PART XLIII - GREEN MEN on TRAMS

The Nameless One jr hopped on the street car with about fifty green fuzzy men. The car started along the Martian Canal.

"Where to, kid?" the driver telepathed.

"Uh, the place where... where my father is..."

"And where might that be?"

"Don't you know?"

"Maybe. Does he have a name?"

"No."

"Right, kid. What's your name?"

"I don't have one... cos, I'm the Nameless One jr."

"I see. Dad would be the Nameless One then?"

"Right."

"Well, I don't happen to know where he might be, or even who he might be."

"He once told me that no matter where you are... You're always here."

"On Mars?"

"No... Where you are?"

"On Mars."

"No. It's hard to explain."

"It's not easy to listen to, either."

"Yeah... well, will you help me find my Dad?"

"Look, kid, I got a job to do. I can take you to the station."

"Okay."

"Fine. The fare's a fuzzy bottle cap."

The Nameless One jr reached into his pocket. "What colour fuzz?"

"I like red, myself."

"Here."

"Thanks." The driver ate the bottle cap and left for the station.

Nameless One jr. moved to the back of the street car. He sat down between two rather large Martians. One looked at him with 12 of his 74 eyes and felt the need to stare. The other had a huge hole in the top of his head and no mouth below the nose. He didn't seem well liked since other riders threw scrap paper and garbage into this hole. He never moved though.

"Excuse me... have any of you... seen my father?"

The Martians wiggled their fingers. A mini TV popped out of the ceiling and said, "I can help you, but I need to be cleaned first."

"Oh.... how much ya pay me?"

"I won't flood your body with cancerous rays."

"Oh. Okay." The Nameless One jr began cleaning the TV.

"The Nameless One is currently under the surface of the planet, investigating some strange machinery. It is impossible to reach him because some Syrius mercenaries are holding the elevators hostage."

"But, why?"

"They want all vertical tunnels to be freed of obstructions."

"But why?"

"Because they are stupid."

"But Why?"

"Genetic deficiencies and a bureaucratic education system. Thank you for the cleaning. This unit is now going off line." The TV disappeared into the ceiling.

Nameless One jr. got off the transport at the station in Kornoch on the west side. There he purchased an environment suit, and started toward the tunnels that would take him below the surface.

Nameless One jr. climbed over the rocks and dunes. One of the shafts came into sight and he picked up his pace. He approached a group of mercenaries of which he knew nothing. This should surprise no one, since the Nameless One jr didn't actually know much of anything.

They came from one of the northern regions that was designated for the original settlers of the area, and really only knew how to fight. They were not very educated, and most of them suffered from nervous distention. This didn't start until a blender was accidentally left within their camp. Many of them spent endless hours trying to teach it how to flatulate with the confidence of an Ooorg and blame it on somebody else in the room. They were truly barbarians.

The Nameless One jr. walked up and said, "Do you know where my father is?"

The mercenaries looked at each other, shrugged, and pulled out their clubs. The Nameless One jr. shrugged and picked up the ground, rolled it up over them, and turned it into a beach ball and bounced them down the tunnel.

After a while, the Nameless One jr. got tired of dribbling them, and he left the ball on a boulder. The boulder got hungry and ate the ball, but got indigestion and exploded in twenty years. The boy didn't know about this, and he kept looking for his father.

PART XLII - DARKNESS DESCENDS on the DARK ONE and HE is LOST

Thunder roared. Lightning flashed. The castle shook and groaned in the storm. Everything was black.

The Dark One rummaged through the drawer. "The Thousand Hells of Mein Kampf, where did I put those damn matches?! Of all the times for the power to go out..."

From the darkness a voice asked, "Why does the Dark One need matches?"

"Because I can't see..."

"Hmmm. The Dark One can't see in the dark. Intriguing."

"I'm in the dark and you find it intriguing... who in Acheron are you?"

"You're avoiding the subject. How do you propose to solve your problems if you won't stick with them?"

The Dark One rummaged for his matches.

"It helps if you talk about these things," the voice said.

"Enough! Be gone!" The Dark One unleashed his full power on the voice. He went back to the drawer.

"That was hardly a friendly or trusting action. Are you aware of your hostility?"

"You fool, I AM hostility!"

"Very good! Go with that! How does this make you feel?"

"HOSTILE!" The Dark One attacked again, destroying the kitchen and igniting the lost matches. "ARRRGH!" He blasted the rubble away.

"Destruction comes easily for you," the voice said conversationally. "This indicates insecurity and underlying feelings of being threatened. I wonder what the root of that might be?"

The Dark One stalked off and bumped into a wall.

"Oohh, silent treatment. Predictable, I'm afraid, and only really effective if I need your responses..."

"Cut the pop psychology, you... whatever you are."

"Ah, that's where you are wrong."

"Silence! I know amateur analysis when I hear it."

"You didn't really expect something deep, did you? Consider what I have to work with..."

"I would destroy you if I could but see!"

"You are doubly blind, and your threat is empty."

"Why?"

"In order to be destroyed, I must first exist."

"If you don't exist, why am I talking to you?"

"Perhaps you should ask your analyst. I'm not in a position to comment, or do anything else for that matter."

"You were just analyzing me damnit! Now you can't comment?"

"I can't have been analyzing you. I don't exist. The logic should be clear, even to you."

"If you don't exist and I DO exist, how the hell can you be talking to me?"

"Who says I'm talking? Are you hearing voices?"

"I'm hearing you whatever, the hell you are."

"My, aren't you pig headed. Why do you persist in asking me questions when I am not real?"

"Because you wouldn't leave me alone."

"But you are alone."

"I can't be sure in the dark!"

"Well, then, let's shed some light on the subject." A lit candle floated out of the darkness.

"Why didn't I think of that? Now if you aren't real and don't exist how can you create a candle?"

"I didn't. The candle was in your dining room."

"How did you light it?"

"Who says I did?"

"Who lit the damn candle?"

"I can't really say, since I'm not real."

"You are a pest!"

"Who are you talking to?"

"Mister non-existent..."

"Oh. Is he present?"

"Fuck off."

"That would be quite a feat, considering."

"Just leave me alone!"

"You already know my answer to that. You really must try to get a grip. It isn't normal to talk to candles."

"Just don't talk to me anymore. Ok?"

"I wasn't talking to begin with."

"What were you doing?"

"I am nothing, therefore I was doing nothing."

"Well if you.... Wait a minute, you are just my imagination! I can't believe I've been arguing with my friggin’ imagination!"

"Ah, progress, but unfortunately incorrect."

"Progress to what end?"

"Well, if you're going to solve your problems, you must face them, right? They won't solve themselves."

"You are a problem and I can't face you."

"Look on the bright side. At least you're aware of your limitations."

"I make limitations. I don't adhere to them!"

"A healthy attitude if I've ever heard one. But of course one must be aware of one's limitations to break them. I think you'll find many of your problems will disappear if you face your inner troubles."

"If you don't exist, you couldn't have a healthy attitude."

"True. But we weren't discussing my attitudes. You're evading the problem again."

"You don't have any attitudes. You DON'T exist."

"Exactly, which makes yelling at me pointless. At any rate, it was your attitudes we were discussing. Do you think them out, or are they raw?"

"You keep saying we! There is only me! I can't discuss anything with myself!"

"That is most discouraging. A good internal dialogue is essential to mental health. Besides, haven't you heard of the Royal We?"

"You can't be discouraged!!!"

"I'm not. I said it was discouraging, I didn't say to whom."

"I'm not talking anymore..."

"Evasion again. If you can't even deal with a non-existent voice, how do you intend to defeat Smith or the AIs? You are crippling yourself from the start."

The Dark One started to whistle and ignore the voice. He blew the candle out in the process. "Shit."

"Brilliant suggestion. You know very well I can't do that."

"What do you non-want, anyway?"

"Nothing, of course. However, if you pay closer attention to yourself, you can probably catch Moon Runner."

"What?! How?!"

PART XLI - ROUND TWO

The Messiah's glared at each other, refusing to blink. The New Messiah said, "I've got you now." He grew a third eye in the middle of his forehead.

"That's good, now you've got three eyes you have to keep from blinking. Give it up, kid. The tricks won't work."

"Really? And on the second day, God created laughing gas." A thick vapor filled the air between them.

"Old hat, kid. I'm immune."

"Why do we just let the world go to pot anyway?"

"It's not a case of `let'. It's more like trying to keep the fall controlled, stop things from really seriously crashing..."

"What are you, a cosmic janitor?"

"How'd you figure?"

"That's a hell of a caretaker mentality you got."

"Hey, if I just went out and made everything work properly, the changes would mind boggle the whole population. Nothing's perfect."

"What's wrong with boggling a few minds? How many people aren't confused as it is? And, while we're at it, who decided nothing's perfect?"

"Well, it would redefine everything that they take as being 'trivial' and name me one thing that is perfect."

"I'm not saying anything is perfect. I just want to know who made everything imperfect. Somebody's trying to keep everyone's expectations low. I want to know who and why."

"If you expect too much, you will get let down every time."

"So just to be sure you make everyone expect too little? But what I'm really after is who is going to do the letting down. And don't try to tell me that's just the way things are; save that for the mortals. Somebody up here made things this way. The `Life Sucks' argument doesn't wash, cus it's you folks who made it suck. Why? The audience out there wants to know, pal, and so do I."

The Audience stirred, and the sweat was rolling down the old Messiah's face from the bright lights and TV cameras.

"Hey, we can't be responsible for all of it. People have created a lot of it on their own. They do have free will you know. God doesn't project thoughts and actions on the masses."

"Fair enough, but all the losers out there didn't fuck up their lives in a vacuum. You guys provided the background, you guys made a lot of the rules. That's the shit they have to work with. Sure, the skill they're using sucks the big banana, but you guys gave'em the defective materials that encouraged'em to say, `Hey, it's not my problem.' Let's have some accountability here. What the fuck were you thinking?"

"Accountability? We gave them 10 goddamn rules to work from and a few myths on how the heck we got here just to get them started. They created monetary systems and marketing and government bureaucracy and social levels and all that other crap. The ten rules were pretty simple, but people seemed to develop a hierarchy of an individuals ability to follow them and then had the temerity to go and make up their fucking own rules!"

"Whoa, whoa, holding the fucking fax here! The Ten Commandments? When you drips wrote that, the Egyptian Empire was on its way down the cess pool, the Assyrians were something everyone was trying to forget, and the Sumerians had built a city something in the neighbourhood of two thousand years earlier. First principles, dip shit! Bear in mind that humanity started screwing up straight out of the box - that sounds like a manufacturing defect to me. Six Sigma my ass!"

"We didn't provide any guidance to them back then. All these little factions running around with 101 gods for everyday of the week. It's very hard to organize that kind of thing into a single god theory. You have to learn 145 languages and spread yourself pretty thin back then to try and get the Egyptians, Aztecs and who knows what was running around in the heart of Africa."

"Don't ask me who was in the heart of Africa. I thought you were there. Anyway, you're still not going back far enough. Think back. Waaaay back, before the Tower of Babel, before the Flood, all the way to that first little flower garden with the snake problem. Better yet, how about the chimp stage. Why didn't you take out the bugs then?"

"That whole flower garden thing was a story - a myth for my sake! It was to give people a sense of their origins."

"A myth to give them a sense of their origins. That's fucking great. Just shown up on earth and what happens? Their God, the one thing they're supposed to trust, gives'em some cock-eyed bullshit about where they came from instead of leveling with'em and saying, `Look, you're a hairless monkey with a big brain for getting into real deep shit.' That's starting off well. Is it any wonder they screwed everything else up?"

"Oh, sure, like they would have believed the whole muck and mire story back then if they didn't discover it on their own. It was easier to say `sure we look similar to monkeys lets call it a lack of creativity OK?'"

"Y'know, this is the whole root of the problem. In their first few moments of existence, not only did you lie to them, but it wasn't even a very good lie. Next thing ya know, their off making wars and taking drugs and moping about in a monumental depression because nothing makes sense. Being a bad parent is one thing, but being a bad parent for a race is inexcusable. You're pathetic."

"Hey, we can't be there every second and watch over people. We provided enough to give them a shove into the world and look what they've done. We aren't molding their direction or dragging them toward a particular end. They are driving their own existence. If they can't learn when to wean themselves off of religion that is their problem. I think that science has produced enough answers and theories that they can let go of the whole creator thing."

"Lemme get this straight, Jesus Christ is telling the masses to forget religion and put their faith in the cold, rational, empty arms of science?"

"Tell me. What ego trip would God be on to need 6 billion people worshipping his every movement. People should lighten up a bit. The slaughtered sheep and sacrificed virgins were not what we were looking for and organized religion is a far cry from faith."

"Who said anything about organized religion? My point is that if you're going to create a race, you should take responsibility for them. Now, if you put the whole thing together as an experiment, fine. However, if you really don't want people to believe you exist, why did you set the fucking church up in the first place. You didn't have to show up as a Messiah, you know."

"Look, we tried to provide some guidance but the human creature was so fucking independent they still ran off in every direction possible."

"I think you're confused here, pal. One minute you're telling everybody to drop the religion thing, the next you're complaining that they worship every fucking thing under the sun except you. Just exactly what are you up to, pal?"

"I'm old and I'm giving up on humanity OK? Sure I'm out of a job but it's not like I get paid for my divinity. I just get paid to sit here and argue with you, alright?"

"Boy, talking about putting your foot through the illusion. So, can I have the job?"

PART XL - THE MOVE

Roger and Amber left the house; she made him go in the trunk for a pile of newspapers. Still dripping, he squished into the front seat and they left.

Once back at the apartment, Roger ran for the shower before the stench made him throw up. Too late. He had his shower, leaving the mess for one of the Supremes to clean up.

Later that afternoon, he sat down and read the inheritance letter again. He decided to call the lawyer to clear up some questions.

"Hello, Hooke, Klein and Sinclair, may I help you?" The sweet voice comforted Roger, but he still felt like this was going to cost him fifty bucks.

"Yes, my name is Roger Harpell, and I was wondering if I could speak to someone about my inheritance?"

"I'll put you through to Dee Hooke, he handles these matters..."

"Uh, Thank you," Roger said meekly, wondering how this group got any business.

After a long pause, he hoped that the man who invented the hold button was rotting in hell, and Roger continued to wait.

A raspy voice broke the silence. "Dee Hooke, can I help you?"

"Yes, It's Roger Harpell, I just inherited the Smith house..." He hoped that Dee would remember.

"Oh yes, fine man. What can I do for you?"

"Well, I was wondering if there was any information about a funeral for my uncle?"

"Uh, well no, there isn't."

"Why not?!" Roger asked. "With all his money, you would think he could have a great funeral."

"Well, actually, we haven't been able to find him for four years, so we had to declare him dead. We've had missing person reports go out and everything, but we still don't know where exactly he is."

"Oh, I see. That's all for now then. I'll talk to you later."

"Thank you for calling."

Sitting back, Roger thought about the conversation. Where was his uncle? Was he really dead? Glancing at his fake Rolex, Roger decided it was time for bed.

Slowly, the hours ticked by and Roger lay awake. His mind was on two things: The fact that his uncle might still be alive, and that the ceiling had to be re-plastered.

By morning, Roger had decided to move into the old house. He rented a moving van after having breakfast at the Olde Towne Cafe across the street. All his things were packed by mid-afternoon; being a student, he didn't have much, but he wasn't looking forward to carrying them down the trellis.

Consumed in thought, the drive to the house went quickly. Roger just piled his stuff in the cathedral hall and left it. Sitting in the kitchen, stretching out his aching back muscles, he started to wonder about the house. He thought about the episode in the bathroom. `This will be a challenge if the rest of the house is the same,' he thought. `It might kill me. It might have killed Uncle Sturmgosse.'

`Ah, fuck it. I'll return the truck tomorrow, then start on my Medieval English essay.'

Drifting into a light sleep, he dreamt of his childhood on drugs - it looked like a fried chocolate egg. Some guy kept asking if he had any questions. He did, but he didn't want to seem like an idiot.

He awoke late the next morning, with the sun shining through the stained glass above and a major headache. On the plus side, at least it had been demoted - yesterday's had been a Colonel headache. Squinting, Roger sat up and rubbed his neck. Scattered patterns in the marble mesmerized him. He pushed himself up with a grunt, then walked into the kitchen and considered food as an interesting change of diet.

Opening the fridge door revealed a skull with bamboo stakes arranged in what looked to be a crown.

Stepping back in shock, Roger's eyes darted left to a seven foot tall African headhunter standing in the archway. His shoulders were wider than a Mack truck. He did not move, did not blink; he stood and stared at Roger.

"Lose your head?" Roger asked politely.

There was no reply.

Roger wished the window was less than brick. Some nice thin glass would be good, or even Saran Wrap™. Brick was just a little more solid than was necessary, thank you very much.

As the headhunter stepped into the room, his spear glinted in the light. Leaving the fridge door open, Roger ran behind the table. The headhunter took the skull platter and placed it on the floor. Sitting cross legged in front of it, he motioned for Roger to come over.

"Me?"

Evidently, the headhunter was referring to him. Tough luck, that. Roger obliged cautiously, and sat across from the headhunter, who was staring into the face of the skull.

"Me Mantu," said the headhunter.

"Me Roger."

Mantu promptly put his hands down on the floor, and Roger did the same - it seemed the polite thing to do. They stared at each other. After a time, Mantu broke the trance and started to chant and roll his eyes. The eye sockets on the skull emitted rainbow coloured lights over Mantu's face. Their hands were pushed off the floor by a mysterious force, and everything around them turned into a glistening, wavering curtain of fluid. It floated around them and encapsulated them. When the sphere thinned, Roger and Mantu were sitting in a desert.

Roger stood up and felt dizzy, unreal, almost as though he was in a different world. He followed Mantu to a mine shaft and down into darkness. Proceeding by touch only, they walked until a dim, flickering light was visible ahead. When they arrived, an old man sitting by a fire stood to greet them.

"Howdy, howdy, come in, siddown. Have a cup o' me homebrew. It's an old fambly recipe, been wi' us fer generations. Secret's th' grubs in th' soil. Makes th' oak I ages it in tha' much sweeter... So, wha' brings you lads 'bout?" asked the old man, sitting down on his rock.

"We seek knowledge, old one," grunted Mantu.

Roger was surprised; he had been certain Mantu was a semi-mute.

"Ye do, do ye? Waaayell, old Zeke sure has collected a powerful amount a' that. What thar d'ye want ta know?"

"Well," said Roger, "I'd like to know where my uncle is."

"Yep, I bets ya do. So'd he, I reckon. Letcha in on a li'l secret. Ye knows that a li'l knowledge be a dangerous thing?"

"Yeah, I heard something to that effect."

"There's more to it, boy. It's na' just whatcha knows, it's also when ya knows it."

Roger nodded. "Okay... so... what's yer point?"

"Cain't tells ya where ol' Sturmgosse is. Too early. But don'tchou worry 'bout that. He'll turn up somewheres. Always does."

"How will I know?"

"When ya find 'im, yi'll know. Tain't what's in th' house, but what's outside. It's not th' rooms but the worlds what holds th'key. The worlds won't harm ya, jest test ya. An' the rooms ain't half as important as the corridors. The spaces between ya gots ta keep yer eyes on."

"Sounds like my undergrad philosophy class."

"Don't be so flip, ya whippersnapper, les' ya wants ta be flipped over."

"Uh, yeah. Anyway, how do I get around in my house?"

"Don't be askin me. Its yer house."

"Oh. Okay."

"Time to go now," said Mantu.

"Y'all c'n use the door over there," instructed Zeke.

Mantu and Roger stood up, thanked Zeke for the drinks, and passed through a heavy iron door. On the other side was the Cathedral Hall. They walked out of what Roger thought was the closet.

"Is it just me, or does this house have an odd..."

Mantu was gone.

"... Floorplan." Roger looked into the kitchen. The skull was gone too. He turned around and opened the door again. It was a closet. "Oh boy."

PART XXXIX - THE MEANING of SURREALITY

Kdamery pondered their purpose, and it vexed him. Their direction was no longer a mystery, but a deeper question buzzed in his brain; not where they were going, but why they were going there. Turning to the second Supreme, he asked, "Do you often think of Klaus?"

"Noo... No I don't... Why?"

"Boy, you handle a segue well."

Eat Ham and Cheese On Rye without Mustard!

"I try my best..."

"Sure, and you leave the rest unsampled. That's PA-thetic."

"I just don't think I need to sample the worst. I don't think you would even want to sample the worst..."

"Well it's better than making an entire song around them."

"Oh sure... Kick a guy when he's down and bring up that Van Halen thing again..."

"It's easier to kick you when you're down, considering the location of my legs."

"Let that be a lesson to you."

"What, another one?"

"Yes, damnit. Do you think about Klaus?"

"Who's Klaus?"

"I don't know. You brought him up, not me. I thought you meant the grounds keeper."

"I resent the implication that I regurgitated the grounds keeper."

"Then who else would have left that mess in the bathroom?"

Skippy knew someone was talking about him.

"Bathroom messer uppers, who else? Skinny Sidney?"

"Naw, I've known Skinny for a long time... He wouldn't do that."

"Okay, so we know the toaster didn't do it. What's on the agenda for the next Feminazi Fun Fest."

"Of course the toaster didn't do it - it burned down several parts ago. And I think the first event on the agenda is the wet bullet contest."

""

"Next is the shaved head rubbing..."

"Good, good. Now, onto the real Plot!"

And they lived.

Don't Achy Breakey Heart

O. K.

Place liver on skillet to avoid stones.

Sure, but worms don't have armpits either.

Buy today! Home enema kit with a flag pole.

New and Improved! The Breath Master!

Conclusiveness is next to devilness.

So the Daemons tap danced.

And the Demons square danced.

And the Dumb Ones Achy Breakey Hearted despite repeated warnings not to.

But don't take my word for it. There really is a Plot. See for yourself.

Still Going!