JPRM – R.09

Jack P Rocket-Man Chronicle, REV.09.

Jack P Rocket-Man is ONLY FICTION. No warranties expressed or implied.

“For the music is your special friend … Dance on fire as it intends … Music is your only friend … Until the end.” James Douglas Morrison, The Doors, 1967.

REM: Outside, in the darkness, you heard children. What children?

JPRM: Children of the sword. I had slain their family. I did not go out.

Tungsten light from the D-shaped opening along the wall of Floor-One radiated inside that place of stone, earth, bog, and wood. I gazed upon the remains of the four attackers which I and the Machine, transmuted into layered metal, ray skin, and silk, had rightfully killed. Were they men? Of Earth? Did they have souls?

My soul, my core, flowed bi-directionally into the Machine contained in my grip; drying blood merging into laminated carbon steel. The Machine and I were forever joined by battle. I thought of Louise; the Machine and I gazing into her eyes. Me sleeping beside her, with the Machine and the alarm clock on my night table.

Karl, the Third Visitor, was responsible! At minimum, an instigator and accomplice. The Visitors, and the freshly terminated attackers, were people: as much as New Yorkers and Fuegians are people. Which right now seemed not much at all.

I understood why I, Jack P Rocket-Man, preferred solitude. I realized cleaning that chamber would be a hassle.

My mind went back to Jaynes and his book, and to what extent his faux pas had unintentionally inflamed some readers, the dull ones. Specifically, the mention of “Khabiru.”

My interpretation, as engineer, eclectic, clown, and layman is: Jaynes was referring to the cultural changes stemming from the synergy of human interaction and random factors. We all were Khabiru, and gaining.

JPRM calls it shit luck … Check out Carl Sagan‘s “The Dragons Of Eden,” or Plato, Thoreau, et al., if you like complaining about ideas. Trouble is in the eye (or mind) of the beholder. Was the Machine and I the remedy?

REM: Did you have to clean that chamber in the dark tower?

JPRM: No. I didn’t return the way I came. Louise will say, from that morning, that I never completely returned at all. My rebuttal was I never was “all there” to begin with … settles it.

Final call for the “Khabiru.” I’ve read “The Origin of Consciousness …” by Jaynes three full times. I need to keep moving, but I’ll go back when I have more context.

Remember, “Dumb and Determined” is the JPRM Mission Statement. “Run What You Brung,” is my first corollary. My daughter-in-law pretends she thinks I’m smart! Imagine.

I’ve started on Carl Sagan’s “The Dragons Of Eden,” it’s about the  Triune Brain. Did you know Sagan passed away at 62? Interesting. Sad. Lots of really smart people just can’t handle the dumbness of the world. We all, as people, don’t know enough.

REM: You’ve been referring to yourself in the “third person …”

JPRM: Stress, primarily. Rough week. Louise thinks it’s manic-depression, JPRM considers the root cause to be advanced Schizophrenia. He”ll look it up on the Internet, buy a book. He needs to study.

I’m following  Jaynes’s Bicameralism, but it’s not the whole story. He didn’t say it was. For example, when I can’t sleep at night, is the Right-Brain keeping the Left-Brain up? I think so, but there’s more to this amateur psychiatry than, let’s say, sand-lot baseball …

Baseball is dangerous! Did I mention as a little boy I stepped on a rusty nail playing in a deserted lot, damn near died! No shit! Tetanus … Lockjaw … very bad.

How and why I didn’t have to clean up the deceased visitors from a time-warp, who happened to be wearing modern shoes, after using a Samurai Sword that reverts into a little titanium brick?  And it’s a phone, too! Here …

REM: No … thanks!

JPRM: Scaredy-Cat! The blood’s all gone; this was back in ’03! Sanitized it with that hand-cleaner too.

You want to know how I got back to 2003, without being charged for capital murder of those time-travelling, sun-blackened, hostile clans-people? From their perspective, I didn’t belong there. Karl, Visitor Three from the black jet that vanished, it was his fault. Alien or not, his ass was mine!

I told you the Roman Arch doorway yielded gracefully. It was thicker than a banker, or a politician, even. Nothing a bit of Restorz-it and elbow grease wouldn’t remedy! The hinges were pristine, smooth, but the latch-hardware must have been manufactured offshore. Good American people with no jobs.

I headed toward the portal that was part of the curved chamber wall, and was a large D-shaped slot. Another staircase, different. Newer technology. The rails looked like black iron, but thinner, denser. Higher quality. I’m not a metallurgist, but I’m guessing they were more carbon, less iron. An improved alloy.

What worried me more were the stair treads, I’m in a bit of a quandary now: what if the four corpses on that stone floor didn’t call home base, or whatever the hell Viking-E.T. Mutant-Warriors in Wolverine Boots are supposed to do? Someone will send more troops.

I’m entering that aperture with the steady golden light: like they are running mercury-filled “green” spiral fluorescents down there. Maybe LED’s, I’m hoping, that would cut their electric bill. Those stair treads coming down to Floor-One were older than my grandfather, deceased, and like him, they weren’t pretty. Bark pockets, unsound knots, cracks, pigeon crap …

The stairs to the basement, like the rails, were more advanced. Very black, thin, matte-finished wood. Ironwood, I think it’s called, not sure. The Aliens, black’s their favorite color.


The stairs went as far deep as the ones in the tower proper led up, where I desperately wanted to be: primarily to administer some serious whoopass on Visitor Three, buddy Karl. A hundred feet or more, then hopefully I’ll have the parts to fix the busted door latch, and … gone!

I’m headed to the Netherworld looking for American-Made door hardware circa Fourteenth-Century; secure that Roman Arch door, then return from whence I came: Floor-Six-Point-Five …

Go get a mortician, send him down there … not on MY TAB … clean things up.

Next, cement that tower stairway shut. Have some coffee and another Red Bull Energy Drink.



About Richard E & Mary L Marion

Independent Writers
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