LIVE – R015

“The syntactical nature of reality, the real secret of magic, is that the world is made of words. And if you know the words that the world is made of,  you can make of it whatever you wish.”

Terence Kemp McKenna, American Philosopher, 1946 – 2000

Vitor Weiss wished he was back with Angela Weiss at the Parrot Cove “Palace Of Light,” she called it. He had studied photochromic glass on the World Wide Web using Angela’s laptop PC. The shifting scenes which he and Aleister Parker watched, riveted, through the Corvette Grand Sport front windshield were much like peering through those eyeglasses which became dark when exposed to brightness… Except in reverse — adding light and color to graduated darkness of the evening sea waters and horizon.

Her library featured a large mirror of polished silver encased in smooth melted sand — glass — with copper and dark paint on the rear surface to keep out the evil entities and dangerous djinni. There, he first witnessed Vitor Weiss looking back at him… The other Vitor Weiss. Unlike those effects, that Corvette windshield wasn’t filtering or reflecting images…

It was transmitting.

Aleister Parker, other than totally terrified, was in his best shape in a very long while. The dark windbreaker he wore confined the assorted purloined garments; he looked very normal. His toes wiggled happily inside acrylic hunter socks of gray with black, the Magnum Stealth Duty Boots were a bonus… Just like Vitor’s Magnums!

He studied the man — the “not-man.” At least the Vitor-Creature resembled humanity under all but the most intense scrutiny. Specifically, the way he spoke. Who did he think he was, René Descartes? “Cogito ergo sum. (I think, therefore I am.)”  Hell no… Vitor was more like, Ken Kesey, “Plant a garden in which strange plants grow and mysteries bloom.”

Aleister stared at the large knotted fists perched atop the Corvette steering wheel. The way Vitor stood and seated, never slouching. Worse — he didn’t seem to breathe at all!

At the all-night Dunkin’ Donuts they devoured oven toasted bagels crackly crusted housing lean ham and unidentifiable processed cheese. Guzzled medium coffees double turbo shot cream no sugar. Vitor was a copy-cat, right down to the chocolate glazed donut. No imagination… Vitor was a badass Ken Kesey. Unpatterned fright.

Four large men bearing tattoos plenty enough for four times as many — a vintage Grunman F8F, Lockheed Blackbird SR-71, Huey UH-1, and assorted moms, sweethearts, and skulls — all hidden beneath black coverall jump suits, were in a great rush to complete the task. It was below zero Fahrenheit and even soldiers didn’t like feeling cold.

The “local police unit” cared not who the good guys and bad guys were! An entire cast of characters were all under equal protection, which meant, not much. The “village volunteers” were not too concerned with accountability: layers of conscription, corruption, and assassination would be soon finished once the foreigners went back home. Wherever that was.

Angela Weiss poured boiling water over green and peppermint tea. Strained. No sweetener; a woman her age, she was born Black Thursday 1929 during one of the “Great Depressions,” required few calories and must watch her figure. Longevity and brilliance ran in her family, her Father — still Father, not Dad or Erik — had just turned in at 02:00. His suite three stories atop the sleek Galaxy White fortress of stone mounting Parrot Cove Cliff above the Atlantic Sea.

The whiff of peppermint cleared her mind. Devout tea-followers shunned the blend of green and peppermint, something about warmer and cooler waters… Her comfortable desk chair felt warm. She saw through the eyes of Vitor Weiss and Aleister Parker: The dark men with the submachine guns and the RPG’s — grenade launchers.

Those dark men said nothing there was nothing to say. The frozen mountain hut crouched against wind and swirling snow but could not hide from a portable death delivery system capable of taking down US Blackhawk Helicopters.

The Corvette windshield pinged softly and cracked, half a world away when the blue and orange fire consumed the refuge with the five bearded men inside.

About Richard E & Mary L Marion

Independent Writers
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