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!

Part XXXVIII - Premonitions of Possible Psychosis

Buzzing, always buzzing, it drilled into his head, never relented. the pounding, driving buzzing, buzzing...

"Hey, relax, that's what you get when you're a mosquito."

"But you can stop can't you... You're worse than a bad radio transmission!"

"Bug brain, it's what we do! We buzz, that's what happens when our wings move, and there's no way around it. The only way not to buzz is to pull your wings out."

"Then stop flapping!! I want to listen to the fucking radio without you sounding like a bad transmission."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm on the ground, not flapping. You're the one hovering."

"Oh... Never mind." The killer mosquito tuned in his favourite radio station - RTC (Republican Termination Corporation). The fuzz cleared and the News blared from the speakers.

"Motel demolished in an ISO hit today trying to neutralize the infamous drug fiend Moon Runner Hendrix. Sources close to ISO headquarters were quoted as saying that they would be providing the funding to have the hotel rebuilt."

"Great, they don't say which hotel..."

"I wonder if they broke any mirrors?"

"My God!! That would mean seven decades of bad luck!"

The one mosquito looked at the other. "You been injecting bad Dacron again?"

"Our reporters in England have stated that the British Parliament has been all but levelled, killing most of the Politicians. Margaret Thatcher is rumoured to have escaped to Zimbabwe for further persecution," came the second news story.

"Well that's nice."

"Finally, sources say that the universe is gradually being woven into a pretzel shape by two young men in the suburbs. Now, fashion news."

The first mosquito flipped the radio off. "I can't listen to fashion news, it's too upsetting. So, got any beer?"

"Sorry, man, the last camel just died."

"I thought they were stolen?"

"When?"

"A week ago."

"Who toldja that?"

"It was in the paper."

"Oh, then it must be true. I guess I was hallucinating them for the last week."

"Hallucinating what?"

"The camels and the beer, you twit."

"What camels and beer?"

The second mosquito looked at the first. "You're a simp."

"Hey, I just don't remember any camels and beer - just a lot of stale religion."

"What, was Jerry Falwell on a camping trip near here?"

"No, he's homeless."

"Ooh! I knew things were tough, but this sounds really heavy."

"He's also being prosecuted by the New Messiah soon; it was in all the tabloids."

"Oh come on, the New Messiah wouldn't bother with small sardines like that. He's much more worried about seriously religious folks, like Jon Bon Jovi."

"I guess," and with that the first bug turned the radio back on to hear Larry King interviewing the ghost of Jimmy "Steamin'" Hoffa.

"So how do you find it being soaked through with oil?"

"Actually, you don't notice it so much after a while, but it comes flooding back every time I go near Yellowstone."

"Hey, Smokey the Bear would probably like to talk to you."

PART XXXVII - HOW DO YOU GET THIS THING OUTTA FIRST, ANYWAY?

The engine screamed as they drove through the desert. The Wanderer winced as the noise pierced his skull. Glancing at the speedo, he double-took.

"Hey, Ed!" he screamed over the engine's howl. "How come we're only doin’ thirty?"

"I dunno. Lessee, parking brake's not on... say, what's this stick with the numbers do?"

"Push it and see what happens!"

Ed pushed the shift into fourth gear, and the car sank as the wheels tore into the pavement. The speedo hit 120, and both Ed and Wanderer felt like a Fruit Roll Up stuck to the vinyl seats. Wanderer said, "The seat's bonding with the skin of my back!"

They looked at each other and yelled in unison, "Head rush!!!"

"Well, the four makes it go faster."

"Try the five."

Ed shifted again, and they were soon rocketing through the Nevada desert at some speed that didn't register on the speedometer or the tachometer.

Zooming past a radar trap, the stealth wasn't in sight for more than 2 seconds. Officer Randy put down his coffee and looked over to Officer Perry, "What do you suppose that was?"

Perry watched the dust settle, "Must be those Mexican killer bees going into Utah."

"Is speeding illegal for insects?"

"I dunno. You wanna try'n explain it to the Chief?"

They went back to their newspapers and donuts.

"Hey Ed!" - still screaming over the engine.

"Yeah, what?"

"There'sa red light coming up!"

"Must be Reno! Which of these stupid pedals is the friggin brake?"

"Here!" Wanderer screamed as he yanked on the parking brake lever.

Several citizens of Reno Nevada reported seeing some kind of UFO cart wheeling through an intersection at a barely subsonic speed.

When the car finally landed on its wheels like a cat, there they were - Vegas!

"Whoa!" Wanderer cleared his ears. "Hey, we're here!"

"Where's here?"

"The Burning Sands Hotel. C'mon, let's see if Moon Runner's here yet."

"Oh, yay," muttered Ed.

Inside the hotel, was the ancient blues bar - "My Daddy's Dead."

They walked in to be confronted by a scattering of stuffed animals that are now extinct, many pictures of the falls of ancient civilizations, and mosaic floor tiles in a skull and cross bones motif. A small blues band had hung themselves on stage, and the bar tender was trying to make short work of himself with a broken bottle. The tender looked up when they walked in.

"Oops, customers..." the bartender stuffed the broken bottle under a towel and approached the new patrons. "Can I get you guys anything to drink?"

Ed and wanderer glanced over the menu.

Arsenic $3.50

Liquid Drano (with no liquid) $4.75

eye-o-caine and tonic $7.25

Saliva of Cobra $3.10

Lace of LSD $99.25

Cyanide $4.15

Crack $75.12

Hopper of Hydrochloric $12.50

Extract of Hemlock $19.25

Bites of Black Widow $12.95

Hit of lead pipe (free refills) $18.25

"This place is kinda dead," frowned Ed.

"Yeah, and the prices are a little steep. I'll have a Hemlock. What are you gonna have - I don't suggest the Drano."

"Ahh, Got any water?"

The tender looked up with a smile, "I like a man who lives dangerously!"

The drinks slid down the bar to them and the hemlock was a clear substance with a white cloud drifting through it. Ed's water was opaque, foaming and held a constant temperature of 210 degrees.

Ed looked at Wanderer. "So, you and Moon Runner meet here often?"

"Yeah, we like the atmosphere, nice and cheery. Drink up, its good for you."

Ed eyed his drink and waited for Wanderer to start. Wanderer swallowed his drink in a big gulp and said, "That hits the spot."

Moon Runner and Music Man walked up and sat at the bar.

"Hey Moon! It's been a while."

"Good to be back at the old stomping grounds, Kimo Sabe. Your friend hasn't touched his water."

Ed sat at the end of the bar blowing furtively on his drink to try and cool it down, but it was very persistent. "This shit must be out of a Romanian nuclear plant!"

"Yeah," the bar tender said as he gave Moon Runner a cage of spiders and Music Man several hundred hits of acid, "I've got an exclusive supply."

"Congratulations." Ed blew on the water again. It chuckled at him.