Jack P Rocket-Man Chronicle, REV.08.
Jack P Rocket-Man is ONLY FICTION. No warranties expressed or implied.
“I’ll make my walking like my breathing … And my breathing like my walking … Around the wall that never was …” Richard Schamach, Songwriter, Eden’s Children, 1968.
REM: We lost that “Khabiru Thread” …
JPRM: Temporarily. I followed my own advice and dug deeper. Julian Jaynes penned an influential yet controversial thesis. The reactions ranged from praise to damnation, but no death threats that I am aware of. Unlike this guy: Salman Rushdie. An academic-type, Thomas Forster had this to say about Jayne’s work.
So: back to the enigmatic visitors from that black private jet and their little get-together with Mister Director at the THT International Airport, year 2003. I named them Angela, Gracie, Karl, and Slim. Apparently they were a close-knit bunch, and individual names was a novelty they enjoyed while spending time with earth people.
Angela and Gracie were sweethearts; Engineering and Public Relations respectively. That left Slim, who was seated next to Mr. Director, and my new pal Karl, the E.T. Mesmerist. Directors Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, and Stanley Kubrick would enjoy Karl, he was a true artist.
That morning Karl made his presentation to Mr. Director and me, within the hidden room at the THT International Airport. Karl, also known as Visitor Three, was a master illusionist. He uttered not one single word. His drama was of images, scents, sounds, and sensations.
William Blake, Eighteenth-century English painter and mystic, would have enjoyed Dark Karl …
What happened that day in the Six-Point-Five hidden room? Why was I suddenly pounding, descending clockwise a hundred feet down much-treaded wooden planks toward the vigorously drumming ancient Roman Arch doorway? My fellow Rent-A-Cop and third shift supervisor Mickey Rodriguez hadn’t brought me in this route!
Worse yet, the incrementally yielding portal was hidden, disguised, at the bottom of a trade mecca fabricated less than a half-century ago … That arch doorway was grinding, flexing, giving way … to what forces?
Yessir … buddy Silent Karl had hijacked my body, mind, and soul. He lit a supernatural bonfire beneath my derrière … and propelled me downward along with that peculiar mystery Machine! I now realized the Machine was my complimentary gift for signing up with “Hell-Cruises!”
The Machine, like a multi-purpose tool whose talents included hand-warming, shape-shifting, and multilingual-net-meetings, began vibrating, like that day I was remodeling the house, trimming wallpaper around live AC Outlets with a metal X-ACTO knife. My shoulders ached, my ears rang …
A Katana, Samurai Sword, the Machine had become! I figured it weighed approximately three and a half pounds, being accustomed to lifting iron weights, sledgehammers, and other assorted weird and random hardware pieces for exercise. The momentum felt dynamic, and complementary to my life-force.
Scent of stone, dirt and ancient wood from the dark tower pit, accented the tang of edgy carbon steel along with a trace of disturbingly familiar copper.
I perceived three meshed scenarios, a modern air terminal, the dank coarse stuccoed tower, with both overlayed by red carmine mist like an ocean dawn. Karl had punched my ticket; I couldn’t find the kill-switch. I soon would.
The thick arched door quit. It popped the iron latch, swivelling on massive, incongruously silent hinges. No doorstop! Bang! Four strangers piled in comedically. If four hyperactive cave-men with thick wooden staffs was considered amusing. They looked as surprised as I was, sweating and bulging their eyeballs.
They were dressed in tunics of black over white short sleeves. Two rows of two, a now familiar count and arrangement. With hallucinatory calm I evaluated the first front surging forward. The door-battering crew was male. How I knew, I don’t know. Thick forearms of tanned flesh, prominent sinew, ample vascularity. They were steel sculpture, alive.
Office Jockeys these boys were not. A half hour three times weekly at the local health club will not alone effect that kind of athleticism and functional strength. I knew well that power; do not pick a fight with tradesmen, roofers, framers, bricklayers.
With tunics and shirts, they wore ankle-length dark trousers and duty oxfords with thick soles that looked conspicuously modern. The four seemed familiar, even though their garb suggested pissed-off penguins in black shoes. As if they were a bridge, a missing link between earth people: Homo sapiens sapiens, and those matte-black alien dudes upstairs: Karl and Company.
The air outside the now opened door was pitch black, and smelled of bog, decaying plant material, and that fresh liquid tar that used to get put on top of rural dirt roads back in the mid twentieth-century.
They were coming at me with the staffs, four on one. Until that day I had never owned a sword, let alone trained with one, especially this one, alive and willful. It was, after all … the Machine.
I had read Miyamoto Musashi, the seventeenth-century Samurai, a professional dueler with reportedly sixty kills:
“The Way of strategy is the Way of nature. When you appreciate the power of nature, knowing rhythm of any situation, you will be able to hit the enemy naturally and strike naturally.”
Musashi’s follow-up stressed intention to cut the enemy, and not cowering. I didn’t want to die, Louise was waiting for me at home. I hadn’t shaved and there were holes in my socks. Like I said, that security job didn’t pay crap.
The Machine-Katana and I cut the four attackers down. Like the upstairs black jet visitors, the Machine and I meshed, celebrated, triumphed. It felt good.
I was at Floor-One, inspecting a battered door which, except for the broken latching hardware, was pretty much solid. The hinges had remained true and worked precisely.
As I caught my breath, I noticed that the tower’s primary illumination originated from an aperture that was part of the curved chamber wall, and formed a large D-shaped slot.
The light below was steady, smooth, tungsten-colored, like those spiral flourescent lightbulbs the manufacturer called “soft white,” but were not. I contemplated the entry to the basement. Hardware department? Spare door latching pieces and fasteners?
It was pitch black outside and every bit as frigid as when I was out ther earlier that morning: prior to Visitor Three, Karl the Illusionist, transforming my world into a horror flick.
The Katana had not yet reverted. Blood dryed brown upon laminated carbon steel. I was heading down toward Floor-Zero, the basement, in search of door-repair materials, maybe a wrench and a screwdriver …
I began pushing the door shut, couldn’t see a damn thing outside. The wind was picking up. My imperfect hearing detected a flurry of background activity, more random than the mounting breeze …
I shined my duty light into the blackness, which initiated scuffling, voices, fearful snatches in a strange tongue. Running? Pure harmonic speech tones of youth … children?
I pushed the thick door shut.