She pulled a hit from the swirled-glass creation, the acrid chemical smoke drifting lazily from her upper lip, curling around, obscuring a tiny mole before sneaking into her nostril to run through her pulmonary system again. Each pass the smoke grew weaker, thinner, as her body absorbed it instead of precious air.  Eyes half open, once pale-blue now blazed a noxious red. Her ears rang.

It was a painful need, that nagging desire always in the back of her mind, always chewing away at her dreams and goals, a dull blade knocking chips, spark and all, from so fragile self-respect.

As the pain receded and she slunk back into the warm arms of Forget, she was betrayed by her eyes and a tear fell.

My crackpipe has grown, transformed over the years, from simple knowledge to data to rampant seething, patterns. The crack pipe shattered and shivered when knowledge wasn’t enough. The patterns began to go wild, expanding and growing growing like interlaced vines. A fractal that cannot be mastered, cannot be wholly viewed in instant. As she wished for the pattern, I wished for the smoke.

The moon watched as I devoured a Nutroll, the nuts cracking and shattering as I chomped, crumbs piling around me, landing on the slick surface of my grim obsidian desk.

I hunkered down and she crept up higher in the sky to keep eyes on what I was doing. I devoured the candy.  The salt from the Nutroll was making me lick my lips. The goo in the center of the candy bar was sticking in my teeth and I was moving my mouth and cheeks in an effort to dislodge the tooth decayer. But I couldn’t give up the salt, so both efforts, the salt removal and the sticky candy-goo removal took twice as long.

The moon watched while I feasted like a dog.

Plants wither and the ground blackens, turns cold, frosted and crackles. The sky becomes black and blue, an epic bruise on reality.

The minds race and tick-tick-click to unravel, to make sense of, to justify what they are witnessing. Their mommies and gods did not prepare them for those who would step out-side.

*

Later

The Outsiders have come and gone, moved on to new slaying grounds. In their wake all is rui, but undeniably,  a freshness hangs in the air. Rebirth at the hands of the destroyers. The fires are out, the ground is no longer hard and cold and dry. Bright green pushes through cracks in the firma, bubbles of life from the earthy ocean.

The poet-boy, Piotr, is now grown to manhood. And he leads his people, those few who survived the Outsiders. At night, when the children are asleep, he gathers the adults and tells them, again and again, (“for it is the doom of men that they forget”) of his encounters with the Outsiders, how he lived as their thrall.

He closes his eyes as he speaks, to better recall the horrors. The Outsiders made him swear, upon threat of their eventual return, to never forget what they made him witness too.

Piotr, dutiful Piotr, remembers clearly. His eyes press tight, his breath comes fast. He can see the Outsiders; the suit, the armsman, the speaker, the plotter. They came in sheep skins and mingled among the flocks until their idol burst forth from the earth, their ideology, summed best *revolution*.

To their banner flocked the mis, the dis, and lost, the hungry, the wild, the mad, and the dreamers. Armed with hope and hatred and contempt, the Outsiders made war upon upon Piotr’s people, slaying their ways as surely as they had slain their way-makers. In all of the Lands of the Second Blessed, only Piotr, who wanted to be a policeman when he grew up, was spared.

Piotr the poet tells the story, sparing no detail, with his words weaving tornadoes of fire, oceans of blood, and avalanches of bone. The Outsiders are gorgons, flayers, knife-fighters, and insidious venomous snakes.

Piotr the poet, uses his words to hide meaning, layered dreams of freedom, long, still eyed looks and purposeful tears, as he tells the story. And he hopes, hopes against hope (for prayer is forbidden to Man-who-thinks), that the children will see his message and one day grow strong, become mighty and throw off the shackles of the Outsiders.

And Poor Piotr the Poet who wanted to be a police man, cannot see that he is a police man, and he is forced,  unknown to enact a pattern of protection. The Outsiders, their phoenix-army of ideals, foresaw poor dreaming Priotr, the last child of the Before.

These new babies, they don’t know the kiss of silicon and plastic, they’ve never, nor will they ever, feel the adrenaline fueled thrum of internal combustion.

Theirs is a simple world, they know love and satisfaction, and hard work. They know music and dance. They know very little, but they know all they need.

One cigarette left, he reached for it as he slewed into another curve. Grasping the pack, he leaned back and put the last smoke between his lips, holding it there, tasting it, as he pushed the buttons on the radio obsessively. Country and Classic Rock crowded each other on these peripheral airwaves, in valleys and behind hills sometimes mixing together, overlapping.

Settling on something akin to Cheap Trick, he pushed in the car cigarette lighter, thankful for the small things, he smiled knowing that these ancient thunderous cars at least had the ability to make fire.

The cigarette was mostly of no consequence. A taste, quickened pulse, a dryness in his throat. Streams of white looked as if they were being torn from his mouth and nostrils as he flew across the landscape. He pretended he was Paul Revere, believed he was Phillipides, marathon runner of Athenian fame, he was in a brittle trance, cheetah and comet, at once with purpose and mindless.

The smoke faded, chewed itself away and its corpse out the window.

More speed, the sun, the sun, waves of heat, tides of reality warping temperature, pulsed up from the road in half-visible ripples. Faster yet, and music, and the joy in this young man’s heart was undeniable. He felt he flew towards destiny, unrepentant, the universe’s locus for kinetic fantasy.

He reached for the pack, found it empty. He glanced to the half-empty, warm can of coke in the drink holder, back to the road, the dash, the road, the check engine light.

The light was not new. It had evolved from source of paranoia and frustration to a friendly reminder. Time to let the beast rest, let the steel flame-eater cool its burning heart. All horses needed to drink.

He brought himself up, out from his auto-pilot trance and took in the terrain.

“The map is not the terrain…” he said aloud as he looked for signs of civilization. Brother to Theseus that he was, civilization was any spot with strong drink and shelter from the rain.

Not too much later he saw the spot. Civilization was a collection of loosely affiliated cross roads. Paths cut into reality by men with ambition. At each crossroad, there was always a marker, some stalk of signage to remind one that yes, though long lost to distance and woeful wilderness, they still were real.

“In the desert you can remember your name…” he muttered as he slowed the car, the steel extension.

He pushed the wheel around, guided the slowing car from the melting blacktop, felt the change of speed in his stomach, the vibrations from the gravel and dirt parking lot in his bones.

Fully stopped, he left the windows wide open and popped the hood. He gingerly lifted the heavy plate of steel, and propped it up. He gave it a casual inspection, eyes stopping on hard mechanical shape he recognized but did not understand. Wires and tubes, blades and oils, it all looked like it always looked. That was something.

He turned to head into the small corner store that made up this splash of civilization, he needed another coke and more smokes, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Walking, no, flowing towards him was a leggy woman with caramel skin and sandy hair tied on top of her head. She wore a tank top, each step a direct challenge to his decorum. He removed his sunglasses and squinted, then decided eye-contact might be too much for him, and put the shades back on.

“Hi.” She smiled at him. “Car trouble?”

“What? Ah, no. Uh, just givin’ it some air.” His natural dialect was relaxed, a slangish, lazy way of communicating. It made him sound uneducated, a cultivated habit. People expect less of the ingnorant.

She nodded. “I see that. Why?”

“Well, the light comes on.” He said. She kept walking towards him until she stood a foot away. She was almost his height and looked right into his eyes.

“The bad light?”

“Check engine.”

She nodded. “Oh, sorry. I’m a little forward.” She stuck out her hand, “Cassia.”

“Cassia.” He repeated. “Uh, Jack.”  Halloween Jack Soiree, he said to himself, in his funny voice that made him smile. She smiled too and for a split second, he wondered if he’d said it aloud.

She stood too close. He could feel the heat of her skin above and beyond the stifling summer sun. She pulled a cigarette, the symbol of patience and openness, a sure sign of sharing, in that certain world, lit only by grim and dim yellow bulbs and neon lights.  It made him thirsty.

“Here.” She pushed the cigarette in his direction. He took it, confused. She nodded towards the crushed and empty pack of camels in his hand. “You’re out.”

He put the cigarette to his lips and stuck his hands in his pockets, searching for a lighter, which wasn’t there. He used the precious piece of retro technology, the car-lighter, while he was driving.

She deftly produced a lighter, touched the flame to the tip of the smoke and backed away. He breathed deep.

“You’re thirsty. I was headin’ cross the street. Interested?”

He nodded dumbly as he turned his head in the direction she indicated. There sat a squat broawn building. A screen door rocked gently in its hinges, occasionally building up the nerve to bang sharply. A faded neon sign sputtered in the window, decrying the presence of some obscure local flavor. Music seeped out of the door, low and steady, it seemed to creep across the road, like a snake.

He looked away, felt his satisfaction with life fade, felt a strange hunger, felt weak. 

He was an agent of change. Real, tangible change. Where he passed, ripples shook society and ground alike. Nothing could be the same after an agent of changed passed this way.  He’d been sitting motionless for hours or years, now. Timed-release narcotics saturating his blood. He blinked once a minute, and then not out of need, but habit.

He lay prone, on his stomach, sharp rocks gouging at his insides. He barely noticed them when he’d chosen this spot, now, after what seemed like years of waiting, he didn’t notice them at all.

The tools of his trade were many and varied, but in this particular instance, he chose an old standard, the first tool any agent of change must know intimately; violence.

From his vantage point, he could see a town spread out below, arrayed in a spider-web fashion, streets like spokes radiating out from a central point. That point, was the reasons the agent of change had come. That point was why change was necessary. That point was, for all intents and purposes, a church.

Mental games were a big part of the agent’s routine. So many hours spent motionless, boredom threatened to become psychosis, and needed to be kept in check. The chemicals and narcotics could help still the body, but the mind that was hidden behind those motionless eyes was a whirling storm, a processing center where torrents of data fed into his awareness, being sorted and cross-referenced.

In his mind’s eye, he’d painted everything. He ran his imaginary brushes over every inch and curve, corner and cranny of the scene before him. He’d painted the town in several styles, imitating the great masters from ages past. He’d sculpted it, etched the town in bronze, and even made it of stained glass. In his minds eye, he’d re-arranged the local star systems and super imposed them over his view, a galactic connect-the-dots…

A snowflake settled on his eye, immediately following his last blink. It stung only slightly, but blurred his vision. He hesitated, an uncharacteristic act, and then blinked the snowflake away.

The sun was setting in the west, and it had long since stopped snowing. The agent of Change was about to render the scene before him in an impressionist style, when one of those streams of cerebral data tripped a wire in his subconscious.

It was an encrypted satellite feed. It warned him that the tides of change were building, something was about to happen, something was moving, somewhere, so near. He let his mind activate those nerves along his extremities that had been quiet so long. He flexed his fingers and tested his muscles. His brain reorganized the cocktail mix in his mission gland and he began to come alive. With practiced ease, he flipped open the cover to his instruments scope, let his eye dilate the retinal range finder. He was suddenly quite aware of the rifle held in his arms for so long. It was hard and cold, and for a brief moment it felt alien. This all passed when he saw the door to the church crack open and warm gold light spill out into the darkening streets.

Priests. What good are they anyhow? Rabble rousers, hypocrites. This particular one had raised the ire of the powers-that-be on one too many worlds. He spoke less of the gods and worship, than he did of rights and fair play. He spoke of labor practices and organized movements.

By the time the Priest left his central abbey, a heavy darkness had settled on the small village. The priest, wrapped in non-descript brown robes, hefted a lantern in one hand and in his other, held the hand of a small child.

The agent of change watched silently as the priest warded off the gloom and walked the child through the streets. Two blocks later, they were met at the door by a young woman. She wore the uniform of a miner and was still smeared with dust and oil, her nose and cheeks still red from a days exposure to the freezing wind. She knelt and hugged the small child, then ushered her through the door. The agent of change could see the woman’s face clearly through his scope, she was thanking the priest, nearly in tears. She invited the priest in, but he refused. He smiled and went on his way. She watched him go, and only until he’d turned the corner and was no longer visible did she close the door.

The agent of change watched him go, watched him through the scope, resting the reactive-crosshairs on his temple, then his ear, then his eye. The priest walked steadily, each step purposeful, the lantern held aloft, chasing away the gloom.

From his high perch, the agent of change smiled. There were always ripples where he passed, from the ground itself to the highest strata of culture and politics. HE flipped his scope closed, let go of the trigger. As he walked away, his mind into itself, he realized that’s what priests do: chase away the gloom. 

Kali sat next to me on the train. Her eyes were half closed, but I could see her irises were gold. She had six arms and each of her hands, beautifully manicured. Gold and bronze bracelets jingled softly as she shifted her arms. This Hindu goddess of destruction sat nearly motionless, as if in meditation. her only movement was a slight swaying as the train rocketed through the tunnel.

Her torso was nearly bare except for a golden chain bra that barely covered her three full breasts. Her legs were muscular and ended in talon-like feet. Around her neck and head hung several delicate chains made of gold.

Across from Kali sat a female parking cop. She had short-cropped black hair that stood up in all directions. It was cute in a boyish sort of way. She watched her feet as we rode the train, looking up only to steal an occasional glance at Kali the Destroyer. The meter maid had boring eyes, brown or maybe they were brown. Her hands were delicate, thin. Her skin was pale. I followed her eyes to her shoes. She wore matte black boots, clean, freshly oiled. Her whole body was straight, angular. Compared to Kali, she was like a small boy. She fidgeted with her book of parking tickets, flipping them like you would a deck of cards. Something about her said “desperation”. I named her Rita. I decided I liked Rita.

Next to the meter maid was a proctologist. I could tell her was a proctologist because under his coat was a name tag that read “A.S. Ore – Proctology”. I surmised it stood for Arthur Samuel or even Assisting Surgeon. Part of me wanted to believe it stood for Ass Searcher. He looked tired. Cranky. His blonde hair was perfect, oil slicked back. Around his neck was a small silver chain with a small cross dangling vulnerably. He tapped his feet and fiddled with his cell phone. As if handling it would make it work better, or make that important person call him back even sooner. I followed his gaze to Kali’s three golden breasts. He stared blatantly, as if it were his right. Considering his occupation, maybe it was. His hands were big, rough. I always imagined a proctologist would have soft and nimble hands. I did not like this impatient proctologist. I named him Anal Satisfaction.

So there I was, trapped on the train with Kali, Hindu Goddess of Destruction, Lovely Rita, the Meter Maid, and Anal Satisfaction, the pissed off Proctologist.

I decided I would see what sort of conversation I could start off between the four of us.

“I like your bracelets.” I said awkwardly to Kali. Her eyes flicked open and she turned to face me.

“Thank you.” Her voice was deep and melodic, “They are gifts from a demon who proclaims his love for me.”

“They’re lovely.” Rita piped up, her voice squeaky.

“Did you say Demon?” Anal Satisfaction asked.

“Yes.” Kali replied. “A Demon. Kolvatarynya, Lord of the Seventh Hell and the Burning Plains.”

“He sounds successful. How long have you know him…?” Rita asked, leaning forward.

“Many thousands of years.” Kali replied.

“So it’s a pretty serious relationship then?”

It lands on the television screen. An enormous expanse of glowing colors and shapes, flickering, overloading the fly’s multifaceted eyes. If you were to look close you’d see mirror-perfect reflections of a million dreams, sports gods and local hope for a sportier tomorrow. It raises its forelegs and drags them across its illuminated eyes, swipe, repeat.

Upon close inspection the insect’s visage is hideous. Bulbous head, cruel mouth ringed with tendrils and appendages, hooks and tongues, those special things that nightmare is born from. Watching longer still, the mindless thing twitches and flexes, its entire body seems pregnant with some alien horror. Back to those cunning eyes, the head shifts, reflected heroes fade and light pushes forth another character.

A kindly old woman sits at a polished wooden table, her elderly husband stares at the screen, not seeing the fly, for his vision is poor, but he knows his team, he knows which colors are his pride, which represent mid-western righteousness. His wife, the old woman, talks on.

“It was such a peculiar plant. I got it at the farmer’s market. So odd. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She stops in her retelling of the tale to watch a young woman, two tables over, light a cigarette. The old woman frowns. “Such a peculiar plant.”

At the bar, directly under the fly, a young man sits. He listens to the old woman’s story without turning around. He is reminded of a movie. Such a peculiar plant. The young man didn’t like place. He was accustomed to certain patterns. This pattern unnerved him. They frosted their mugs here, so your beer came cold, but in moments was watery. More watery American beer. He stared at the television screen, the one where the fly rested, and did not see either the fly or the screen. He just stared and sipped watery beer.

The bartender was a young girl with stainless steel rings pushed through her eyes and ears, and she often wished she could put then through her cheeks somehow. She watched the young man frown at his beer, drink it with disdain and distance. She watched the old woman talk at her husband, who watched the screen, and she watched the fly, which did not buzz. Rather, the fly twitched, as if it was being electrocuted.