”

Again, with the swirling metal and flashing electric pulses. Again with the brilliant flash of light within the metallic cocoon. Again, reality swirled into emptiness. Again, suspended in time and space.

Again, I thought of farting. Would I even notice if I did? Would God notice?

* * * * * * *

I reappeared onto a grassy, mossy expanse of green shrubs and fallen trees. Gigantic fallen trees. As my vision adjusted to the damp emerald colors, I could finally see the monstrous red bark towers of life dwarfing all other sentient life above me, hundreds of feet high, filtering out the sun’s rays.

Where have I seen these before, I wondered to myself as I stepped off the platform. As the portal dissipated, recognition set in as snapped my fingers.

“These are the Redwoods in Western Utah,” I gasped out loud. As I had mentioned earlier, Utah stretches all the way to the Pacific like a big fat panhandle, dwarfing Oklahoma’s dinky excuse for a handler of pans.

Utah isn’t known for being a tourist destination, and most of the time visitors are anything but welcome. People have snuck in to see Utah’s wilderness before and have taken breathtaking pictures, but it is such a dangerous journey that only the craziest sons of bitches attempt it.

I had always wanted to see the Redwood forest, as had much of the United States, but never had the opportunity to do so. Yet there I stood, knee deep in grass and moss, with the towering icons of nature calmly asserting their hold on this part of the world.

I sat down in awe, and snapped some pictures with my Datapad. Nearby, a squirrel chirped. I could hear a woodpecker slamming its beak into the bark. Other birds I cannot name sang their lines, a chorus of natural melody that is rarely heard back home. I plopped myself on a log and enjoyed the spectacle for a few more minutes as I munched on a granola bar and tried to goad the squirrel to come say hi.

“Even if I don’t meet my alternate reality, this makes it all worth it,” I said to the squirrel, who only got close enough to sniff me from a distance.

Then it got quiet. The squirrel disappeared up a tree, the birds stopped their talking, the woodpecker gave up its constant jackhammering. It became deadly silent for a few seconds, and then I heard what had spooked the animals.

Gunfire. The recognizable sound of bullets flying through the air could be heard faintly in the distance, shattering the splendor of nature’s greatness.

“What the Hell?” I wondered as I stood up and packed my granola bar back in my satchel. With the other hand I grabbed the home button, ready to use it in a split second’s notice if things got messy.

A low, rumbling BOOM thrust its way into my ears, rolling through the forest, followed by further rumbling sounds. I pulled out the Datapad from my bag.

“Jeeves, what the Hell is happening?” I whispered low.

“Sir, you need to either leave right now, or find shelter,” Jeeves calmly responded. “My scan shows that we are in the midst of a battle, and the booms you are hearing are artillery shells.”

“I can’t leave yet,” I panicked. “I’m here to observe, and find-“

“Sir, duck!” Jeeves Interrupted.

Above me, an artillery shell slammed into one of the massive trees, sending splinters the size of small farm animals to shower down around me. I grabbed my satchel and hid under a downed tree a few feet away that had some space under it, and just in time too. A six-foot splinter slammed down inches from where I previously stood.

“Jesus Christ,” I swore as I went to push the home button that…was no longer in my left hand. Fear struck me, like a hammer nailing home its target. I’m sure my face went as pale as the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“Jeeves,” I screamed as more artillery shells found their targets, unleashing a deadly torrent of splintered showers all around me. “Where the Fuck is the Home Button?”

“it is seven feet to your left, Sir,” Jeeves calmly said after I turned up his volume. “It is currently buried underneath the large shank of wood where you were previously standing, sir.”

“Is it damaged?”

“No, sir. It is almost impossible to destroy.”

A small sense of relief washed over me, allowing some color to re-introduce itself to my face. “What the Hell is going on?”

“My initial scan shows two separate armies closing over this position. It appears that the army to the south is attempting to flank the second army’s position to the north by going through the forest. The forces to the north must have received word of this, and are firing artillery into the woodlands to discourage the forces from the south to attempt their flanking maneuver.”

“Well, shit. Got any ideas?”

“Your highest chance of survival is to stay covered until the shelling is over. Where we are at is the second-best position within thirty meters, Sir.”

“Guess we’ll stay here then, and hope for the best.”

“Of course, sir. If the situation changes, I will let you know.”

“Thanks, Jeeves.” I minimized the AI program on the Datapad and opened its music player. I turned it to random, plugged in my wireless headphones and scrunched down into the mud and moss under the deadfall to wait out the shitstorm raining down around me. My favorite band, Gus and the Killer Bees, drowned out the Hellish scene I found myself in with their electronic-metallic tones:

Blanketed sounds, deleted dreams,

Floating on serenity’s scenes

Of flashing emotions and dizzying light,

Grasp it all for a more prophetic night,

For the world doesn’t end until we say it does.

Gus and the Killer Bees, in my opinion, is the greatest Electronic Metal band ever. I hope someday their albums can go multi-reality so everyone can listen to them. Their album, What Is Wrong With That Guy’s Face? transcends generations.

I am not sure how long I sat there, listening to the music. It felt like hours had passed, but it might have been minutes for all I knew. Eventually, the wooden rain stopped its barrage. I turned off the music and pressed the AI button.

“Talk to me, Jeeves.”

“The artillery shelling has stopped sir. The regiment to the South has faded back beyond the river three miles to our Southwest. Radar scanning shows a small force from the North moving our direction. It is too small to be a full division of troops. I suspect it is a scouting party. It is less than a quarter mile away.”

“What do they have to scout?” I wondered. “How many trees they blew to shit?”

“Doubtful, Sir. You may want to consider that someone in the scouting party could be your alternate self.”

“Noted. You sure it’s safe to come out?”

“Some of the trees might be precariously standing on their own power, but the artillery bombing is done, as it would not be strategically sound to place the scouting party at risk.”

“Keep me informed,” I muttered as I wedged my way out from under the deadfall. As I stood up, I gasped at the scene before me.

The entire forest floor was covered in bits of wood. Looking up at the trees it almost looked like someone had taken gigantic bites out of their flesh.

“So much destruction,” I whispered as I tried to lift the gigantic shard of wood that had sat on my only way home. It wouldn’t budge.

“Well, this isn’t good,” I complained, grunting and groaning as I tried to move the extremely heavy piece of lumber.

“Sir, the scouting party is moving towards our position rapidly,” Jeeves warned.

“Do you ever give good news?” I sarcastically queried as I attempted to push the timber over with all the strength I could muster.

“Sir, I advise you to-“

“Unless you can find a magic way to move this God Damn giant paperweight off the only way home, just shut up for a second.”

“Noted, sir.”

I attempted to wedge some space under the wood using other shards laying around, but it didn’t work. After a few minutes of trying to push/pull/shove/swear at the rock into moving, I kicked it and sat down in frustration, head down in anger.

The sound of a gun hammer being cocked back thrust its way into my frustration.

“Raise your hands, slowly, or I will shoot you,” warned a graveled voice eerily similar to mine. I raised my hands and looked up to see the face attached to the voice.

Like Vincent #2, it was like looking at yourself at a hall of mirrors show at the carnival. The face that looked down at me from the barrel of a rifle was indeed my own, but just off enough for me to question whether or not this was indeed a reflection of myself. I could tell that he was thinking the same thing as he looked down at me, his bearded, dirty face trying to grasp the reality of what he was witnessing. Even after the portal’s AI notified him of his incoming visitor, how could he not interject reason into the ridiculous notion that his alternate self was coming to visit?

I could see the hesitation in his eyes, the thousand questions that swirled inside his mind as he attempted to rationalize the situation.

“Sometimes, it is easier to accept the absurd, then accept the normal,” I calmly spoke, hands still raised. “Now I know what I would look like with a beard.”

The eye behind the crosshairs blinked, and the gun was lowered. “My God in Heaven, I pray that I am not insane,” Vincent #3 whispered as he turned on the safety to his gun. “It’s safe, boys. I can’t explain it, but this man is no harm to us.” He reached out a hand, which I accepted, and as he helped me up I could see three other men all dressed like Vincent #3, head to toe in camouflage gear, rifles and guns strapped to their backs and hips.

“Now that there are more of us here, would you mind helping me with something real fast? Under this immovable piece of timber is my way home. Can you help me push it up enough for me to grab it?”

Vincent #3 waived the men over and with some extra manpower, we managed to push over the paperweight enough for me to grab the Home button.

“Thank God,” I mumbled as I put the button in my pocket and turned back towards the troops. “Now, who wants to hear a batshit crazy story about how I got here?”

Gustradamus Say: Prophecies for April 25th-May 2nd

Welcome to the new weekly blog entry, Gustradamus Say!

Gustradamus Say: Next week, someone will be bitten by another human, and the victim will accuse the biter of being a vampire, but in reality the biter is just high in mescaline and Red Bull.

On Tuesday, April 27, An old man will pull down his pants on a subway train, and announce himself to be the king of France. He will be beaten with his own shoe by the King of France.

On Thursday, April 29th, a volcano will explode in Siberia. No one will care.

On Wednesday, April 28th, a Republican mouth breather operating as a "reporter" for Fox News will be caught snorting cocaine off of Sean Hannity's hairy back. When confronted over the situation, the reporter and Hannity will blame Obama for everything, including Hannity's hairy back. Glenn Beck will cry in agreement. Everyone involved will get higher television ratings and raises.

Tune in next week for more Gustradamus Say!

Hey Brain..

Hey Brain.

What?

Why are we so sluggish this weekend?

Because you allowed your sinuses to be filled with goo.

What, like pudding goo? Are you telling me I have tasty pudding goo up my nostr-

No, you idiot. why do you think you have been blowing your nose for days?

I just assumed it was some sort of genetic defect. Maybe a reaction to our environment?

...What are you talking about?

I don't know. Anyways, so you are saying we have a cold?

Yes.

And we can't do anything about it?

Aside from sleep, tea, and throat drops/lots of water, not really.

Hmm. So this would explain why we didn't work on my novel much this weekend...

Yeah well, we'll have to play catchup next week for missing a weekend.

..Wait. Why aren't we working on the novel right now instead of writing this tripe?

Because we don't have the energy to work on the novel. Writing this crap equals the energy a teabagger exerts to complain about government spending while signing his social security checks and Medicare prescription drugs.

Ouch. Very ouch.

Go to sleep, you goon. We'll feel better tomorrow.

We'd better. Or someone's gonna pay...

...Like Hitler?

Exactly. He'll pay for this cold!

...Extra Nyquil for you tonight...

Skipping straight to Vincent # 3.

Vincent Fullerton # 3

After using the silver disk, and shimmying my way back to my own reality, the scientists had gobs of questions for me in the debriefing room. Well, the debriefing room was the same room the machine was in. So I suppose it’s the All-Purpose room. Or a kitchen pantry of sorts.

Speaking of rooms, I never could figure out why big corporations give their conference rooms boring names. “We are meeting in the Grand Canyon Room.” “Meet me over in the Sedona Room.” “Hey, you heard the meeting got moved to the Sun Valley room, right?” If you are going to name them something, why not name them after superhero comic figures? I’d much rather have a meeting in The Dude’s room, or the Gloveslapper room. Or why not go all out and name your conference rooms after sexual reproductive organs?

Truth be told, I just want my boss to send out an electronic mail that said we are having a meeting in the Clitoris room, and next Thursday the meeting would be in the Gigantic Penis room, because it has twelve chairs instead of a measly six. Bigger is better, my boss always says.

Ok, sorry. Tangent again. So yeah.. The Scientists! Right. Their questions. They bombarded me with their queries almost immediately after I reappeared into my reality, which was remarkably annoying. A cute lab assistant checked my blood pressure and pulse, while the scientists in the room blabbered on, talking over each other in order to be the one question I heard first. Most of them were pretty standard fare, but the ones I remember specifically were:

“Was your alternate self more or less like you right now?”

“How was the air quality? Did the other reality have trash receptacles?”

“Did you need the lab coat to protect you from acid rain, or people trying to ejaculate on you?”

“What sporting events did they participate in?”

“Did they have televisions, and if so were they holographic like ours?”

“Did women wear pants?”

Admittedly, the last question threw me off a bit, along with the lab coat question.

Hmm… On second thought, with the exception of one or two questions asked, these sure as Hell shouldn’t have been standard fare questions coming from scientists. A few weeks into the experiment, I started to realize that being a scientist at the Area 51 Research, Laboratory and Theme Park was a very lonely job, but even then the quality and wide range of questions never shocked me until now while going over my e-notes to write this book.

Jesus, I should have punched the scientist who asked me if I need the lab coat to protect myself from roaming jack-offers with nothing better to do with their free time. I still might punch him, go track him down and kick him in his groin. If you read this, Mr. Condom Coat jackass, I will find you. Better start running now.

So aside from those bizarre questions, I answered what I could. Even answered the bizarre questions. Sort of.

“No, Vincent Fullerton number 2 was quite different because of the way he was raised. His mother died giving birth to what would have been his younger brother when he was twelve years old. This affected his entire life, and he never recovered from the tragedy. Completely different from my life, as my mother is still alive, and I am an only child. The air quality was tangy, quite tasty if I don’t say so myself. No massive air scrubbers, so I could taste the pollution. No, you sicko! I did not need my lab coat. They have many of the same sports as us, with the exception of Hoverball. They did not have personal hovercrafts, so that game would never happen there until they do. The only television I saw was at the bar, and it was not holographic. It was what the guy called an LCD plasma television. And yes, the women wear pants, sicko scientist number 2!”

After the cute nurse was done checking my vitals, I thanked her, stood up and stretched. “How soon can we be ready for reality number three?”

James Riker stuck his head above his holo-monitor. “Twenty minutes. We need to calibrate the machine for the next reality, and make sure the environment is safe for you. Probably a good time to go the restroom, maybe grab some Little Debbie Oatmeal Pie cookies in the break room.”

“You scientists and those damn cookies. Did that bitch Debbie blackmail you into eating them? I see everyone eating them here!”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” James flatly stated rather unconvincingly while shoving another oatmeal snack cake into his mouth.

I shook my head and walked off to go relieve myself and avoid the cookies.

While on the toilet in the men’s room, I finally had some peace and quiet to reflect on what I had just done.

Holy shit. I visited another reality, another timeline from my own. I smiled and laughed out loud, causing the person who just entered the bathroom to cough uncomfortably to announce his presence. The visitor continued to clear his throat when I didn't stop chuckling, and then exited rapidly after finishing his business.

It was remarkable enough that the machine worked in the first place. It was almost unreal seeing another reality. And to top off the near-insanity, I had a beer with my alternate self at a restaurant called Chotchkie’s. I witnessed how my life could have been remarkably different from the current path taken. My mother was never a janitor, and my father was never a teacher. My mother is still teaching 7^th grade Alien Science at Surly Dwarf Middle School in Henderson, Nevada. Oh, and it’s just my opinion, but the Clark County School Board should have NEVER let the elementary kids pick the names of the new schools being built in the 1990’s. On top of Surly Dwarf, there’s Tyrannosaurus Rex High School, Robin Hood Elementary, Chocolate Chip Cookie Junior High, Homework Sucks Middle School and Screaming Badger High School. Just terrible.

Sorry. Another unnecessary tangent.

My mother kept me going after my father passed away when I was in 11^th grade at Screaming Badger. My father suddenly became ill, and it was discovered he had testicular cancer. Cancer is something that can be cured in this reality, but it has to be caught in the early stages. If it isn’t caught quickly, it can be deadly. Sadly, for my father it wasn’t caught early enough.

It was my mother’s strength and will that made me finish high school, and her resolve that got me through college. It was her stubborn will to not accept failure that drove me to this point in my life. I owe her everything.

That was of course, the biggest difference between Vincent #2 and myself. We both had parents die on us, but it was surprising to learn it was his mother that died, and to see his father crumble under the weight of his grief. His father never recovered in any capacity, and it bled down into his son. Drugs, truancy, and a life of crime that caused #2 to never go to college, never amount to anything but a janitor.

The emotional impact #2’s story had on me was shocking, as I sat there on the toilet. I expected to hear fascinating stories, discover sights not seen before, and learn a thing or two about myself, but the sadness I felt for #2 was almost indescribable. It was something I did not expect at all.

Eventually, my legs became numb from sitting on the toilet too long, so I finished my duty and washed my hands with the antibacterial foam, and walked back to the lab to get ready for the next reality, and Vincent #3.

A New Start to a New Story

This is what I have so far. Off to a funny start, I hope. Huzzah!

Since this book will be sold throughout numerous realities, thanks to my agent who was willing to work with me to contact publishers by using a new invention, Alternate Reality Mail (ARM,) I suppose I should explain who I am, why I wrote this book, the world I exist in, and how the machine works that allowed this book to come to fruition.

To start off, the reality I exist in is one of fairly peaceful times. Corporal punishment has been outlawed in numerous countries, my country included. I live in the United States of America, a country located in the Northern Hemisphere on Earth. We have a woman President for the first time in American history, Ellen Kennedy. Her father was a successful two-term president in the 1960’s. She has become the most popular President the country has ever had, and her third term appears to continue that trend. She has brokered peace between Israel and Palestine, progressed scientific research beyond fossil fuels and normal scientific conventions, and has successfully sent Astronauts to Mars. Impressive as that has been, she has done all this while ending the partisan politics that nearly ruined the political system, kept the federal budget under control, and the private sector in check with regulatory policies. Needless to say, I am very impressed with her work so far.

I live in Las Vegas, a fairly normal city that prospers off tourism thanks to its geographical proximity to the Area 51 Alien Research, Museum and Theme Park. The drive along the Elvis Presley Memorial Hover-Byway from the park to Las Vegas is filled with alien-themed restaurants, bars, and the occasional strip joint. I went once when I was a kid, but I have not returned since then. I have heard their roller coasters are starting to defy gravity, as the Scientists discover more about the alien technology that has crashed on Earth throughout the years. They have used their inventions, along with government funding, to further the cause of science and entertainment.

Las Vegas fills its hotels with incoming visitors going to the park, and the occasional traveler that ventures into Utah, the landlocked Mormon-run country, to visit the wilderness that hasn’t been destroyed by the Mormon initiatives to mine and strip the shit out of Nature for any remaining resources. I visited a village called Cedar City once. The Mormons are a nice enough people, but their isolated nature, lack of scientific progress and religious teachings have caused them to fall behind the rest of the continent in nearly every aspect. While in Cedar City I visited a Creationist Museum, which details how the Mormons believe the Earth was created. My favorite part was the splendidly creafted set of Jesus Christ, pale and with blonde hair for some reason, riding a dinosaur with a saddle on it. I laughed out loud at the absurdity of it, upsetting the staff as I pointed and chuckled for ten minutes. Eventually they politely told me to leave. I grabbed some flyers-one titled “Why Your God is Wrong-“ and left guffawing until I reached the Nevada border.

Sorry, going off on a tangent a bit.

I studied English and Journalism at the University of Nevada-Las Vegas, graduating in 2001 A.D. I have worked as a reporter for a local free paper called the Weekly Worthless News ever since graduation. We generally report on nonsensical stories about ghosts, fabricate satiric pieces on local government, and convince readers that Vampires and Werewolves exist. It’s a fun job, but not one that lends towards award-winning journalism. I have tried to get jobs with the National Broadcasting Radio, a public radio station, and the real paper in town, The Las Vegas Gazette, but have not won over anyone yet at either place. When I heard about the machine, I threw myself into being the first reporter to use it. After all, scientists and their fellow brainiacs can’t write worth a damn when it comes to writing interesting prose. Have you ever read Brock Newton’s “An Essay on the Nature of Frogs, and their Amphibian Counterparts?” Of course you haven’t. I have, and reading it is as boring as watching bowling on television, or playing the new video game, Virtual No Life in 3D. I don’t understand how anyone can play that game, or watch bowling on television.

The machine I am talking about is the Alternate Reality Portal, which is a terrible name for such a momentous machine. They should have called it The Tremendous Reality Machine of Awesomeness. But I digress. The portal was created based on years of studying alien technology and understanding their blueprints for engines that travel faster than light, and machines that can bend reality into other forms. A major breakthrough was recently unearthed a year ago, and combined with modern science, they rebuilt and fixed the machine for human purposes. When they turned on the machine, they thought it would be some sort of fast-travel system between planets or galaxies.

Boy, were they wrong. What they created could warp you into alternate realities. Not only that, but it would track down your alternate self-if they existed in that reality-and let them know their alternate self was coming to visit!

No one understands how that is possible, but there is a lot we don’t understand about alien devices. All I knew was that I needed to use it.

So I wrote a letter to the Commission of Off-world Creations and Knowledge (or C.O.C.K if you prefer) and begged, pleaded and whored myself out to be the first non-scientist to use the Alternate Reality Portal.

Something I have had floating through my head

"He was a drunken wanker. He was obnoxious, hadn't showered in days, and managed to smell like pickle juice for whatever reason. I wanted to punch him right in his squidgy face, pull his shirt over his head, and give him a titanic wedgie. But I couldn't. He was me. Number 37, to be exact. Violent acts against onesself in other realities is punishable by a hefty fine and time in the Public Sarcasm Booth. The public is not funny, and mixes sarcasm with ironic punishment too frequently. Having endured this punishment once already to my chagrin, I had to think of other options. I So I bought him a scotch, shook his hand and stole his car keys so he couldn't drive home." --Gus

Just for fun. No updates on my novel, aside from massive amounts of research being done, and questioning how far I want to take my story, knowing that it will end up being so remarkably controversial.

Anyways, there you go. Huzzah!

Chapter 4. Some of it.

I'm hoping people don't mind that I'm tossing them unedited stuff. Anyways, Enjoy!

Zach : April 8^th, 2010

The sound of wings buffeting, swords clashing, the smell of flame, the taste of sulfur, the bright flares of intense powers at work pummeled his senses, overwhelming his confused thoughts.

I’m dreaming again, Zach thought to himself as he tried to get his bearings. Overhead, winged creatures made of shadow flung themselves at angels wearing glittering golden plated armor from wing to toe. The sky was a mix of gray and red, dirtying the sun’s rays that attempted to penetrate the chaos. It’s always the same dream.

Ahead of him, the battle raged. Hundreds of angels on the other side, all wearing the same glittering armor, doing battle with the shadowy legion that stood in front of him. Flames erupted from the ground on both sides, magma shooting into the air, spraying both forces with molten earth, as if the earth itself was angry at what was happening on its fragile skin. Bolts of lightning erupted from the sky, flashing brilliant hues of unnatural color as they splashed into the armies.

Lodged in the narrow valley between towering peaks, each force had little room for maneuvering. Flanking was not an option and neither was going around the mountains that went on for hundreds of miles.

The only way any side would win was by brute force, to push the other into retreat, and crush the other force into submission.

His forces had been pushed back into the long gorge. His army needed this victory. Too long had he met one devastating defeat after another demoralizing defeat. He needed to win this one, or it was all over.

He looked down at himself, admiring the dull gray plate armor that was forged in such a way as to be a mockery to the opposite side’s glittering golden abomination they called protection. He reflexively reached for the sword at his waist, placing his hands around the softened leather hilt, comforted by its cold feel.

To his right stood his right-hand, his brother. He wore the simplest of armor, preferring loose, flowing crimson robes. He had always marveled at how his brother controlled the elements, moving in a rhythmic flowing pattern as he weaved destructive patterns into the air. He suspected his brother wore the robes for dramatic effect, as it seemed to enhance the swirling and patterns he created from thin air.

The battle was not going his way. A section of golden angels had managed to form a wedge deep into his forces’ holding line. His side was losing the aerial battle as well, judging by the increasing number of angels landing to join the battle on the ground. The inevitable appeared more likely as his forces continued to lose ground. He looked at his brother, who sadly nodded, knowing the question before it was even asked.

He sighed, lifted the brass horn to his lips, and blasted two notes that ordered the retreat. Immediately they turned and began making their way opposite of the battle, looking to escape while they had time.

I don’t escape, he thought to himself. The golden cherubs manage to force their way through the lines, led on by their glorious leader.

“I have seen this too many times to count,” he whispered to himself. To his surprise, his brother turned to him, his dark eyes flaring with intensity.

“You were always too brash,” his brother sadly whispered back. “You didn’t heed my warning that when God gets pissed, his wrath towers over anything you can possibly imagine. We both paid an awful price for our betrayal that day.”

An alarm went off in his mind. This had never happened before, in any of the previous dreams. His brother never talked in any of the previous dreams. Panic gripped his chest. This should not be happening.

“Why are you talking?” he shakily queried. “You have never talked before. Is this a different dream?” His brother laughed.

“I have these same ‘dreams’ as well, but they are not dreams as you think they are. They are memories. You are remembering.”

“That’s not possible. I-“

“You are not what you think you are,” his brother softly said as he stepped close. “The real dream you are in is the other life you lead.” His brother reached up and kissed his forehead. “I will find you again, and soon we will be reunited. Now, you must wake up before His forces kill you.”

With that, his brother turned around and walked away, leaving Zach befuddled.

And nervous. Very, very nervous.

The sound of church bells interrupted the dream as his alarm welcomed him back to reality. Zach groggily swung out of his bed and turned off the gratingly annoying alarm.

“7 am is far too damn early,” he said to himself as he rubbed the sleep from his amber eyes and scratched his hairless chest as he meandered over to his bathroom. After relieving himself, he came back into the rest of his studio apartment, greeted by his black tabby cat meowing for breakfast.

“Morning Jericho,” Zach smiled as he picked up his purring cat, scratching under its chin before setting it down. He picked up his stereo remote, turned it to news radio and headed towards his small kitchen to make coffee and prepare Jericho’s breakfast of choice.

“-no llamas were harmed, despite the horrendous fire,” the reporter on the radio spouted. “In International news, isolated and unidentified reports coming out of Australia-“

Zach ground the fresh coffee with one hand as he scooped some dry cat food into Jericho’s bow, washing out the stereo for a few seconds.

“-Prime Minister issued a strong warning against any such actions, even as the newcomer, whose name we have not discovered yet despite our best efforts, continues to peacefully unite villages and cities behind his banner. As I had mentioned, reports are sketchy at best-“

Zach walked over to his bathroom again and turned on the shower, waiting for the water to get hot.

“The dangerous political situation threatens to bring down the peace and prosperity Australia has had for so many years. The shock of it all is how quickly it has occurred. Keep your dial here, on 580 Vegas News for all updates as they happen. On other news, President Obama held a rally in support of his plan to-“

Zach hopped into the tiny shower. When he got done cleaning himself, the news was still rattling on about President Obama’s struggling poll numbers. Talking heads for both parties were yammering on in their pretentious ways about how they were right, and their opponent was dead wrong. Zach had always wondered if it were better to have political pundits duel it out in a gladiator’s arena. The thought of Sean Hannity wearing gladiator armor and holding a gigantic 2-handed axe, facing off against Keith Olbermann, who sported his own armor and wielding a long spear, to fight to the death brought a smile to Zach’s unblemished, sharply angled face as he dried his short black hair and put his work clothes on his lightly tanned, scrawny and scraggy frame.

Zach had two jobs: His first job was the day shift manager at a locally owned, mom-and-pop fast food joint in Henderson, Nevada. The owner had run the place for many years before, lovingly cooking the highest quality burgers and french fries. The place reminded Zach of a time forgotten in American culture, where patience was a virtue in life and cooking, and those who upheld that virtue were rewarded in their lives and taste buds. Shakes that towered over the edge of the cups, sloppily spilling their contents down the side; tater sticks (which were essentially flattened tator tots, but far superior in taste) served with homemade fry sauce (ketchup, mayo, and secret spices;) chili burritos and corn dogs, vanilla cokes, hamburgers served on lightly flavored buns that barely fit into the wrappers designed for such things; to Zach, it was worth the mediocre pay to work at a place that sat on the edge of extinction in American society, and to help that place thrive and succeed against such odds seemed so pure to him.

Zach’s second job was at a guitar shop in Green Valley. He mainly worked there for the discounts on guitar swag, and it was entertaining to meet the occasional local rock band that was trying to make it big. Today he had to work at both. One of his primary duties was to get down to the restaurant and cook all of the day’s bacon. Dressed in his work jeans, stained black t-shirt and Harley Davidson boots, he turned off the radio, wished Jericho the best, and left his apartment.

Zach lived in a dirty, run-down forgotten-about apartment and studio complex just outside Henderson. No one there had nice cars, not because they couldn’t afford it, but the fear of having anything nice in such a shithole get stolen drove away any thoughts of owning quality cars, televisions and furniture.

Zach owned a 1989 Honda Civic hatchback. It was a rusty red-or rusted red, depending on what part of the car you were talking about. It had more miles than Mellville’s Moby Dick had words. Every couple days he had to re-tighten the distributor, or the car wouldn’t start. On the plus side, there were no car payments, allowing Zach to live in such a pristine part of town. He thought about looking at other places to live where you could own possessions worth holding onto, but for reasons he couldn’t divine, something in the back of his mind told him this was the perfect place for him at that moment in time.

He unlocked his car, backed out into the numerous potholes that were efficiently placed near parking stalls, and stuttered off to work.

Chapter three. At least some of it.

As promised, some of chatper three. Rough edit, of course. I don't even know if I've done a grammar check, but, whatever.

Enjoy!

The emotionally shattered assembly of people who came to pay their respects to Daniel’s life and remains trudged along the burnt red ground of Redrock Canyon, surrounded by a sere sagebrush landscape. Dark copper tones draped the rocks in a furious homage to the molten rock that formed them millions of years ago. The mountains were flanked by a partly cloudy sky, sending intermittent flashes of light to flare the colors in the canyon to even brighter hues.

Maggie was chosen to spread Daniel’s ashen remains on top of the sea of rusted crimson dust and sand, surrounded by Daniel’s family and the few friends he had: Maggie, his mother Catherine, Daniel’s boss, John, a few of Daniel’s co-workers, and some friends Daniel had made over the years of being sober.

Daniel, you bastard, Maggie thought to herself as she dabbed a tissue into her face. Why did you do it? You’ve left too many questions behind. So many things I wish I could ask you. She had worked so hard to turn around his life, to make him understand that life was more than just drugs and self-loathing. The realization that a good portion of her life the last three years had been spent working with Daniel increased the aching. The email she received minutes before his death was just as troubling, for reasons she hadn’t had time to look into yet. Walking along the dusty ground, Maggie pondered over her relationship with Daniel. Seeing Daniel’s mother a few steps ahead created waves of memories, nearly flooding Maggie’s senses as she meandered along the trail.

Maggie had grown up with Daniel. When Sharon, Maggie’s mother, packed up her things and left her father’s cheating heart, she took her six year old daughter with her and moved away from the sprawling Hell that was Phoenix and landed in Henderson, an urban hub of Las Vegas. Renting a fairly moderate home, Sharon worked two jobs to support her and her daughter, working at a local burger joint in downtown Henderson, and cashiering at Wal-Mart during the occasional evening and weekends. No matter how hard things were for them, Maggie remembered Sharon never asked for monetary assistance from anyone. Maggie was very proud of her mother, and her independent nature came about from watching her mother survive, adapt and thrive against all odds.

What Sharon did need help with was finding some place for Maggie to stay while she worked. At the time, Henderson had a predominantly Mormon population. Sharon took advantage of this and used her time at church to create social networks with other families who sympathized with her situation and were happy to take care of Maggie while Sharon flipped burgers and took people’s cash for cheap plastic crap. One of those families was the Redcliffe family. Catherine Redcliffe quickly became a second mother for Maggie without any hesitation. Catherine and her husband, James, had one child; Daniel, a shaggy-haired blonde six year old who was happy to share his toys with a girl. Within weeks of first meeting each other, Maggie and Daniel became inseparable, riding their bikes together, skinning their knees together, and snitching pecan sundries from the pantry together.

Maggie remembered when thunderstorms would strike during later summer, causing severe flooding and power outages, she would sit in Daniel’s room with a flashlight, and attempt to land Daniel’s various baseball caps and hats on each other’s heads. Even when the power came back on, they would continue the silly game.

Sharon also improved her financial situation, taking night classes at UNLV in teaching. By the time Maggie and Daniel moved onto B. Mahlon Brown Junior High School together, Sharon was teaching at their previous institution of learning, Robert Taylor Elementary. Maggie and Daniel continued their friendship throughout Junior High and High School. As Maggie neared the age of sixteen, she began to wonder if their friendship could become something more substantial.

Then, like a plot twist one doesn’t see coming in a mystery movie, the unthinkable happened. On Monday, March Twenty-Seven, The Year of our Lord Two Thousand, James Redcliffe was involved in a severe motor vehicle accident. He died on the scene.

Maggie remembered crying for hours with Daniel. After all, James and Catherine played as much a part of raising Maggie as her own mother had. She told herself she would be there for her friend. After the funeral, however, Daniel became increasingly distant from Maggie and Catherine. He would run away for days and then reappear out of the blue, clearly on some sort of drugs. Maggie was heartbroken. She wanted to help him so much, but she couldn’t come to grips with how to control Daniel’s growing anger at nearly everything. Catherine put Daniel in therapy, but he wanted nothing to do with it.

James’ death shattered Daniel’s psyche into unrecognizable shards of glass, each one more disturbing than the next. Maggie felt helpless, and eventually she stopped talking to him on the rare occasions Daniel went to school. Their paths separated completely after graduating.