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By Punkerslut
Dedication To Erik Petersen. License This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License (CC BY 3.0). Description Mordecai loses his job at the town factory after a mysterious explosion, and he doesn't seem to immediately connect this with other odd happenings in town, such as the statues becoming animated and vengeful caricatures, gangs playing the drunk-driving CarTag game, or political bandits spray-painting manifestos and destroying public property. Somehow wrapped up in all this sudden chaos is the district attorney, the mayor, and a pair of FBI agents, wrangling with each other over who should take responsibility for the inexplicable deaths of prisoners at the local police department. In order for the truth to full come out, the forces of chaos will need to ask bold, new questions and to confront the establishment. Chapter 1 - How to Brew Good Beer Red brick buildings lean against each in between their moans, shards of broken glass dance with the gravel in the street, the sky is split in half by armies of pigeons, the public buses roar through the city like electric bulls, and always among the chaos, there I can be found. I am the adventurer, the seeker, the hermit, the crusader, the witch, and the wizard. "Are you stirring the beer in the pot, or just mumbling again?" my little friend asks, "Do you want it to turn out burnt like last time?" "I'm stirring!" I insist, "Maybe just philosophizing a bit as I go, but, each hymn is empowering me like the deepest earthquakes." "Usually hymns are for prophets or sometimes even poets," she mentions, "Not sure about philosophers." "And what do philosophers make?" I ask. "Alcoholism and eulogies." Her wit is tempered. The sarcasm and imprudence unleashes itself like a torrent of lightning, there and gone again in a flash. It almost makes me forget that she is only a winged nymph not much more than five or six inches tall. "Stir once now will save ten stirs later when cleaning the cauldron," she reminds me, "I like the taste of sweetness more than I do sulfur." I look about the alleyway, trying to remember where I put the drinkable beer. You see, discarded side-streets like these are wonderful for brewing. For me and my little-winged girl. Chapter 2 - Nymphs "Are you going to tell the story, or should I?" I quickly turn to my companion. "Charles, it's your story," Faye reminds me, "I could only retell what you've told me. And mostly it was just ideas for plays, incomplete novels, and the random dirty joke or limerick." "Okay, okay...I can do this," I clear my throat in a full growling manner, and the echoes off these brick walls sound like either someone was born or someone died. "I am doing this, right?" I ask a little less confidently. "If you forget anything, I'll remind you," she says, "And don't forget your beer! You left it on the ground by your foot where you always knock it over." "Every alleyway should have a bar and barstools," I snatch up the beverage and pour it liberally into my throat. "Ah, yes, now I am ready to tell a story!" I scratch my two-week overgrown beard, putting in new inflections to the patterning of my whiskers, lean my elbow into my side to adjust my back, give a slight turn to my worn-out fedora, and throw my long locks of hair over my shoulder. "I'm telling a story?" I ask. "You are," Faye reminds me again, "Don't forget, it starts with the factory." "I thought it started with the river?" I ask for correction. "No, that's later. Start with the factory." Could you imagine how I met her? She just flew out of the sky, right on down past the rooftops and power poles, and introduced herself to me. Chapter 3 - The Old Factory on 43rd The old factory on 43rd street is where our town's hopes and dreams were invested. The mayor patronized it, the schools educated children to work there, the papers treated it as the symbol of progress and modernity, and just about anyone you met knew someone who worked there. Then something happened that changed everyone's perspective on it. We now just call it the "old on 43rd." It's not the old factory anymore; it's now just old and still on 43rd street. It was a cooperatively-run factory, imported from some overseas philanthropist who wanted to introduce a bit of European progress into the United States. The young and unemployed had nothing else for them here in this town, anyway. Any job would have been nice, but here is one with high pay and presumably improved working conditions. The teenagers and young rebels took the progress concept to heart. They organized worker-run committees, used voting in referendums to change work policies, and became a little hamlet of democracy. People loved to work and they loved their jobs; all seemed good and flourishing. Then it struck -- a drop of 3% in the international steel price. While in the short term it meant cheap costs, it also meant a corresponding drop of 9% in the finished product. This minor blip in stock news meant cataclysmic changes for the factory and its workers. A $0.05/hour paycut was circulated to all ranks of employees. The cooperatively-organized, worker committees turned on each other with ferocious infighting and bickering. Finally, a few Caesars rose to the top, until there was only one of them, instituted with dictatorial powers to ensure that the company remains on track, and, of course, "so that we can maintain the one small democratically-run company in a thousand miles." Gregory Stromonds was this Caesar. And when he walked through the aisles and nooks of the factory, inspecting each and everything he found, he kept with him a riding-crop firmly secured to his waist. Though traditionally used for striking animals that aren't performing well enough to their masters' expectations, Gregory would never hold it or unseal it from his side. Tensions continued to rise, the worker-committees were "temporarily abolished," a managerial class grew into existence that made the workers miserable and suspicious, and life in the town otherwise continued on. That it was, for a while, until the bomb went off. It was never discovered who placed the device that burned down old on 43rd. The workers are the first to be accused, "I blame the mob!" becoming the typical attitude. But a number of accusations and cross-accusations made things more complicated: was Gregory trying to precipitate a final death-blow struggle with the worker initiatives, or was there a new Caesar ready to take the mantle from the old Caesar? But when that explosion went off, it changed everyone and everything. It was like the moon crashing into the sun, or the night resisting the coming of day, or all of the rivers flooding until the world is a ball of water. We all still remember it, Old on 43rd. Chapter 4 - Nothing to do "What do you mean I can't go to work today?" Mordecai demands to know. Behind the multiple lines of yellow police tape, the flames from 43rd street burn into the sky. The ground was so thickly covered with broken glass that you would think it was raining glass. Several diligent firefighters carry hoses, axes, and oxygen breathers. And blocking all entrance to the chaos and the fury was just a few police officers. "You cannot enter here," the police officer responds to Mordecai. "There has been something of a bit of an accident, but feel free to come back later, we may need you." "For what?" Mordecai asks. "Questioning." "My manager is going to want to know why I couldn't show up, it's not like they're not answering their phones," Mordecai insists. "Why don't you leave and start looking for another job maybe?," the officer taunts back. A few grimace look exchanges and Mordecai finally walks off. Chapter 5 - Guess I'll go burn down Capitalism If you walk South from 43rd street for four blocks, you'll get to the busline. After hopping a ride there, you can get to downtown in about 10 or 15 minutes. Once you escape the den of shops and bars, you'll be able to tell what direction you're going in again, and you can head West by foot for maybe 5 minutes. Then you'll be at the Anarchist Cafe, home of this town's renegades and rebels. And also Mordecai's favorite spot for the past ten years. Off-beat music, politically-involved conversation, and the smell of fair-trade coffee. That's how you'll know you're in the right spot. It can be a nice place to be, with friendly (although weird) people, and it is definitely an enjoyable place to sit to contemplate how Capitalism burned you out before you could burn it out. His favorite place, and his favorite people. "Hey, Nobody!" Mordecai pulls up a seat next to a girl sitting by herself, absorbed in her drawings and unaware of her immediate surroundings. The sunlight catches itself in arrays of green and blue as it hits her glasses, the lenses as thick and sturdy as the bottom of a pint glass. "How are you doing, Mordecai?" her focus never draws away from her art. "My job exploded," he replies, "I'm still trying to figure out how I feel about that." Chapter 6 - No more Old on 43rd Nobody was the type of girl who seemed to blend into anywhere and everywhere, more often classified as an occupier or a denizen than as a neighbor or citizen. "The socially-and-economically-determined agreement you had, itself, exploded?" she asks. "Well, no," Mordecai starts thinking about it, leaving his seat to get a coffee and returning. "But the place the agreement was about itself exploded." "The Old on 43rd?" she asks, "It's gone?" "It's gone," Mordecai sips from his coffee, "Not sure what happened yet, but it was all burnmarks and fire last I looked at it." She finally looks up from her masterpiece, "I guess this changes everything, then." "A factory could suddenly open up on 42nd or 44th," he replies, "Nothing is reopening on 43rd for a while until they fix that hole problem, though." "Hrm..." she leans back from her drawing. It's a picture of the factory. "This was supposed to be for my art class. We were assigned to draw something that actually exists." "The social system seems particularly unjust today," he replies. Chapter 7 - I am the bomb, I am the bombthrower "Mordecai! Did you see that bomb I threw? That was awesome!" Jake strolls in and announces himself at the Anarchist Cafe, as loud as the day he first came in, which couldn't have been more than a year ago. "You threw that?" Mordecai asks. "No!" Jake snarls with a deep expression that leaves his smile unaltered, "But I was told that by several police officers down at the station for the past two hours." "Of course you wouldn't throw that," Nobody insists, still not looking up from her drawing, as she adds light reds and dark oranges to her drawing, creating flames and explosions to more accurately represent the factory's demise, "He knows my assignment is due today, he wouldn't get in the way of my educational advancement." "Well, I only came to get a quick coffee," Mordecai says, "You two keep the fires burning. Or, whatever." "I'll come with you," Jake replies, "I'm still trying to find people to gauge their opinion on the blast. Was it a coincidental occurrence, or a deeply politically-motivated act of sabotage?" "Actually, I don't have to finish this right now," Nobody says, "I'll walk with you." Chapter 8 - Our little secret "Hey, you guys!" Cutter walks through the front of the Anarchist Cafe, catching Mordecai and Jake on their way out. "Did you also get a notice about work being cancelled?" "Yes, Cutter, I think it's permanently cancelled," Mordecai responds, "Going for a walk, come join?" "Sure," and Cutter is added to the repertoire. The four run into a woman collecting petitions and Cutter tried to add his, as she tried to pass a pen to him, she leans forward too much, and in order to avoid falling, she lashes her arms out, with the pen in her hand, coming close to stabbing Cutter. But he's been in this situation before, of course, because everyone tries to stab him. He deftly catches her wrist, places his other hand below the one of hers holding the pen, applies some minor pressure with his finger nails in the wrist, the pen drops, and he catches it, capping it and politely handing it back to her, "Not today, I guess." By the time they make it three or four city-blocks away from the cafe, Mordecai asks, "Is it clear?" "Yeah, it's clear," Jake says, Cutter also nods and "mmhmmm's," Nobody on lookout and reporting good. Mordecai pulls out a plastic bag from his sock, opens it, and empties the contents into his hand -- one cannabis joint. He brings it to his lips and lights up, the uneven sidewalk having no affect on his flame or his pace. And then he passes it to Cutter, who passes it to Jake, who passes it to Nobody. "Good crop," Cutter wheazes while holding his breath. "Yeah, I like it," Mordecai replies, also wheazingly. "The right stuff," Nobody whispers. Chapter 9 - I see you "Those kids are smoking pot again!" The mysterious office building in the center of town, the Monte Carlo Building, has a number of odd occupants. One of them is a pair of FBI agents. "Give me the binoculars!" "You have your own!" Ed fumbles over the desks, covered with newspapers and banana peels, looking for the second pair. "Got 'em." Even without being able to hear the group as they merrily smoked, these two could imagine the joys of Mordecai, Jake, Cutter, and Nobody. "Sonovabitch," Ed says without loosening his squint around the plastic, "Yeah, they're getting high all right. Nobody smokes tobacco like that." "Nobody does anything like that," Gilbert replies, "They're smiling, talking, arguing, and dancing all at the same time. It has to be drugs." "Let's add this to the incident report," Ed asks. "You add it! I'm the one who found them!" Gilbert responds. Chapter 10 - Why does this always happen to Anarchists? "Hey, I'll catch up with you two another time, I need to head home," Mordecai parts ways with his comrades to "Stay safe" and "Peace." He walked alone as the sun started to set and a warm, orange glow blanketed the landscape. The main thing separating him from his home was the long bridge across the river. And to get to the other side, you had to get past a certain cross walk that was always patrolled by a police officer. Mordecai stops at the blinking no-walk sign, diligently checks both lanes for traffic, and proceeds to rush across the street. "Excuse me, sir!" the police officer interrupts, "Hey! You can't do that! Stop! You can only walk when the sign changes!" Mordecai's pace is unbroken, "What? I checked! No traffic is coming! It's safe to cross!" The police officer walks over to Mordecai with just as much quickness and diligence, finally cutting in front of him, "You turn around and walk back right now!" "Doing that might make me unsafe, so, I'm going to have to pass on that offer," Mordecai folds his arms, as the two men look at each other face to face in the middle of the street. Chapter 11 - When to run "Are you going to walk back, or am I going to arrest you?" the cop asks. "I'm already unable to move because you have blocked my path," Mordecai responds, "For all technical purposes, I am considering myself already under arrest. Now are you going to move?" "Wise guy, huh? Bet you're going to tell me that you think you know your rights next, right? You know what we think about people like down at the -- what the fuck is that?" the two men look towards the oncoming lane. Four cars swerving across the road and the sidewalks are heading in their direction; the only thing louder than their engines is their constant honking and the cheers and screaming from their overpacked passengers. "Those are Riders!" Mordecai rushes past the officer, who holds up his arm and gets brushed aside. "That's assaulting on officer! Come back here, you're under arrest again!" The officer took two steps towards his intended victim, and then one of the vehicles charging at high speed blazened right in front of him. "Hey, Mr. police officer! Hey, Mr. Fascist!" the first vehicle's occupants screams as the car goes by. The second vehicle catapults several open cans of beer at their target, the easily irritated officer. The third vehicle, on approaching, rolls down one of its windows, and unveils a lance, adorned with flags carrying symbols of King Arthur's court. The flyby here just caught the officer's cap. The fourth vehicle of this cavalcade only held the screams "Tell me your loser number, Mr. Nazi-Cop!" Mordecai escapes as the officer fickles with dialing stations on his radio. Chapter 12 - Back one more time "Oh, shit, I'm sorry!" Faye interrupts me, "I think the story does begin with the river and not the factory." "I knew it!" I bark to myself. Faye chirps her wings and gives me a shrug; I guess it's difficult to get mad at a fairy the size of my palm. "Wait, are you sure?" I ask, "I don't know." I pause for a moment, "I'm smoking weed, right?" "Yes, dear, joint's been burning in your right hand this whole time," she responds. "Oh, yeah! I forgot!" I bring the burning mess of resin, paper, and green to my lips and inhale deeply. "Okay, now I think I remember how the story starts." "Oh, good!" Faye cheers me on. "Nope, wait, no I don't," I finally admit. But I keep my chin in my hand with that burning plant material, and keep on thinking. Chapter 13 - Ah, yes, the river Half of our town is on one side, and the other half is on the other, and if you were to try to trace it back to its origins, you would find something more sinister than glaciers hiding in mountains. At one time, the river wasn't so sinister. The river poured out of a unified, single body of non-corporeal energy. This body remained intact and pure, but then an internal fissure, cause by unknown actor, grew and finally split the unified body into pieces. The two larger pieces took the following two forms: Anna and John, the two Perfect Anarchist lovers. Upon coming into existence, they realized what had happened and say, "It is time. Let us wake the creature!" The river argued with them and pleaded them to return, "The time never comes! Your place is here, with me. You need to help keep the waters flowing. You need to help me feed the town." "Then why is the split now happening?" Anna asks, "Why is it just now that we have blasted out of the single body and into existence?" The river gave no reply. "It is because now is the time for us to separate and go our own ways," John crescendos Anna's questions. The two then disappear into the mountains. Chapter 14 - Cemetery of fears Much further up the mountain, further than where you would look for the source of a river, you'll find an underground vault of crypts. It was here that Anna and John had come in search. As they pass by each crypt, analyzing the symbols and runes, they would finally turn to one other and shake their heads, "No, not this one." Then they reached one where they could agree, "Yes, this one." Working together, they drag the crypt away from the wall and laid it flat against the ground. With crowbar and switchblade, they are able to loosen and remove the covering of the sarcophagus. Inside can be seen a man and, at his side, a rifle. "That's him," John says. "Are you ready for the ritual?" Anna asks. He nods. A bag of cannabis and some rolling papers are laid out, which industrious fingers quickly roll into a thick joint. She lights the end inhales deeply, and hands the joint to John. She leans over the dead man, opens his mouth, clasps her hands around it to make a cylinder, presses her lips to the cylinder, and exhales. The dead man's chest rises momentarily, until it slowly deflates, with a steady stream of smoke pouring out his nose. John similarly inhales, and repeats the procedure. Chapter 15 - I'm still here, I have always been here "No, no, not now, not here," the mind of the undead turns as his body convulses. "One more," Anna says, cusping her hands around the dead man's mouth, and exhaling again. "Ahhhhh!" the dead body sits up straight with a startling scream. "Why did you wake me?" "The time has come," John says, "We have finally split apart from the oneness, the singular body; we are ready to fulfill the prophecy." "You should've just stayed with the non-corporeal entity!" the dead hero speaks, "You should've just left me here. What was so wrong about the perfect, crystalline singularity?" "The world still suffers," Anna replies, "Our perfection or our imperfection, our one-ness or our duality, all of that aside, even where we have gone, the world still suffers. We couldn't maintain that shape anymore." "The moon doesn't split in half, the continents don't split in half, the oceans don't split in half," the man lying down finally regains his composure, "But you split in half like it's nothing." He rose, grabbed the rifle in the crypt, slung it over his shoulder, and then started walking away. "Where are you going, Micah?" Anna asks. "Where do you think?" he footsteps echo into the distance Chapter 16 - And I hereby declare But even if the one-ness split into halves, and even if the main body decided to stay behind, there was still the residue, the dried glue of it all, that chalked into flakes in the air after the Perfect Anarchists burst forth. This bitter resin flowed with the winds and coursed through the clouds. Embers of pure emotion, undiluted feeling, and the resurgence of power snowed from the sky over the town. They covered everything, or at least everything in public -- park benches, sidewalks, windows, rooftops, everything. Even the statue of St. Peter overlooking the local pharmacy. The embers were inactive on everything they landed, except for this statue. St. Peter knew that the pharmacy was a hoax, that illness is really caused by demons, as laid down in the Catechism of the Catholic Faith (section 2, chapter 2, article 5), and further enunciated in the Malleus Maleficarum, not to mention the speeches of Pope John Paul II. Everyday, this statue has had to watch people walk into the store, take some black magic in a plastic bottle, and pay for it with money that could've gone to the church or the community. Old men, young men, old women, young women, children, all types of people were regularly paying for medicine that had no affect, because the real root cause of disease is absence of faith in religion. Medicine for headaches, medicine for rashes, medicine for burns, cuts, scrapes, and bruises, medicines that prevent disease, medicines that alleviate symptoms, medicines that numb pain, medicines that kill bacteria, medicines that cure sicknesses, every type of dark and diabolical magic that could be imagined was available, and was given to anyone, without discrimination, so long as that person had the raw cash to pay for it. Well, those embers of pure emotion had just about enough. The 40-foot tall St. Peter statue broke free from its bedrock foundation, walked to the sidewalk in front of the pharmacy, standing above the abomination, he declares, "No more!" And, bolstered by a massive grunt "Huhhh!!!!!!", there comes a massive thud crashing through the pharmacy as St. Peter's ferula rips through the ceiling and walls, his pastoral staff sparing no piece of concrete or brick. Chapter 17 - I can hear it "What was that?" about twenty blocks away, in downtown, court cases were being heard in the county courthouse. "What was what, Mr. Morris?" the judge asks. Somewhat perplexed and a little bit concerned, the district attorney readjusts his attention, "I thought I heard a loud banging noise. It sounded like it was coming from the other part of town, around the pharmacy. You didn't hear that?" "Can you please focus on your case? The court will not tolerate anymore delaying action on your part," the judge remains firm. "Yes, of course," the lawyer replies, "The People find no evidence that any malice has taken place in the events hereby described. All evidence so far gathered by our forensic teams indicates that no crime has taken place at all." "I see," the judge replies, "You do realize that this is the 18th individual to have fallen to their deaths from the Monte Carlo Building in the past 12 months, correct?" "That is correct," the lawyer replies. "And there is no wrong-doing at all?" "None," the lawyer replies again. "Good, I'll quash the pre-tial consensus and redact the fact-finding mission, this court is ajourned." Chapter 18 - Back at the office "Hey, it's done," Ed's grim voice squeazes against the phone, "The last corpse won't be a problem. Nobody suspects a thing." "What are you eating?" the voice responds, "Is that taffy?" "I don't have much time for breakfast," Ed becomes irritated, "Did you need anything else?" "For now we are fine," the voice responds. Some uncomfortable silence passed, briefly filled with breathing or throat-clearing noises. "It's an apple. I'm eating an apple," Ed finally says. "Good, good, perfect," the other end responds, and then hangs up. "We have any new assignments?" Gilbert asks. "No, not yet anyway," Ed replies, "Hey, I need a minute, I'm going for a walk." A few blocks away, just enough to catch some cool air breeze rising from the river, Ed pulls out a small pipe designed to look like a cigarette, packs it with some red-haired ganja, and inhales, listening to the rumble of the water as the currents clap against each other. Back at the office, Gilbert sneaks into the bathroom, turns on the exhaust fan, lights a joint, and puffs the warm smoke toward the fan input. "Been waiting for him to leave forever," he thinks to himself. Chapter 19 - Duties "You're stirring the cauldron, right?" Faye asks. "Yes, I'm stirring, I'm stirring!" I reply, "I can stir wort for beer and tell a good story at the same time." "Okay, darling," she responds, "I just want to make sure the beer comes out well." "Where was I?" I ask. "You're about to let that joint burn right through your fingers, why don't you hit that?" she asks. "Oh, yeah!" I lean for a second on the ladle and invigorate my body with the deep, delicious greenness. "You haven't called the storms yet, why don't you do that?" Faye asks. "Right, it has been a while!" I let the ladle slip back into the cauldron, and grab my summoning staff. "Oohm bah bam boh!" I scream and tap the staff to the ground in repeated succession. Clouds burst forth, shake the world with their thunder, and send down lightning to scorch and melt the sidewalk pavement. A piece of paper falls out of the sky. Everytime I call the storms, I receive some wisdom or knowledge. The way this knowledge works is unique -- it may only be accepted and understood by one person only, and then it becomes an enigma to all the world, for all else who reads it after. So, I will share this with you, without having actually read it myself or having let anyone else touch it: Juice-Plex Master-Juicer - Unpacking Instructions - 1) Open box, 2) Remove Juice-Plex Master-Juicer from box, 3) Discard box, 4) Optional: box. Chapter 20 - Gotta get some weed Mordecai's morning routine is the same from week to week. Wake up, smoke weed, think about anarchy, and then either go to work or read. His fingers run through the smokebox kept just behind his bed, dishevelling a pack of rolling papers, a small bag of weed, an immoderately small pipe, and a lighter. He looks at the bag with some consternation, "Running low, it seems," he thinks to himself, "Let me think about that some more." A few billows of black smoke swirl and dance in his room as the THC swirls and dances in his mind. He sees the perfection, wants to be it, and yet also is still basically just glued to his bed. Twenty or thirty minutes is usually a good standard for how long this lasts everyday. He sits up and says out loud to himself, only barely conscious of it, "I need some more weed..." He grabs his phone and calls Cutter, "Hey, I'm lookin' for some happiness." "Yeah, been on my mind, too, since I'm unemployed now," Cutter replies, "Spoony is dropping by my place today, should be carrying." "Awesome, I'll head that way after breakfast," Mordecai responds. After smoking a little bit more, he leaves and catches a bus. Chapter 21 - Where's the weed? "I'm all outta weed," Spoony stresses, "Totally out. All I have is a few nugs that I can throw your way." "Really?" Cutter asks with shock, "What happened?" "My dude is a trucker, usually drops off his load up north for his job, and picks up a little extra-extra to fatten up his paycheck," Spoony says, "And there aren't any more deliveries being made after Old on 43rd burned to the ground." "This is my final paycheck, and I can't even spend it on drugs. What is this world coming to?," Cutter replies. "Here, let me load up a bowl for you guys, thought I'd drop by in person and give ya somethin' instead of just bailin' on the phone," Spoony replies as he neatly breaks up the dried cannabis flowers over the bowl of the pipe. Cutter's mind is drawn towards the window, though. "Is that...a 40-foot statue of St. Peter walking around?" Smoke exchanges between the mouth and nose of Mordecai, it flows through the nostrils of Spoony, and finally, Spoony pokes the pipe into Cutter's side to break him from his distraction. "You stabbed me with a pipe," Cutter replies, "I should have been paying attention." He grabs the device and lifts it to his mouth. Chapter 22 - I still see you "The fuck is that?" Gilbert chews his gum noisily as he looks through his binoculars. "The fuck is what?" Ed, on the other side of the building, remains unmoved in his own set of binoculars. "It looks like....St. Peter is roaming through downtown, around 8th and Canal Street," Gilbert replies. "You're sure? Are you talking about that statue near the pharmacy?" Ed lifts his head and looks over at Gilbert. "Yes, that statue, I think, and yes, I'm positive," Gilbert responds. A quick shuffling of feet can be heard against the office floor as Ed moves from the other side of the office and leans in next to Gilbert. "Huh, yeap, that is a 40-foot St. Peter," Ed says, "He...seems to be attacking an unarmed postal-office box. Okay, he destroyed it, now he's moving on..." "You think we should call someone?" Gilbert asks without looking up from the lenses. "Nah," Ed similarly remains unmoved. Chapter 23 - Still gotta get that weed "Wait, stop! Do you see that?" Cutter alerts the Anarchists on their way to the cafe. St. Peter brings his ferula smashing down onto another post office box. With the final blow, the metal box bursts and paper explodes in all directions. "The post office is an evil invention of the Romans! Death to you!" the monstrous, moving statue declares as it continues moving down the street, its legs and body so massive and overarching that it could not walk down the sidewalk alone. A police cordon has been setup with black-and-yellow fenceposts, a parked police car, and one seemingly unstoppable soul with a megaphone. "Please surrender yourself to our custody," the police officer sounds out, "No harm will come to you. We just want to make sure you are okay." The once logical, clear, and deep voice of St. Peter morphs into a horrific, banshee cry, a screetch like a bat but with the booming echo of thunder, "Haaararggrhrhrghrhrhrhhhhhh!!!!!" "Okay, sir, I tried to play nice," the police officer places the megaphone on the cruiser hood, "I'm taking you into custody for Disturbing the Public and Disobeying a Lawful Order. Don't fight me on this!" "We should get out of here," Spoony's career makes him a bit more cautious than the others. "I know an alleyway to the cafe, follow me," Mordecai elicits the cooperation of the others, as they make a mad dash away from the carnage of St. Peter. Chapter 24 - Regrouping after battle "Hey, if I were you, I would not go downtown today, unless you want to be mauled by St. Peter," Cutter informs the cafe patrons as the group enters. "That's what everyone's been saying," Nobody is focused on her artwork, the pace and direction of her wrist movements unchanged by the conversation, "Radio says the police are looking for anyone with information about aggressive or socially-maladjusted saints." "That's the same group they always target," Jake replies sarcastically. "I'm going to make some coffee, anyone want in?" Mordecai heads to the back. The Anarchist cafe allows long-term members to go into the kitchen and make some of their own food. Like the past offers, again, everyone asks for a cup. "Haven't heard anything about St. Peter on the news surprisingly," Nobody says, "Check out what's been on the local independent media." Spoony dissolves into a pack of friends in the back as Cutter takes a seat near Jake and Nobody. "The group, known only as the Riders, appears to be the new biggest threat to this town's safety," a reporter carries on in monotone, "This is a group of adults, mostly male, who play an aggressive sport called CarTag, where cars try to tap, bump, or crash into each other, to 'tag' the other car, like in a game of Tag. Everytime your car is hit, you have to drink a beer or a shot." "That's old, how is that new? They've been doing that for years," Jake answers the radio reporter. Chapter 25 - Rearming the caffeine supply Mordecai walks out of the kitchen, sliding a cup of coffee to Spoony, and then bringing the rest of the drinks to Nobody, Jake, and Cutter. "Hey, Cutter, yours," Mordecai pokes him in the back with the cardboard cup. "Hey, you stabbed me with a cup of coffee, I guess I'm okay with it, I'll take it," Cutter replies. "Hey, Nobody, you know anyone with any grass? I'm running low," Mordecai asks in between sips. "I only have about a quarter ounce at best, so I'm low, too," Nobody replies, "Spoony's out?" "Spoony is indeed out," Mordecai responds. "Really?" Jake asks, "I was just thinking of picking up myself, too." "Let me call Toby," Nobody picks up her phone while changing from red to green with perfect coordination. She talks to a mysterious voice, "Hey, okay if I come by and grab? Still at the park, right? Okay...okay, see you soon!" she hangs up, and begins rolling her canvas into its protective casing. "You guys ready?" she finally makes eye contact with them. Armed with coffee, the four comrades exit the cafe. Chapter 26 - Green park "Hey, Toby, are you good?" Nobody asks as they enter the park. He started shaking his head, "You should've come here like, just ten minutes ago. Everybody's picking up today, been super busy." "Our quest has failed," Jake says, "But might we still recoup our honor?" "Yeah, sure," Toby replies, "We can get back to my place, I got something there for droughts like this. Just give me a minute, got something to take care of..." He turned to Carla, a mutual friend of the Anarchist cafe, and continued his previous thoughts and previous conversations, "So, there are creature cards and enchantment cards, but they both technically qualify as spell cards..." "What is that?" Mordecai points to the Monte Carlo Building a few blocks away. A sheet of black and red unfurl from its top and split the sky in halves. Across the black part reads, "Abolish the State," and similarly across the red part reads, "Abolish Capitalism." "That says what I'm reading, right?" Nobody asks. Two dark figures then disappear from the rooftop by means of hang-gliders and a stiff wind. It was the Perfect Anarchists, Anna and John. "You think that's someone we know who did that?" Jake asks. "Probably," Cutter replies. Chapter 27 - How much weed do you need? "Have a seat anywhere," Toby tells his guests, "Let me just go unpack some stuff." He disappears into the back of his apartment. "Who do you think dropped the banner?" Mordecai asks his companions. "Think it was St. Peter?" Jake replies. "I don't think the wind could lift a statue," Nobody says. "Why didn't we do something like that?" Mordecai furthers his questioning. "Nothing to have stopped us." "Normally, at about right now, all three of us would be working at Old on 43rd," Cutter says, "And Nobody would probably be stuck in class." "I don't go to class anymore," Nobody replies, "I just show up for tests and to pass in assignments." "Or that," Cutter adjusts his statement. "Why are you looking out the window?" Nobody asks Mordecai. "I was just thinking, maybe some other building might be redecorated unexpectedly, or maybe I'd catch a glimpse of St. Peter, or the Riders," he replies. "Hey, here," Toby pokes Cutter in the shoulder with a small bag of weed, "I'm actually running really low, and this is all I have." "Et tu, weedei? Sure, stab me with weed, if you must, but I'll take it," Cutter replies, and to the others, "Split it evenly between us?" They nod in agreement. Chapter 28 - I never asked for this job Not too far from Toby's downtown apartment is the Monte Carlo Building. "Looks like another weed gang is buying from Toby," Ed's eyes squint around his binocular lenses. "Hey, Ed!" Gilbert motions to his friend, "You gotta get on the wiretap and listen to this!" "Which one?" Ed asks. "Mr. Morris, the attorney," Gilbert replies as Ed wraps a pair of headphones around his head. "...I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job, I'm just trying to do mine. I want the preliminary report of the fact-finding mission, I don't care if it was quashed or not, the records are still there and I still have a right to access them," a digitalized voice echoes back at the CIA agents. And then another voice arguing back, "You have no right to that information and you will need a subpeona from a judge to unseal the documents. Besides, any wrong-doing in the deaths was dismissed by a judge, you want a new case, put in the new complaint forms." "There is no statute of limitations on murder. I'm going to come down to the office, and I'm going to get that report from you, whether you like it or not." Mr. Morris hangs up. "I don't like the sound of this," Gilbert says, "What do you think he's trying to do?" "Something not good," Ed replies. Chapter 29 - Perks of being an uncorruptable, district attorney Mr. Morris has worked as the district attorney in this courthouse for many years. He could give you a tour of this building in his sleep. All of the staff and personnel were known on a first-name basis. Every judge may not have been his friend, but was at least his acquiantance. So it's not too hard to see him slipping through the patrols, getting past the office assistants, and getting into the evidence locker when everyone's on coffee break. But every sleuth is not perfect. "What are you doing?" Officer Thompson asks as Mr. Morris closes the evidence locker door, a thick, manilla envelope close to his chest. "Just wanted to make sure this door still works," Mr. Morris smiles. "No, that's not what's happening here," Thompson replies, "What's happening is that you're giving me that file and then you're walking out of here without being arrested, okay?" "I can't do that," Mr. Morris responds. "Hey, we got some trouble on the second floor, can I get some backup?" Thompson thumbs his radio receiver and leans into it to talk, and then leans back to his suspect, "Just give over the file and there will be no problems." "I'm keeping this file and you're getting out of my way," Mr. Morris replies. A group of three police officers makes it up the stairs and heads towards the confrontation between Officer Thompson and Mr. Morris. Chapter 30 - An exhibition A tiny red dot circles the skull of Officer Thompson. "Hey, what is that?" one of his associate officers asks. "You can't detain me!" Mr. Morris uses the breadth of his file to push Officer Thompson out of the way, and when Thompson reaches for his taser, Mr. Morris swings a right-hook knocking him unconscious. Carrying his goods, he runs down the hallway. "Stop, you're under arrest!" Officer Emerson screams, and when she realizes he hasn't stopped, "Okay, I'll treat you like the kid we just put in the morgue, then." BAM! She shoots a vase near the running district attorney, blowing up shards of glass in all directions, but he only shields his head with the files and keeps his pace unbroken. "Next one is going in your back!" she takes aim, steadies her grip, and squeazes -- TINK! She never got to fire, and a bullet traverses through her skull, blood shooting out in all directions. One officer tries to help her, while the other aims another shot -- TINK! Two of the shooters collapsed and one unharmed district attorney scuttles to the front door. "We got officers down! Active shooter situation here!" the last police stutters with the radio as his fingers randomly throb its buttons. Once out the front door, Mr. Morris headed directly to his office at the Monte Carlo Building, without encountering a single problem. He laid the report on his desk and opened it, "Investigation Concerning the Death of Caleb Williams." Chapter 31 - Corpse to corpse Somewhere on the 27th floor of the Monte Carlo Building, there resided Micah -- rifle, ammo, and all. This is where the shots were coming from, an old, unrented floor that's barely operational. Quickly gathering his gear and concealing it, he heads toward the elevator shaft. As he gets there, he sees two pairs of hands climbing out of the shaft; he wraps his grip around his pistol in the back of his belt. Then he relaxes his grip when he sees that it's Anna and John. "What are you doing?" Anna asks before even having lifted herself out and without making direct eye contact. "Taking care of justice," Micah responds, unmoved by her question as he unwraps the rope from his grappling hook. "Your order of targets should always be explicit," John adds, "Kill kings, then senators, then governors, then prison wardens, then mayors, then district attorneys, and then you kill cops. Why did you let Mr. Morris get away?" "I thought about it while I was aiming my sights," Micah responds, "Seems like a bunch of cops were ready to pounce on him and beat him to a bloody pulp. I automatically understood him and what he was going through. You can't kill a person when you perfectly understand them." "And this is where this is going?" Anna says, "This is where you're taking it?" "You shouldn't have brought me back, if you just wanted me to kill without thinking," Micah ends his statement by latching his grappling hook to the elevator shaft, reverberating a metal-against-metal clang throughout the 27th, and disappearing. Chapter 32 - Just one more hit "Ahrhrhrgrgurfffrfrfrhrh-a-rhrff-a-hhrff-a-hrhrrff..." I struggle for air but my lungs just refuse to take in any. "That was a big hit, here take some water," Faye levitates a glass of cold water in front of me as I clear out the smoke particles from my body. I shake my head and wave my hands negatively, unable to use my voice. "Fine, here, here, have a beer," Faye levitates a cold can of beer in front of me. I grab it, crack it open, and pour some coldness onto that storm in my lungs. "Feeling better?" "Yeah," I take a moment to gasp some air in between drinking the beer, and then before finishing it off, "A little bit." "Why don't you summon the storms again?" Faye asks. "Why? Will it make this beer cook any faster?" I pick up the ladle and give the brew a nominal stir. "Sure it will," Faye replies. "Well, okay," I respond, grab my staff, shake it to the ground three times, and call out to the gods and demons, "Aahhhh boh bah bee!!!" Once again, I am rewarded by the winds and the skies with a piece of paper, but, once again, I cannot read it, without taking the raw power of it permanently, so, I hand it to you, without anyone else knowing what it is... M/25/Smithfield Chapter 33 - Yeah, I'm here "And I'm trying to get in! What's going on here?" Harold, the courthouse janitor, is kept at bay by a line of police officers at the courthouse. "Sorry, sir, there's been an accident, can't let anyone in from the public," one of the officers informs the man dragging a wheeled trashbin with him. Behind these two argumentative forces, a news team was allowed deeper into the courthouse. "A gun battle blazed here between Mr. Morris, the local district attorney for the past decade, and four police officers. One is dead, two are in critical condition. Local authorities have stated that they're going to begin a manhunt for Mr. Morris." "You're collecting evidence? That Mr. Morris smuggled a gun in and opened fire on a bunch of police? We're talking about the 58-year-old district attorney? The guy who sometimes wears a tie with butterflies?" Harold responds to one of the officers. "Hey, you seem to know a lot about what's going on, why don't we take you in for questioning right now?" the officer replies. "I just wanted to get to my office in there, you know I work here," Harold responds. "Oh, so you're admitting that you had access to the building during the incident? I should take you in, just in case," a swathe of police surround Harold and rush him into a random police cruiser parked nearby. His wheeled garbage can is left unattended on the sidewalk. "Should we do something about that? Isn't that courthouse property?" one officer says. "It's not my property," another snorts back aggressively. Chapter 34 - Dah dah dah daaaah daaaah Harold really didn't expect his day to go like this. Sitting in the back of the police cruiser, his hands uncomfortably tied behind his back, blood vessels cut off and blood pressure dropping, he resigns himself to his fate. As soon as he thinks that now might be the best time to just close his eyes and try to sleep, he sees a speeding car heading straight toward him. His eyes focus and he can see arms wailing outside the windows and can begin to hear screaming. One of these vehicles, a highly-modified Transam model, hits a ramp on the road, launching it through the air, where it becomes noticable that it is mounted with jousting poles and King Arthur regalia. As the cavalcade of cars rushes towards the cordoned, police area, the only audible sound becoming their audio system, which is blasting Flight of the Valkyries by Wagner. The first vehicle does a quick turn, skidding into the police car holding Harold, breaking the windows and inadvertently igniting the siren in flames and noise. "Hey, you Nazis!!!!" the driver sticks his head outside the window to address the police, and then quickly returns to safety. "Riders! Get 'em!" A swarm of police rush for the car, and as it starts to drive off, a passenger leans through one of the windows, equipped with a gasmask and armed with a grenade-launcher. Taking aim, he fires several shots at approaching police officers, but instead of the whoop! whoop! noise, the grenade-launcher is making a ksht! ksht! noise. It's not a grenade-launcher. It's a modified grenade-launcher that is launching freshly-opened beer cans. "Dah dah dah DAAAAH DAAAAH!!! Dah dah dah DAAAAH DAAAAH!!!" the driver screams along to the Wagner track while chugging a 40 oz. bottle of malt liquor. Harold had ducks to take cover, just in time to avoid the shards of glass that flew toward him when the first car hit. Slowly peaking over the window edge, he again ducks, as a second car, then a third car, then a fourth follow each other through with the first. There are further volleys of beer grenades that explode beer on contact, beer spears that can rip up cruiser tires and tear through bullet-proof vests, beer throwing-axes that emit beer as they spin, and other improvised weapons. At the scene of the most deadly shooting in this town, it's difficult not to smell beer and then think about Wagner. The police officers scramble to put together what is a reliable license plate number from memories, "DON QUIK", and Harold takes advantage of their distraction to escape from the banged-up cruiser, as the locking mechanisms have ceased to function since the first Rider made contact. Chapter 35 - Alone on the 27th "Oh, no, who is that?" Gilbert jostles his own binoculars. "That's Mr. Morris!" Ed's elbow bumps into Gilbert's, before they mutually repel. "What's he doing at the Monte Carlo Building?" "Should we call the mayor?" Gilbert asks. "In a minute," Ed replies, "I want to see what he does first." Taking the elevator to the 26th floor, Mr. Morris exits and finds an emergency fire escape that'll take him to the 27th floor, which has been temporarily blacked off with gates and plywood. Entering the floor, he pulls out the report from his inner-jacket, and holds it up so he can read it, "Investigation into the Death of Caleb Williams." He thumbs through a few of the sections, sometimes muttering what he read, an old habit of district attorneys, "Last Name: Williams; Place of Employment: 198 43rd Street; Cause of Death: Suicidally-triggering glass particles embedded within the 27th floor windows of the Monte Carlo Building." Mr. Morris starts rubbing his forehead, "Suspect died during police interrogation, jumping through a window on the 27th floor. Thoughts of suicide were determined to be caused by Prexyte, a particle found in the windows which reacts with sunlight." His rubbing fingers make it to the side of his eyebrows; he curls his mouth, tilts his neck, and wrinkles his forehead. In front of him he can see the smashed window now covered with wood and plastic, yellow, police-line tape. "Hrm," he finally mutters, relaxing his face. He walks over to the window next to it, looking through the glass and checking for particles of Prexyte. After a minute of this, of prodding the unbroken window with eyes and fingertips, he face recoils back into it a mound of wrinkles, and he flips through some of the pages of the report. "Other Notes: This is the eighteenth suicide involving Prexyte. Still waiting for the mayor to approve appropriations to replace the remaining glass windows." Mr. Morris starts flicking the window with his fingers a bit more aggressively now. "This report is junk," he finally says outloud. Sufficiently satisfied with his investigation, he turns to leave, but then notices a sparkle in the window. He quickly returns to it, and for a brief moment, he thought he had seen, in the great distance, a gigantic arm waving a burning police car around in the air, but no trace of it remains. Chapter 36 - Escape to where? Mr. Morris and his steps were watched as he went through the fire escape and back to the elevator. "You think he knows?" Gilbert asks, sitting at the video camera feeds for the building. "I'm dead positive he knows," Ed replies, "Pretty obvious he would figure it out. Anyone could figure it out." "I'll call the mayor," Gilbert responds. Just as Mr. Morris exits the Monte Carlo Building, police cruisers in both directions of the street swarm the entrance, forming a complete barrier between Mr. Morris and his freedom. "You're not getting that report back!" he screams back defiantly. "Sir, I don't know what you're talking about, but we have a nice, cozy interrogation room waiting for you, with tea or coffee of your choice," a police officer with gun drawn declares. "I'm not getting in that room!" Mr. Morris announces without restraint, as a group of three or four police officers begin to surround him, each armed with metal batons and their flashy-yellow tazers. THUMP!... and around the corner, it emerges. "Oh, shit, is that... that's St. Peter!" one of the police officers screams. "Touch this report and I'll knock you out!" Mr. Morris starts swinging inelegantly at the officers who were approaching him. St. Peter, the 40-foot gray statue, is now completely in sight and fully threatening. "Using Roman carts and using Roman roads, you shall be destroyed!" the monster declares, and in the blink of an eye, his large ferula comes crashing down, crushing the police cars. "Open fire!" one of the police screams, and a barrage of bullets chip away at the concrete beast. "Nnnyyyah!!!" Mr. Morris wraps his arms around his head, bends over and aims the blunt of his skull at them, almost turning into a bull, and charges through the police officers, knocking some of them down, but ultimately escaping their clutches. "I need backup!" one of the officers clutches a microphone from a radio in a crushed cruiser, "We got a St. Peter over here! I need backup!" Chapter 37 - Fuck, out of weed again Wake up, smoke, and realize there's no more weed left in your special tin box. Mordecai's morning. "Hey, Nobody," his ear close to the phone, "You're still looking, right?" "Yeah, I'm still looking," she replies, the sounds of paint globs smearing across pages remains unbroken in the background, "I'm at the cafe, Scooby is supposed to meet me." "It's been a while since I've seen Scooby," Mordecai replies, "Fine if I head that way?" "Not a problem," she responds. While crossing the bridge near his house, Mordecai was a little puzzled to see police in riot gear, soldiers with automatic rifles, and yellow police fences blocking off streets. Mordecai exhales and calmly walks past the lineup, only realizing half-way through that he probably still reaked of cannabis from just smoking moments ago. A few of the armed personnel gave him looks, and at least one of them says, "I don't think that's St. Peter." Without having to enter in conversation or answer any questions, Mordecai escapes from the bridge and makes it uptown to the Anarchist Cafe. He passes by a lit television screen in a store window, only catching a glimpse of a news story, "The mass shooting at the courthouse was perpetrated by the court janitor, Harold Kukakis. His fingerprints were found on the murder weapon and video footage shows him entering and leaving the building at key points. He escaped police custody, and any information leading to his arrest would be greatly appreciated by authorities." Mordecai slowed to watch the remainder of the segment, "What police are uncertain of, though, is what this man has to do with it: Mr. Morris, the local district attorney, who has since gone missing after being observed at the courthouse." "Huh," Mordecai says to himself, and then speeds up his pace. He can still hear the TV a bit as he walks away, "In other news, a forty-foot statue of St. Peter has come alive and is terrorizing the local residents..." Chapter 38 - Uncertain adventurism "Hey, what's the look on the score?" Mordecai walks into the Anarchist Cafe. "Still waiting for Scooby, haven't heard anything from anyone else," Nobody focuses on her drawing, "Real awful dryspell." "Have Cutter or Jake had any success?" he asks and she woefully shakes her head. "Let me get us some coffee," he asks and she smilingly nods. Jake walks in, "Holy shit, did you know what happened after we left Toby's yesterday?" He grabs and pulls up a seat next to Nobody, "There were gunshots in the courthouse, people screaming, people running, I think maybe some people even said explosions were happening!" "Oh, yeah, I heard about that," Mordecai mumbles over the counter, "Coffee?" "Please!" Jake replies, "I couldn't believe it." "Any luck with the you-know?" Nobody looks up briefly. His lips wrinkle upward towards his nose and he shake his head, "Nobody's ever seen anything like this drought. Not sure what to do." Cutter enters and quietly walks towards Jake and Nobody. "Anything?" "Nothing," Nobody responds. Finally Scooby showed up. "Hey, all," he says as Mordecai slides a cup of coffee across the table to him, taking a momentory sip, he continues, "Got some amazing stuff, we just gotta walk down the street like, ten or twelve blocks at my bro's place; you all know Jericho? Come on, I'll introduce you." The party departs from the cafe. Mordecai, the last one out, nearly bumps into a stranger entering the cafe, not quite realizing that he was looking at Harold, who was similarly going to pick up from a friend. Chapter 39 - Something is wrong, and also I love you Sliding down ropes laid on the roof, Anna and John swing upward, downward, left, and right, with the ease and grace of a chipmunk jumping from branch to branch. Zzzssssttttt..... Zzst......... Zzzzzzzzzzssssstttttt.... Zst... Zst.... "This bottle's out, give me another one," Anna motions to John, the two of them exchanging some spraypaint. Some more readjustment of position and her safety goggles slide back on. Zzzsst.... Zzzst............. Zst... "Okay, we're done, let's go!" In a quick motion, they loosen their ties to their ropes and are rapidly brought to the ground. Unbuckling their harnesses, they hear a voice, "Hey, you! Stop! Whatever you're doing, you're under arrest!" They turn around from the police department walls and see one of its officers. "Oh, you did that?" the officers point to the spray-painted message above, You're definitely under arrest." Across the top of the police department in downtown, written in bright red paint, everyone can read the words: "Harold is innocent. They're all lying to you." "Bottle?" Anna asks, and John reaches into his bag, grabbing a tightly-sealed Molotov cocktail and passing it to Anna, who ignites it and throws it at the feet of the approaching officer, crisping the outter edges of his jacket and pushing back other officers who are becoming interested in the commotion. Several more bottles are thrown, but several more officers follow in pursuit, waving their guns around and promising to shoot. More bottles, more officers, they try to escape down a planned alleyway, but they're trapped. "We may have overstretched ourselves," John breaks through the communication silence. "You may be right. I don't think we will escape, unless god almighty impersonates himself in some unforgivable and vicious form," Anna replies. More bottles, more cops, and then warning shots in the air. Chapter 40 - The light that twinkles "Haaararggrhrhrghrhrhrhhhhhh!!!!!" St. Peter screams from just behind the police department. In view of the Perfect Anarchists and the police, there are police cruisers and post office boxes flying through the air. Several cruisers fly through the walls of the department building. "Innocent?" St. Peter begins to read the paint on the wall, "Innocent?! We are all guilty of original sin! Your court systems are a mockery!" St. Peter focuses his mean gaze on the writing and violently lifts his ferula, but before he can bring it down, he is recognized and identified by one of the police officers, "Hey, it's that asshole! Get him!" A full salvo of bullets ricochetes off of St. Peter's torso and face in all directions, distracting him from the present task of destroying the police department. With the police focused on a new target, Anna and John vanish into the city's alleyways. Like a pulse working its way through the veins of the body, like particles and anti-particles dancing together at quantum viewpoint, they simply disappeared. "They got away!" one officer exclaims, to which another replies, "Call for backup! We have bigger problems now!" A few of the defenders in the windows of the police department have armed themselves with rocket launchers, and have begun pelting rocket-propelled grenades at St. Peter, breaking out tiny chunks of concrete. At least, they did for a while until they got ferulad -- the cane of Christ went in, chunks of debris and blood-soaked bodyparts came out. After the battle, the street remained like a lot of other streets. Torn lamp lights, ripped up postal boxes, slabs of concrete ripped out and randomly about. The police department is still vandalized, the Monte Carlo Building is still waving the colors and slogans of revolutionary Anarcho-Communism, and St. Peter's lust for blood still hasn't been satisfied. Chapter 41 - Still remembering "I love the St. Peter parts, my favorite part of the story," Faye breaks in to my concentrated thought, "Why isn't that the only main character?" "Because then it wouldn't be the story, would it?" I reply. "You're still stirring the wort, right?" she asks as I cast a glance over the rotating ladle to her. "Okay, okay, just making sure." "I do like St. Peter, too, though, I'll give you that," I say, "All of them really wouldn't make sense without each other, though." I pull my joint to my face to inhale, and realize that the embers have died away a long time ago. "Ohhh, I can help you with that," the six-inch fairy swoops through the air, bends over in front of the J, and lets out a short stack of flames. "Why thank you," I take the freshly-lit bud and impart its burnt contents into my lungs. "Call the storms for me?" she asks, "I love the sparks and the lighting. It lights up the place. Very dramatic." "A favor for a favor, sure, I'll call the storms," I reply. Clutching my staff and venting the full fury of my gaze at the skies and heavens, I tap the ground forcefully three times, lightning strikes throughout the town, and a piece of paper falls out of the sky in front of me. You know the procedure by now, so, I'm just going to hand this directly over to you... What happens is: Chapter 42 - And now some rain "This is my friend, Jericho," Scooby makes a humble introduction. "Look, I'm sorry for wasting your time, but, I just sold the last ounce a few minutes ago," Jericho replies. "No, are you sure? No way, you can't be sure," Scooby replies, "Because I was looking to buy some, too. Damn." "Thoughts?" Cutter turns to Nobody. "Not sure," she replies. "I may know somebody else, let me go make a call," Scooby disappears in a few feet away. "What do you think?" Mordecai asks. "It's like I'm actually trapped in a desert, there's so little greenery," Jake replies. "Hey, we might not be out of luck quite yet," Scooby returns, "I know a guy, he's downtown, but he has a medical marijuana card, so, there's no way we can't possibly pick up from him." "Eliminating any and all possibility that something could go wrong with the weed delivery," Cutter replies, "This is good." The huddled mass makes their way to the bus stop to catch a ride to downtown. Chapter 43 - Simplification The mayor sits reclining at his desk, phone to his ear and pen stuck in his hand, the commanding tower of authority at city hall, just across the street from the courthouse and the Monte Carlo Building. And on the 27th floor, abandoned at almost all times of the year, a man is laying on his belly and looking at the mayor through a scoped rifle. "Micah!" a voice from behind startles him, it's John, "What are you doing? Are you going to shoot the mayor?" "Fine to see you again, too," Micah replies and turns back to the lens in his scope, "Actually, I'm just trying to get some information. I don't understand this Mr. Morris and Harold conundrum. I don't get why FBI agents were on the scene before even local police. And I don't get why the mayor's been so involved in it all, but that's where the tracks are leading, so I'm following them." "It should be pretty obvious," Anna walks into view, having almost blended perfectly with the shadow cast by a steel beam, "The courthouse is corrupt, and when Mr. got a piece of that corruption, it upset the courthouse. When they couldn't find him in time to arrest him, they arrested Harold, so they could guarantee to the public that law and order had been restored. And the mayor's keeping tabs on all of the operations, making sure everyone feels secure enough to do business and pay their taxes and like no such threat exists at all." "Then how do the FBI agents figure into all of this?" Micah asks. "They're just a bunch of assholes and have always been so," Anna responds, "Basically, someone broke into the sacred city of corruption and ran away with the chalice, so they just put a plastic replica of the chalice in its place. The mayor is the high priest, and the FBI agents are like the goon squad of the high priest, who otherwise would be terrorizing peasants and stealing sheep." "The ordinary cops on the beat are like underling priests," John offers, "Or maybe court eunechs who handle the chalice." "You simplify things too much," Micah says, bringing his rifle closer to his chest. Chapter 44 - Some truths just happen to be simple "Sure, some of them," Micah replies, "But not all of them. There's too much still unaccounted for." "Have it your way," Anna says. The two Perfect Anarchists slide down elevator shaft again with grappling hooks. Micah rubbed his forehead, licked his lips, and then sat up. He pulls out a joint from his chest pocket, lights it up, and tokes. He exhales. Things do seem a little bit clearer. As he rolled the ideas around in his head, one against the other, he hears a noise -- the scuffling of feet from the fire escape. He stands up, and takes cover in the position that Anna had successfully hidden in. Gilbert strolls across the 27th floor like he owned it. He grabs a small pipe from his pocket, packs it with cannabis, and is about to smoke when his phone goes off. "Where are you?" Ed asks. "I told you, I took a walk, maybe I walked to the bathroom," Gilbert replies. "Well, I didn't see you leave the building is why I'm calling to ask," Ed answers, "Hey, you told the mayor what happened to Harold, right?" "Yes, I told him," Gilbert responds. "Good, good," Ed replies, "Okay, bye." Micah eared the conversation and now eyes Gilbert as he inhales the cannabis smoke. Chapter 45 - Suspects "Mr. Morris, status?" Ed asks. "The status is we don't fucking know where he is," Gilbert replies. Micah was still on the 27th floor when these two were discussing, but he had watched Gilbert, and found a place where he could hear their conversations through the floor on the 26th. His ear presses to the ground as the couple argued out the details. "Since he has the report, he's obviously figured out what's been going on," Gilbert says. "I wouldn't exactly say that," Ed replies, "But his possession of it definitely undermines our position on the matter." "Mayor's going to put his head on a platter if we find him. You know that, right?" Gilbert asks. "Depends," Ed responds, "We still don't really know what he's up to. If he does nothing, and we find him, I'm sure there'll be a cover story. If he does something, and he goes public with what he knows, I'm sure there'll be some diplomatic parlaying. But if he does something, and he doesn't go public, and we find him -- head on a platter sounds about right." "So, that must mean he's either just in hiding, which makes no sense, or trying to find a political base to go public in, which would necessarily reap the political advantages," Gilbert says, "Why would he take the route that's most difficult and least-rewarding? A lot of people might do that, monks, nomads, hermits, self-proclaimed magicians, and the like. But not a district attorney. He paid his bills, put in his college and apprentice time, record says he hasn't changed work in more than ten years." "You're right," Ed replies, "But then why would he even want the report in the first place? Where did that suspicion grow from?" Micah was wondering the same thing as he listened to their conversation. Chapter 46 - A minor delay Joseph was a regular at the Anarchist Cafe. He studied sociology at the local university and was a typical member of various demonstrations against police brutality, racism, sexism, and other social diseases. It was then hardly surprising to see him at the town's busy airport, unfurling a banner with an all-caps message of "I'm with Harold!" "Resist your bourgeois oppressors!" he screams into a megaphone from the highest balcony, "Harold is a scapegoat for the military-industrial complex!" He barely finished these words as he was tackled by a group of Transport Security Agents. "You're under arrest for disturbing the public, aiding global terrorism, and treason to the United States government," the officer spoke as she slapped cuffs on him. "Treason? For a banner? Really?" Joseph asks. "And, also, for resisting arrest," she adds in. A couple of cruisers were called to pick him up, and he was transported back to the courthouse, for booking and processing. Just moments before he was brought in, standing at the counter of the courthouse downtown was a group of people from the Anarchist Cafe. "Hey, sorry about all the delay with this," Carlos tells his acquiantances, "Forgot that my medical card expired. Should be pretty quick to renew, don't worry." Mordecai, Cutter, Nobody, and Jake looked at the alienating surroundings and partially reacted in mutual horror and marvel at the intimidating architecture adorned with steel-encased, video cameras. Once the paperwork had been filled out and completed, the group let out a collective sigh of relief and exited the court of justice. It was at that time that Joseph was being brought into the same courthouse for processing. Chapter 47 - Crossroads Joseph is told to stand for his mugshot. "Stop smiling," an anonymous police officer shielded behind a camera asks. "I'm not smil-" and then a flash of light brightens the room. "Now turn left," the procedure continues. He is charged with: Treason, Riotous Behavior, Obstruction of a Public Passage, Resisting Arrest, and Disrespecting an Officer. Another officer moves him for fingerprint scanning, an interesting task to perform while handcuffed, and done in a relatively isolated booth. "Give me your hand," he begins to perform the scan, when someone taps him on his shoulder. As he turns, a bottle smashes across the back of his head, sending him to his knees. As he falls, he barely catches a glimpse of Anna holding a half broken bottle. "Hey!" an officer screams across the hall. Anna throws the bottle shard at the officer, as John slips out from the shadows, pulls a molotov cocktail out from his bookbag, uncaps it, lights it, and tosses it, creating a wall of fire blocking out the police. Anna lifts up Joseph's hands and brings the handcuffs to her face; she lets out an exhale against the cold metal and it vanishes. Amid gunshots and flames, Anna and John manage to get Joseph to the back of the police department, where a getaway driver promptly dispatches them to safety. All the police had was his mugshot. Joseph was liberated. Virtually every police officer had gone to the back of the building in chasing down the Perfect Anarchists and the Anarchist Rebel. The police department was completely vacated on the other side, where an ambitious, district attorney is now entering. Chapter 48 - Prophet's Return Mr. Morris looks at the burning debris, the ash, the bullet marks, and the torn-up benches, and rolls his eyes, summing it up with one word under his breath, "Typical bureaucracy." With the sound of feet shuffling against wreckage, he cautiously walks to the front desk, where a lone clerk is standing behind the desk. "Oh, shit, it's Franky Morris!" the clerk exclaims out loud, "Hey, you can't be here, you're under arrest! Get up against the wall!" "Look, I need to file some paperwork," Mr. Morris replies half-heartedly, "I need to present a motion to re-open the investigation and proceedings in the death of Caleb Williams." As the clerk reaches for his sidearm, Mr. Morris pulls out a revolver with much quicker lightning speed. "File the motion! Do it, or I'll blow your head off! Do it!" The officer's hand edges away from his belt, and he slowly rips off a sheet from a binding of the yellow forms for motions. After a quick fill-in of charges for murder, Mr. Morris hands back the sheet to the officer. "It doesn't say who the accused is," the clerk answers back in half-disinterest, "That's a required field." "I can't give that one out yet," Mr. Morris replies. "Judge won't listen to the motion without it," the clerk says. Mr. Morris started to become agitated, "Okay, then, put 'the mayor' as the suspect!" "Just.... 'the mayor'? Not Ernest P. Hetherington, his actual name?" the clerk asks. "Put both," Mr. Morris started looking over his shoulder for nearby police. "Done," the clerk replies. "Now file the motion!" Mr. Morris focuses his aim. The clerk lifts the yellow form and delicately places it onto the top of a stack of papers in a box marked "Out." Satisfied at his results, Mr. Morris says "See you at the docket on Monday!" and disappears from the scene. Chapter 49 - Free medicine for all "Panama Red, Maui Wowie, Strawberry Deisel, Bluecheese, you name it, we got it," the medical marijuana shop clerk ran through a typical introduction, only nominally drawing the interest of Scooby and Carlos but alluring all members of the Anarchist group. Yet, he finally concludes, "At least, that's what I normally say, but seems like we're running low on our merchandise inventory." Everyone shook their heads or expressed disappointment in their own way. "We're not totally out, though, so, take a look around and see if anything strikes your fancy," the clerk adds, "I think we may have an ounce of Purple Urkle hidden somewhere in these shelves." "Ronnie always liked Purple Urkle," Mordecai says. "Ronnie?" Nobody asks for clarification. "Used to work with Cutter, Jake, and I at old on 43rd," Mordecai replies, "Swore by the stuff." "I'd swear by most weed," Cutter adds in. "I remember Ronnie, we used to smoke in the basement hallways together and talk about how the mayor or the manager or whoever is a piece of shit," Jake says. "All authority is shit," Mordecai replies with a clarifying tone and a clarifying eyebrow. "It would be nice to live in a place like this, at least when it's fully stocked," Nobody's fingers dance across the depressingly-empty display cases and the signs indicating their normal contents. "Truly deserving of being called home," Cutter says. "All it's missing are a couple of Anarchist flags," Jake says. "Hey, I'm going to be grabbing the zip of Purple Urkle, that work for you?" Carlos obtains the consensus of the group, makes the purchase, and heads for the exit. "Oh, you forgot your receipt!" the clerk pokes the piece of paper into Cutter's side. "You stabbed me with a receipt...." Cutter mournfully contemplates. The clerk's face is blank, and after a moment of awkwardness, Cutter takes the receipt and hands it to Carlos. Chapter 50 - I thought we just got weed? Sniff.....sniff.....sniff..... "I think the beer is done," I say, "Or at least the wort for the beer, whatever. Also, where is my weed?" I give the cauldron a single, concluding stir with my ladle. But then I turn to my left and my right, and I can't see her. "Faye? Are you there?" I ask quietly outloud. My eyes focus on all the crevices and spaces where a tiny fairy could fit in this alleyway. Where did she go? "Faye!" A group of people passing the sidewalk at one end of the alley stop and look at my cries, before they decide to ignore me and continue their walk. "Fayyyyeee!!" I scream louder as I walk out of the alleyway. I get to the street, and from here, I can see the river. At this time of night, the blue and black colors sparkle with a certain fascination that always leaves me with a certain peace and tranquility. I gaze at the unbroken marvellousness of that natural feature. "Charles!" a high-pitched fairy voice screams at me from behind. "Oh god!" I gasp, "Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Where were you?" "We were low on weed, so, I grabbed some more," she points to the plastic bag that's floating behind her, wrapped in a purple, floating glow that seems to be under her control. "Okay, okay, that's a fine reason," I say, "You could've told me you were leaving." "I did, like five times," she says, "You didn't want your story interrupted." "Sounds like something I might say," I rub my chin only half-seriously. By the time we got back to the cauldron, I certainly am noticing the absence of grass in my system, too, so, I decide to roll a J. "You know there is only one perfect way to light up a J," Faye smiles. "Call the storms," I say, "Yes, yes, let's do it! It should certainly provide some beautiful, luminous background for our ritual." I grab the staff, bang it against the ground three times, and watch the unfurling of light and sound breaking the sky apart. A small piece of paper whisps between and through my legs, before finally floating in the air up above. I grab it, and hand it to you. You know what to do with this... 1 can - Chick peas Chapter 51 - Weed and coffee Wake up, smoke weed, anarchy. "Hey, Nobody," Mordecai calls his friend, "I'm still kind'a low. We have any new leads?" "Yeah, should have something planned today, swing on by the cafe," Nobody tells him. "Word!" Mordecai responds, and heads on over. He barely even notices that the Monte Carlo Building is still flying the red and black flag of revolutionary Anarcho-Communism. "So, what's the plan?" Mordecai sits next to Nobody as she is immersed in her drawing, and before she can answer, he starts to get up, "Hey, you want some coffee? I'll get us some coffee." As Mordecai slides behind the counter, preparing two coffees, Cutter and Jake walk in. "Coffee, guys?" "Yes, absolutely, but we have a plan, right?" Jake asks. "There's a grower out on the edge of town, Toby knows him and Spoony says he's legit, so, it's worth checking out," Nobody explains, "May require a little bit of manual work, from what I hear." "I'm up for it," Mordecai sits at the table, handing off the coffees. "What kind of manual work?" Cutter asks, "Like, raise a barn, or something?" "Seems like he needs help with harvesting," Nobody responds without looking from her muse. "Participate at the production point of the magnificent stuff?" Jake says, "I think I'll be fine with that." "Oh, have you been listening to the news?" Nobody asks, as she turns on the small, portable radio in the center of the table. A monotone newsreporter carries the air: "An official motion presented by Mr. Morris in court today indicates that the mayor is responsible for all of the mysterious suicides associated with the 27th floor of the Monte Carlo Building. Townhall officials have said that Mr. Morris is just playing politics and this will come to nothing. We have been unable to reach Mr. Morris for comment." "You notice how they don't even mention that revolutionaries have since draped an Anarchist flag over the building, and that nobody has removed it?" Jake inserts. "We should get going," Nobody starts to roll up her artwork, "I'm not sure how much manual labor this will be, but it may be a bit." The comrades exit the Anarchist Cafe. As Mordecai leaves, he holds the door open for someone entering. And then he recognizes him, "Oh, hey, Joseph!" They exchange greetings. Joseph enters and takes a seat, ordering a simple coffee. He's sitting next to Harold, who is drinking the same, but has been frozen still since hearing the radio. Only a moment after Joseph sits, Harold gets up and leaves. Chapter 52 - Mayor's town "How do you not know where he is?" the mayor leans into his phone, "All you do all day is just watch people. It's not even real work. And you can't keep tabs on where these people are?" "Harold will be found," Ed replies, is sitting in the 26th floor of the Monte Carlo building, "That other punk who pulled that stunt at the airport, he will be found, too." "Are you going to find them before they cause problems for me in the news again?" the mayor wafts a fan against his face. It's not even hot out, but getting angry makes him sweat. "I'm only asking because it might help me find them more easily," Ed says, "But, how could a wanted man possibly walk into a courthouse and file a motion without being arrested?" "Don't tempt me!" the mayor responds before hanging up. "That guy is so rude," Gilbert finally leans away from the phone as Ed held it in the air, "Jurisdictionally, he reports to us, we don't report to him." "Politics has its own jurisdictional assignments," Ed responds. "I'm going to take a walk," Gilbert replies, as he prepares to take a leisurely tour of the 27th floor. "You know, I actually need to run a quick errand, too," Ed says. They both disappear from each others' sight to go smoke. Back at townhall, the mayor is holding a bag of cannabis. He pushes a button on his phone, "Get in here," and waits. The deputy mayor walks in. "Do you see what I found in this building today?" the mayor asks, "It was just sitting on a table in the breakroom. It's marijuana!" "It certainly seems to be," the deputy mayor replies. "Find out who is responsible for it, I need to know as soon as possible!" the mayor orders. "Absolutely, sir!" the deputy mayor replies, taking the small bag of evidence out of the room. Once in the safety of his own office, he was able to open the bag, inhale some of the aromas, and now that he's pleased, he takes a few nuggets and places them into his own pocket. It's only the mayor who doesn't use cannabis. Chapter 53 - Always the same Harold found sanctionuary in his parents' home, abandoned long ago. This uninhabited place would be perfect fields to the roaming herds of his tumbling and rolling thoughts. It was no more than a few pulls with a crowbar to gain entrance. Sitting at the foot of the stairs where he used to run up and down as a child, he is able to finally relay the primary points of his life right now to himself, "Mr. Morris says that the mayor is the one responsible for the deaths occuring, but the mayor says that Mr. Morris is an insane district attorney who is a wanted man," he tells himself. Even the sherrif didn't want to get involved, and when interviewed by the media, simply kept repeating the phrase, "Jurisdictional disagreement." "So who is responsible for all the killings? Me, of course!" Harold throws his hands up in the air, "Who else could you accuse? The janitor who has worked at the courthouse for the past fifteen years is obviously the most empowered person in that courthouse. I have access to all the private areas, all the secure rooms, all the sealed and locked-away documents and evidence. Of course it's me! Somehow, they've just overlooked the fact that I'm a stone cold killer who has been wiping the dust off of their desks and picking gum out of waste baskets." He rubbed his forehead and his demeanor grew colder, "It's so obvious that I didn't do it, that I'm innocent, that I will have to be freed, that any judge in the world would send me back to society and liberty," his muse continues. "But the mayor really has it out for me, and the chief of police and others in townhall have all agreed with him," he rubs his chin, "I'll probably need to be in prison for at least five years. So, first year, I'll basically be imprisoned among much applause from all departments of the government, without a single strand of sympathy. Then I'll be forgotten, two or three years should be enough for me to get a basic understanding of courtroom procedure and law. Case will be scheduled in the fourth year, and then maybe heard by a judge in the sixth or seventh year. Court deliberations will extend with grand juries and regular juries and regular jury dismissal, and I may have a verdict by my tenth year of being imprisoned." He lets out a sigh, "But then I'll be let out, a totally forgotten specimen of the public's imagination, let to roam the streets once more, now a free and fully-proven-innocent citizen. Since I haven't had a real job in ten years, I'll probably actually consider the possibility of getting a job reference at townhall, which will need to be signed by the mayor like all townhall documents. He probably will not give it to me, so, I will not be able to say that I've ever held a job or ever done anything responsible in my life to any person who could ever possibly have any responsibility to give. I'll probably need to get on food stamps and welfare, if they give welfare to adults without children, which they don't. Maybe I'll be homeless, maybe I'll starve to death. But then, one day, one day, I'll walk right up to the mayor and say in his face, 'I am not guilty like you said I was!' and it will make him feel bad." He closed his eyes. A moment passed. And then another moment. Finally a third moment. His finger twitched a little, his left eyelid mimicked the twitching pattern. And then another moment. And then, an unbelievable scream.... Chapter 54 - Kill the Mayor! A giant, well-placed boot breaks through the ceremonially-gilded frontdoor of the townhall. BLAUGH!! "Kill the mayor!" Harold screams, letting off a round from his shotgun into the air. Across his back is drapped two hunting rifles and three belts of ammunition. It was lucky that he remembered where his father had kept these hidden in the old house. "Hey!" a police officer kneels and takes judicious aim at Harold, but he is quickly ripped apart from the multiple pellets of shotgun fire. In his office, the mayor stumbles out of his chair. He doesn't need to think twice about what is going on. Running out of his office, he makes a running dash through the various hallways that lead to the back exit. "Where's the mayor!?" Blaugh! Harold shoots a chandelier for effect to the office area with secretaries crouching under desks. "He's in the back!" someone quickly volunteers without pressure. "His office has the red door!" another adds in before Harold vanishes down the hallway. "Office door says 'the mayor'!" a shouting voice adds in just as he discovers the abandoned suite. A quick check under the abandoned desk and Harold runs off again, finding a secretary in the hallway. "Where is the mayor!?" Harold's crazed grin offers no lies. "He was heading out the back," the secretary replies, "I saw him running in that direction." Harold quickly kept pace with the mayor, whose footsteps he could barely hear in the distance just ahead of his own. "Hey!" he finally sees the mayor, exiting the backdoor. He rushes toward it, but only finds that it is locked on the outside. Not broken in determination, he begins to bang against the door with the butt of his shotgun. It is wood fighting against wood, but anger and wood versus barricade and wood will eventually give way to the anger and wood. A panting mayor is rushing through the parking lot in the rear of the townhall, every few moments looking over his shoulder to see if his pursuer has caught up with him. He finally stands before his car door, fumbling through the keys in his pocket, as the sound of banging on the backdoor becomes more and more intense. He grabs the right key, unlocks the door, and takes his seated position. A quick turn of the ignition and the car roars to life, as the mayor's heart skips a beat. He looks to the road and is just about to drop his foot on the gas peddle, when he turns his head to the right, opens his mouth for a second, and finally says, "What the fuck is that?" Chapter 55 - It came from Planet Beer Two headlights burst out from the corner of the mayor's eyes, and they're headed straight for him. As the vehicle strikes the mayor's car, it is lifted partially into the air in a tilt for several seconds, until gravity slams it back down on the ground. The ignition stalls. The driver of the vehicle sits out their driver side window, a man without a shirt and holding a beer in his left hand. He proceeds to shout, "Hey, it's the king of the Nazis! How you doing, Mr. Nazi Mayor!?!?" Three other cars screetch onto the scene, circling the mayor's vehicle. With its driver relocated back to the steering wheel, the first car backs up, and the mayor restarts his car in a panic, but just as it begins to groan and squeal, another one of the Riders strikes his vehicle from the front, shutting down the engine again. Another Rider pulls up beside the mayor's car, smashes the window by throwing a full beer bottle, and then through the opened crevice, begins ejecting the spray of a shaken beer bottle in the mayor's direction. Covered by beer, and trembling in liquid, fermented malt, the mayor struggles with the key and the ignition in his car. Thud! Thud! The pounding of Harold against the backdoor can still be heard echoing between the jeers, the yells, and the engines of the Riders. The car booms to life! But only to be stalled again by a direct hit from the side by a rider. "Come on, king of the Nazis! Get out of your car and show me your country's native Nazi dance!!!" followed by another battery of beer bottles, beer cans, bottle caps, and ice. Any window that wasn't shattered in the mayor's car had by now at least been cracked. "Come on, come on, come on!" the mayor begins talking to his car as the thudding of the backdoor becomes louder and louder, as the hail storm of beer becomes more and more intense. Finally, after circling the mayor and throwing things at him for a minute, the first Rider backs off from the engagement, and mounts a jousting lance out the driver side window. After spinning his tires in a few aggressive maneuvers, and with the mayor's eye dead-locked on the impending attack, the car takes off. Upon impact to the side of the mayor's vehicle, the lance becomes stuck, and after prodigious pulling and banging, the Rider is forced to take off without it. The sound of the piercing sends terrors through the mayor's spine. But at the same time, it did not pierce or injure him, so he bursts through the side door, collapses on the ground, and makes a hobbled run back to the townhall, where the perpetual thudding has not ceased. Taking one look behind, he sees several of the Riders standing on top of his car, pouring out beer all over it and kicking in last windows. Now at townhall, he breaks a window and enters the building, on a side opposite to Harold. Safe for now from the Riders, he thinks of the renewed threat. Chapter 56 - Unstoppable monster After banging the butt of his shotgun against the townhall backdoor, Harold finally realized his miscalculation, and then fired the weapon at the door handle. Lightly opening the door with his free arm, he sees the Riders like he is looking right through them, being only on the hunt for mayor. He returns to the building, back to tracking his game. Panting and running, the mayor makes his way through hallways and cubicles and offices. And he finds it, what his mind conceived of as the perfect escape, the bomb shelter constructed in 1952 in the basement. Entering it, he closes and seals the top-side hatch, just as Harold catches a glimpse of him. Harold just barely misses him, and the immense and endless thudding is now applied to this steel enclosure. Except there's no way Harold can shoot through it, and the metal encasing creates a thudding that radiates off of the walls and the ceiling. But that is fine to the mayor, as he reasons that the amount of time he will need to stay here will be very short. Police were bound to show up anytime and he will be freed from this terrible threat. Struggling through the darkness, he searches for a light source, something to brighten up the empty blackness. His fingers stumble upon the light switch, a demonstration of sheer lack of nimbleness, and he basks the area in light. For a few brief seconds, he sits on a folding metal chair, and he lets out a genuine sigh of relief. "You!!!" a voice from behind him screams and pushes him off of the chair. The person proceeds to sitting on his plump, oversized back and disabling the his movements. Another figure walks out from the corners. "You seem to be stuck," Anna says, "Would you like some help?" "Please don't kill me," the mayor mutters back. "Well, now you know we have to kill you," John responds back. He does so rather casually for a man who is sitting on and restraining the town mayor. "Besides, we don't believe in the death penalty, as you know," Anna adds, "At that least little bit, you should appreciate that we Anarchists are that much more civilized than you." "You're going to torture me then," the mayor mutters back again. "Do we look like inquisitors? Am I holding a cross? Insults aside, I need something out of you," Anna pulled a piece of paper from the inside of her shirt, "This is a confession to the murders of Caleb Williams, Fernando Falkland, Barnabas Tyrrel, Emily Melvile, and thirteen others who have mysteriously died from falling from the 27th floor of the Monte Carlo Building. I expect you to sign it." "Only because you'll expose me to that crazed shooter above otherwise, I guess!" he snatches the pen and paper held before him, and gives the same self-satisfactory scribble to the bottom as he would to a bill authorizing a weekend party at townhall. John releases him and the two Perfect Anarchists walk into the darkness. The mayor has them in view as they climb a ladder to an air exhaust vent. Chapter 57 - This is a fire escape, do not block. TICK! TICK! TINK! A crowbar finally sneaks itself between the bomb shelter and its hatch. And with that break of external light into the man-made cavern, a new sound can be heard, Harold's struggling with these opposing forces, "Hrrnnnnnnnnphhhh..." The mayor looks towards the source of the noise, heart nearly exploding in his chest with each heartbeat, and then he finally hears it. A wow-wow-wow-wow-wowwwwww... The sound of a round piece of circular metal spinning against the ground before coming to a rest. The bomb shelter has been de-hatched. Harold grabs the top rung of the hatch ladder, the sound of skin slapping against metal echoing throughout the shelter. The mayor jumps to his knees and then his feet, running towards the exit just used by the Perfect Anarchists on the other side of the shelter. He rushes up the ladder to the vent just as Harold slides down into the shelter. "Time to die, Mayor!" he lets out a scream as he unslings his shotgun. He just barely has time to see the mayor and his Italian, leather shoes scuttle up the safety ladder. The mayor exits through the detached grating on the roof ventilation duct, presumably removed by the Perfect Anarchists and left open. For a few brief seconds, the mayor sits against the ventilation duct, catching his breath, until he hears footsteps climbing up the ladder. He gets up, grabs the detached grating, and after prying with its pieces for a few seconds, he manages to lock it back on, and hopefully keep back Harold. Sufficiently satisfied with his handiwork, he runs to the fire escape in the corner of the building. Harold is already banging against the locked mesh grating with his shotgun, as the mayor looks to the yellow-and-black of the roof's safety ladder. Just over the horizon, it looks like he was about to finally get out of the building and to safety. Then he stops at the edge, overlooking the multiple-story drop to the ground. There is someone standing there just waiting. It's St. Peter. "Public safety devices!? To stop Rome from burning!?" St. Peter lifts his violent ferula into the air as his captured audience struggles to understand what is happening. "Your Roman Empire shall become dust!" St. Peter lets out his soul-jarring scream, "Harrrrrrhnnngnhngnhngnhghh!!!!" and slams his ferula against the safety exit, tearing down the only other exit to the ground from the roof. The mayor falls onto his back, heart in terror and mind in defeat. Chapter 58 - Is this how it was going to end? Ksh-ker-tink!! Harold finally breaks through the barrier on the air ducts. "There you are!" Harold screams as he makes his way towards his target on the other side of the roof. "There is the false accuser! There is the liar! There is the epitome of all misery and death on this planet!" Harold's screams echoe throughout the town. Blaugh! Blaugh! Two shots from his shotgun merely ricochet on the concrete around the mayor. As the mayor takes some cover behind an air-conditioning unit, Harold speeds up his pace. "King of the thieves in a land where everyone steals! Prophet of false visions where nobody trusts god!" Blaugh! Blaugh! More gunshots just crack and scatter against the metal casing guarding the mayor. Bullet shells roll around on the ground before coming to a standstill, only rocking back and forth with the force of the wind. "I'm an elected official! I speak for the people! You can't do this to me!" the mayor now speaks to the man filling the role of his assassin. "You're elected by all the police batons and all the riot squad gear down at the police department! You speak for the forces of suppression and control! The people want nothing to do with you, and your officialdom ends at the first notice given by my shotgun!" Blaugh! Blaugh! More gunshots fly around the mayor's head. As he quickly checks for signs of heartattack or stroke, Harold slows down for a moment to reload, and then continues his walking. "Kill me and they'll just elect someone else! Destroy the mayordom and they'll just ask to be part of a kingdom!" the mayor can barely get out a breath in between his panicking and panting. "The butchers who need a nice face on their slaughterhouse, yes, they will elect another cow once you've gone through the killing! But if that cow was killed on the streets, and all of its blood and entrails and misery was made visible to the public, not a single soul would eat meat!" Harold stops and takes aim. Blaugh! Blaugh! Blaugh! More ricochet and pebbles from the concrete roof. "You can't do this! I'll tell you why!" the mayor blurts out, "I'm like a god to these people!" Calmly and without resentment, Harold walks up to the mayor, a mere few feet a way. He rounds the corner where he could see the terrified beast wrestling with the end of all things. Harold lifts up his weapon and takes aim. TONK! Tonk! A bullet passes through Harold's chest, and then another through his eye. His body slumps to the ground. The mayor looks up and sees someone leaning out of the Monte Carlo Building with a sniper rifle. It's Ed. He lifts his hand up, makes a wide grin, and makes a thumbs-up gesture. Chapter 59 - Cannabisjack "I'm holding at least fifty pounds of Cannabis right now," Jake says out loud, "At least, as a bare minimum, it's gotta be fifty." "Cutting, pruning, and drying these trees," Nobody says, "Yeap, this is manual labor." "Still has that brilliant, soul-invigorating smell to it, though," Cutter adds. "The farmer seemed all right," Mordecai says, "I think our payment should be enough to last us into next month." "Think Old on 43rd will be back up and running by then?" Cutter asks. "When that place blew up, the ground it was standing on sunk down to the center of Earth, riding down the mantle until it was right next to Satan in hell," Jake says, "It's coming back to life like a dead man who's been rotting in the ground for the past eighty or ninety years." "Well, at least I'll have something to do in the meantime without a job," Cutter says, delicately trimming leaves on the outer edges of a four-foot cannabis stalk. And then after a few moments, "Some of these specimens seem exquisite, the resin is just overflowing." "The trichomes do look fantastic," Mordecai says, "They're glowing and bulbous." "Like the perfect date on a Friday night," Jake says. "An artificial or natural end of the drought," Cutter says, "I'll take either one." The group labored hard through the day and night, cutting, pruning, and storing the cannabis for drying and curing. Based on their agreement with the farmer, they would collect a quarter of the crop as compensation for doing the harvesting. It was certainly a worth while deal. At least, with the absence of a Cannabis market, it certainly seemed like one. But the farm was on the outside of town, which required a time-consuming journey. By the end of the night, they were heading back to the town, each carrying their own four ounces of wages for the day's work. As they stood at the bus stop, exchanging stories of inspiration and plans of ambition, Cutter leaned toward the road and focused on the buildings downtown. He finally asks the others, "Hey, are there fireworks over the Monte Carlo Building?" Chapter 60 - Yes, and I see the fires, too "Beer's done!" Faye exclaims outloud. "Huh, wha --" I look up from the depths of my story, "Oh! The beer! The beer!!" I stop stirring the ladle, delicately lean over, and examine the rolling boil at the top of the wort stew. "How do you know it's done?" I wrinkle my forehead with a half-serious question to the fairy. She flew over the magical brew for a few minutes, folding her arms and making assessments, until she finally flew back to my side. "I know it's done, all right?" she says. "What now, then?" "Well, sanitize your brew buckets, pour in the wort, rehydrate and add brewer's yeast, wait two weeks, bottle the results, wait two more weeks, and then drink," she says. "Huhhh," my mind does a slight twirl, and then I finally shout back, "I thought I was going to be able to drink this now? That's what you said!" "I never said that, at any point in time, ever," Faye is purely serious as she folds her arms again. "Are you sure?" I ask with less force. "I am," she says. "So, but, what if I wanted to drink it now?" I ask. "You need to follow the processes as described," she says, "Right now you just have sugar water. Brewing is a series of biological and chemical reactions. You've done the chemical part with cooking, the biological part needs its time." "That's always what the biological part wants," I lament sadly, "Say, you have some magic, don't you? Can't you just like, make the wort turn into beer with a twizzle of your wand?" "A twizzle?" she asks. "You know, a magical thing, whatever," I say. She steals her lips to the side of the her face, casts her doubtful glances, and finishes with an exasperated sigh. "Okay," she says, "I can speed up the process." With a whirl of her wand, the 5 gallon cauldron of wort disappears, and after a few shimmers and stars dance in the air, several cases of beer appear into existence. "Hell yes!" I scream, grabbing a bottle, uncapping, and chugging the contents, and just as I finish, I throw the glass bottle to the other side of town, let out an "Awhooooo!!!!", and grab my staff, making the three ceremonial bangs on the ground. A piece of paper falls out of the sky, but this one I decide to keep for myself. Chapter 61 - A lovely day in this weedhood Mordecai, Nobody, Cutter, and Jake had started the curing process for the Cannabis farmer just inside their ranch, placing the plants in containers that would need to be opened every few hours to drain the humidity. The farmer was finishing up that process on their own, while the field workers were doing the same at home with their wages. Wake up. Smoke. Anarchy. And check the curing cannabis to see if its moisture needs draining. But still unemployed. Even when something new and interesting happens, Mordecai's days sometimes seem to blend into together with their blandness. By midday, he had made it to the Anarchist Cafe. He sits next to Nobody, "You try the new stuff yet?" She doesn't look up from her drawing. It's a new one, featuring four farmers among a mysterious, unknown plant, all of them unidentifiable but for the one female farmer, looking much like Nobody, making a truly awkward grin that she would have never made in real life. "Yeah, it's good, needs more time to dry," she replies, "Nothing is so wet that it can resist being lit with a torch lighter." "That's what I've been doing, too," Mordecai replies, "Coffee?" "Please!" Mordecai swings around the back counter and places two cups in front of the coffee machine. Cutter walks through the front door, "Hey, Nobody. Are you feeling bright and spurly today? I know I am." "It's like when you get a good night's rest after having not slept in days," she replies. "Mordecai! Coffee, please?" Cutter shouts. Mordecai adds a third cup. Jake enters wearing a smirk, "Life is at least, okay, isn't it? I think it is. Yes, yes, it is." Mordecai adds a fourth cup. "Things are good, yes," the intensity of Nobody's fingers never cease to flare, as her eyes reflect a pleasant contentness amidst the yellows and oranges of her canvas. "Oh, have you heard about the mayor?" Cutter and Jake furl their eyebrows, as Mordecai carries over the coffees. "Check it out," she flips a switch to the local news station. A reporter in monotone continues: "...gunshots broke out at townhall late in the evening when a local man broke in with a shotgun, screaming over and over, 'Kill the Mayor!' Police shot and killed the shooter, but there were no innocent victims. This incident has rankled everyone at townhall, though..." Chapter 62 - We almost got him Just a few blocks from townhall, soldiers with machine-guns and tanks with armor-piercing shells form a line. Thud!... Thud!... Thud!... They are cautiously awaiting the appearance of the deliberate and slow-moving St. Peter, and while the sounds of his movement ripple through their bones and arteries, they still cannot yet see the beast. "There he is! Open fire!" one commanding officer orders, as a hailstorm of bullets and shrapnel fly into the 40-foot statue of the canonized saint. "Mmmmrraaarggghghghghgh!!!!!" he screams in pain at the chips of concrete being torn from his chest and limbs. Dashing past a few buildings, he escapes the torments of the Army and disappears into hiding in another neighborhood. Looking before him, he sees a local crematorium, where the remains of the cremated are at rest, some of them in their permanent resting place, some of them in transit to their permanent resting place. St. Peter makes his way towards the large building. Thud!... Thud!... Thud!.... "Burning bodies!? Instead of burying them!? How will Christ resurrect those who are saved, then!?" St. Peter blurts out, "Braaaghhhh!!!!" And with a swift movement of his ferula, the crematorium is reduced to a dust plume amidst scattered bricks. Upon closer examination, he realized that he had destroyed the walls of the building, but that a basement underground was being used to store many of the remains. With fiery rage and unobstructed hatred, he lifts he ferula mightily into the sky, but before bringing it down, he relaxes his grip and releases his pose. "No, no," he says, "I will use my power to turn these cremated remains to human bodies, then I will animated the dead bodies, then I will crucify them, in proper tradition of the church, for having rejected the love of Christ." Now hoisting his ferula like it was a rifle, he points to the crematorium's basement, and lets out a scream, "Hhhhuuuhyyyuuuuhhhuhhh!!!!!!!" Standing before him was the saintly-animated corpse of Sigmund Freud. "You, heretic, stand accused!" St. Peter threatens. "You cannot harm me," Freud replies, "Your desire to control everything around you -- it is nothing more than the mature result of a never-satisfied desire to do the same as a child. The only person you're hurting here is yourself." "You will die for your insolence!" St. Peter lifts up his ferula and swings it down, but it is stopped by some magical green force that keeps it from coming down. "I am talking of the mind," Freud says, "Your religious powers mean nothing here." Chapter 63 - I will give you what I have left "Impossible!" St. Peter replies, "My power is the power of Christ, and it is undefeatable! In all domains and in all times! Grahhhrhrhrgrhrgrhr!!!!!" A second swing of the ferula produces the same result. Freud cannot be harmed by the ferula attacks. This led to a tantrum of screaming and destruction on the part of St. Peter, mostly vented against the relatively undefended street lights, crematorium remains, and sidewalks. Freud took the distraction as a good time to disappear through some alleyways, out of sight of the great, apostolic giant. When Sigmund Freud was resurrected, St. Peter had accidentally given him some of the original energy from the non-corporal, singularity-based entity. And with this infusion of power, he was much more stronger, more nimbler, and more adept than other zombies. But this energy also drove him back to the river, from its essence, incessantly tugging at him until he reached the natural wonder. As he stood there, under the bridge, a newspaper flies by, and he catches a glimpse of his date and location. The water flows by with calm and ease. He remembers where he used to be, a comfortable psychiatrist chair in Vienna, happy amidst the turbulence and turmoil of a secret psychologist society, but, for some reason, he also remembers the power of the singularity, the undefinable energy that empowers his body right now. Freud also realized that the energy was taking over him, sapping his original thoughts, and providing his motivations for him. He needed to free himself from this energy, no matter what the costs. Turning around he begins walking to town, but, he stops at the base of the bridge facing opposite the river. Placing one hand at the top of the brick structure, his hand traces out a wide circle. The places where his fingers land turn to a boiling black, and after making enough of these circles, he discontinues this motion. Then, he places his hand in the center, leans on it with the full force of his mind and body, and the circle bursts into a magnificent, vibrant, blue color. Part of the energy has been extinguished, but, it was not enough, and Freud still felt overwhelmed by the energy's powers. But still, he feels less like the great psychoanalyst powerfully controlled by the singularity and more like a stuttering corpse that wants to eat brains. "It is done," Freud finally says. His mind finally cleared. Remembering his run from the crematorium, he had spotted a graveyard. Towards this deposit of the dead, he hobbled and hopped. Only a few people had spotted him on the sidewalks, and they were more horrified by the green and gangrenous skin rather than impressed by the 19th century, towering genius. Once at the graveyard, he reapplied the same techniques as at the bridge. In the center of the cemetery, he placed his hand directly on the ground, making a wide circle that turned a porous black, and then leaving his hand in the center with the full of his weight. The color of blue burst throughout the town for a brief, single moment. Then other corpses began crawling out of their graves, screaming for brains and vengeance. Grand General Sigmund Freud and the Army of the Undead had been born. Chapter 64 - Meet the mayor Only a few blocks away from the cemetery, only a few streets away from the front lines facing off against St. Peter, the townhall was abuzz with a stormy press conference, the mayor at the center of it all, as usual. "Now, it is clear, this attacker was deranged, unhinged, and unstable," the mayor speaks into a symphony of microphones as flash photograph goes off every one or two seconds, "This is also the man who is responsible for killing Officer Thompson in the records room of the courthouse. It's obvious that this individual has a long history of irrationally anti-authoritarian paranoia, and this finally incident clearly shows that he just fell apart." "Have you done an autopsy?" one interviewer asks, "Do you know if he was a substance abuser?" "Yes, we have completed the autopsy," the mayor replies, "The suspect was under the influence of Cannabis." A few, muffled laughs roll through the sea of reporters. Before the mayor could address the giggling, another report jumped forward with another question, "What does Mr. Morris, the district attorney, have to do with all of this?" "Mr. Morris is no longer acting district attorney," the mayor says, "Although I cannot say anything more about that, otherwise it may possibly jeopardize our operations in this matter. If anyone has any information on the whereabouts of Mr. Morris, you are urged to contact the authorities." "What about the motion filed by Mr. Morris for reopening the murder cases?" another reporter jumps forward. "This man is wanted by the authorities for questioning," the mayor repeats himself, "Any alleged contact he may have had with authorities has since been confusing and questionable. That is why we are trying to seek him out for questioning." "Are there any suspected accomplices?" one reporter asks. "There are, and our police are actively investigating those, but I have nothing more to say on that," the mayor replies. "Who was responsible for taking down the shooter?" one other reporter asks. "This was a collaborative, team-effort, and I have to thank the entire police department for taking responsible and direct action in this matter," the mayor replies. "Is there any motive yet regarding the shooter, besides insanity?" another reporter asks. "Well," the mayor lifts his eyebrows for a brief instant, "He seems to have thought that I was a murderer plotting his demise." A burst of laughter erupts from the crowd. Chapter 65 - The spoils of administration Mordecai, Nobody, Cutter, and Jake strolled down the streets just outside the Anarchist Cafe, smoking on their newly-cured bud and comparing each other's creation of labor. "They're smoking weed again!" Gilbert yells in his office without taking off his binoculars. Ed is on the other side of the room, holding his M24 sniper rifle and cautiously running a tissue paper across the barrel and stock. "Two to the body, one to the head," he murmurs to himself, "Two to the body, one to the head." "You've been gloating over that kill all day," Gilbert replies, "You know there are other adminstrative tasks we need to take care of. And why do you keep saying that?" "It's the standard SWAT tactic for approaching suspects," Ed replies, "Shoot them twice in the body, and then once in the head." "Pretty sure, you only shot Harold once in the body and once in the head," Gilbert replies. "No, SWAT-trained government officials like myself don't make those kinds of mistakes," Ed says. "Apparently they do," Gilbert pulls out the autopsy report for Harold, throws it on the table, and opens it up. "Cause of death: Two gunshot wounds, one to the right eye, and one in the upper left torso." "That autopsy doctor will take a bribe from anyone, what's your point?" Ed replies. Zzzzst.... Zzzzzst....... Zzzzzzsssstttt....... "What's that noise?" Gilbert asks as he pulls his binoculars back up to his face, "It's not those kids from the Anarchist Cafe, is it!?" "The Anarchist Cesspit is too far away," Ed replies, "But where is that coming from?" Placing his sniper rifle down against the wall, Ed walks to the window, opens it, and gently cranes his neck out the window. Two figures are dangling from bungee chords just outside the window, using cans of spraypaint. "Hi, Ed!" Anna says, after hitting a chord that lets her rapidly descend to the street level. "Hey, Gil!" John cups around his mouth so his voice can echo in the office, before pulling the same maneuvers as Anna and landing on the street level. Ed takes a closer look at what was spray-pointed. The Perfect Anarchists had surrounded Ed and Gilbert's office with message, "This Window is Watching YOU!" Numerous arrows and circles help indicate which window. Chapter 66 - Everyone's war "Those punks!" Ed screams, "Call the mayor, call the police, call everyone, get those dumb Anarchists!" Gilbert pulls out his cell phone in dramatic fashion before dropping it on the desk, where it bounces across until it lands on the floor on the opposite side of the room. Ed shakes his head and pulls out his own phone. "Hey, yeah," Ed speaks with a mysterious voice on the other end, "The two little spraypainters and vandals of town just whisked through an alleyway just outside the Monte Carlo Building, heading towards the townhall. Can you see that they get picked up? Great, thanks." Ed turns to Gilbert, "It should be done." After picking up his phone, Gilbert edges closer to the window with his set of binoculars. As he just loses focus of the Perfect Anarchists, he hears a clicking in his right ear. He turns and sees Ed with his sniper rifle aimed at the last position of Anna and John. "Ed!!!!" Gilbert replies, "You can't shoot someone who hasn't had a trial and a conviction! You're embarassing me!" "Shutup, I'm not really going to shoot it," Ed says, "Just like looking through it at everything. That's all." Anna and John make it to the end of the alleyway, to find two police cruisers parked and waiting. "All right, now let's just take it nice and easy," one of the police officers says as he slowly approaches the couple. They turn back and head towards the entrance to the alleyway, only to see the flash of red-and-blue against the ground just as they reach it. "Up?" John asks. "Up!" Anna replies. She turns around and pulls two grappling hooks out of her backpack. Police officers begin to enter the alley and see the Perfect Anarchists. As the two grappling hooks crash and hook onto the rooftops above, the police make a rush for the two. But they are already out of range. Several tazer barbs bounce across the brick building walls and few shatter windows of tenants. Anna and John pull themselves up to the rooftop, and find that they are completely surrounded by police. Several helicopters can be heard now that they've come much closer. "You're under arrest! Don't move!" In the police cruisers that whisked them away, they were allowed to listen to a speech about their rights. Chapter 67 - No question Between the Monte Carlo Building and the police station downtown, there is the courthouse. A press conference at a nearby park was still bustling with reporters and photographers, the occassional video-taping with monotone reporting and the random sets of flashes from the cameras. "Mr. Morris, the former district attorney, has so far eluded authorities," one reporter says, "But the chief of police believes that it won't be long before he is apprehended. Is that right?" Mr. Morris walks through the background of the video-shooting. "Hey, buddy, we're doing a scene here," the cameraman and director shouts to Mr. Morris, "You mind mosying through the park some other time?" Mr. Morris ignores the chants. Finally, the reporter turns around, "Is that... Hey! It's Mr. Morris!" The nearly lifeless and non-existent crowd burst into a tumult of cries and screams, and while he thought for a moment that he would instantly be arrested, he was instead surrounded and assaulted with microphones and hand-held voice-recorders. "Mr. Morris, is it true that you're a wanted man? Mr. Morris, they say you're involved with the shooting in town hall, what do you have to say? Mr. Morris, they say you accused the mayor of murder, murdered who and why?" Questions and questions, like a sea that is breaking its dam, surround and swallow up this discredited district attorney. "I will have no answers for any of you until I am through with my motion," Mr. Morris says. Inside the courthouse, a much calmer demeanor pervaded, as the judge leans against his bench, "Well, I think that was the last case on the docket, another early day, it's not even two yet." He is speaking with the acting district attorney and the public defender. "You have my motion to hear right now," Mr. Morris walks into the courtroom with a crowd of reporters and photographers at his back. "Bailiff! Seize that man!" the judge orders without hesitancy. The bailiff, recognizing the old district attorney, knew the urgency of the matter and immediately drew his pistol. "You are going to put that away right now," Mr. Morris stands firm against the threat. "What's actually going to happen, is you're going to get on your knees and put your hands behind your head," the bailiff replies. Suddenly, everyone's attention was drawn to some commotion outside. It sounds like screams or yelling, but as it gets louder, it's sounding like a cavalcade of cars outside, roaring their engines and wildly blaring their horns. The judge grins sarcastically and looks over Mr. Morris, "Is this how you planned to have a protest?" One car engine gets louder and more intense, second by second, until it crashes through the courtroom wall. It's the Riders. Chapter 68 - One serving coming right up! "Ahooo!!!" a passenger gets out of the car, his face covered in tribal, war paint, a loose necktie wrapped around his head and flowing gracefully to the side. In his hands is the beer grenade launcher, which he points at the bailiff, letting off round after round, until his target was incapacitated and beer'd out on the floor. "I have a motion to present, your honor!" Mr. Morris walks over the stream of beer flowing from the opened beercans. "You can't present a motion without filing for your motion to be presented!" the judge barks back in legalistic tone. "I have the receipt," he holds up a copy of the yellow form he had filled out earlier, "So you need to hear it." "That suggestion that the mayor is responsible for the killings in the Monte Carlo Building is completely without evidence or suggestion, and it is inappropriate to use this courtroom as a forum to vent these socio-political ideas," even with barbarians in the cavern, the judge is fiercly steel in his resolution. Another passenger exits from the Riders, this one wearing a bandolier of beercans across his chest, each of which she shakes, cracks open, and sprays against the walls. A cautious crowd of reporters carefully walks over the various streams of beer and edges up behind Mr. Morris. "The suggestion of the autopsies is that these eighteen dead people saw a form of glass, known as Prexyte, and found in the Monte Carlo Building's construction materials, that causes suicidal thoughts, and from this, they committed suicide by jumping out of the building," Mr. Morris read plainly as a second car bursts through the courtroom walls, with its occupants unrolling a keg through the crowd of reporters. "This suggestion is an abomination!" Mr. Morris shouts at the judge he had always had cordial and polite exchanges with, "The simple fact is that these men were thrown from the building by police officers because killing them would've satisfied some personal vendetta, either on behalf of the officers themselves, other lawyers of the court themselves, or, perhaps, worst of all, of the mayor of town." A thousand camera flashes went off as the mob of reporters pulsed and throbbed like the ocean's surface during a torrential storm. "Your motion is outlandish and unacceptable in this legal venue!" the judge responds, "I'm disbarring you from being a lawyer! And I'm placing you in contempt of court!" "You are the one who is in contempt!" Mr. Morris screams back, as one of the Rider lights a flare and starts dancing with it on the benches in the courtroom. And then turning around and facing the audience of reporters, Mr. Morris says, "And I will take this as far as I need to take it, until justice is served!" Chapter 69 - A battle with the hypocritical forces Mr. Morris exited the courthouse to a mob of police cars and trigger-happy officers. At least two lines of police cars blocked his way in any direction, some offering poses with guns pointing at Mr. Morris, others with guns pointing up, others with pistols holstered by tightly gripped by their hands. Several took out megaphones, each giving basically the same orders as the other, to surrender, to give up, to disarm, or some such. But Mr. Morris was not intimidated. He held up up the yellow form of his courtroom motion like it was the ten commandments, and shouted out, "You are all hereby relieved of duty until every unjust death at police hands is investigated! I give you this order in the name of the court!" Ksht! Ksht! Ksht! From every possible direction, open beer cans are tossed violently at the array of police officers. Some took cover behind their vehicles, some just fell flat on their faces, several took refuge inside as their glass windows were shattered or spidered. "I need backup! We have a driveby beering!" one shouts into their radio console. But it wasn't just beercans now, as someone also threw a flaming shoe at a police officer. Through the chaos, through the burning debris and the fizzing beer, through the broken glass, half-ripped-up police sirens, the cops ducking for cover behind their cars, the reporters intently gazing and cheering on their photographers, through all of it, there walked just one person: Mr. Morris. Calmly and coolly, he crossed through the madness and disappeared. Several of the police officers attempted to pursue the former/now-acting district attorney, but they quickly were cut off and rammed by a drove of Riders. The first one to block the pursuit stopped briefly, carefully rolled down his window, during which he was struck from behind by another Rider, and then daintily lifted his head outside the window, "You're all a bunch of fuckin' Nazis!" Followed by a ritualistic "Ahyooo!!!!" the man's head duck back in and he quickly became just another anonymous car among alcohol-intoxicated drivers. In rejoining the pack, he immediately bumps into another car. Among the epithets screamed from the vehicles were: "Minority-oppressors!", "State violence!", and "Sanctified killers!" The Riders started to make circles around the two rows of police cars, honking their horns erratically and randomly throwing opened beer cans, usually with a spin that cause them to eject beer in all directions, like a sprinkler or a grenade. At least one Riders' vehicle had a flag with its icon only being a German-style beer stein filled with golden ale. Several police officers fired their weapons, but to no avail. Seeing their desperation, some merely fired their weapons into the air without a target. Finally, like a frightened gaggle of geese, the Riders disappear from the courthouse grounds and scuttle away. They're heading towards the townhall. Mr. Morris is gone. Chapter 70 - Beer vigilante "I just told them all, we're going to find Mr. Morris, and you don't have a clue where he is? Not a single clue?" the mayor rocks back and forth nervously in his office chair while talking on the phone and staring at the ceiling. "We have already run into him several times," Ed replies from the Monte Carlo Building, "The real problem is the ineptitude of the officers who were trying to apprehend him. Look, we have a plan --" "Hang on a second," the mayor interrupts Ed and puts the phone on his shoulder. "Hey, Bonnie, what's that noise?" "I'm Sue, sir," the secretary replies, "I'm not sure what that noise is. Maybe a truck going by outside?" "No, it's coming in all directions," the mayor's heart sank. He has heard that noise before. Turning back to his phone, "I think the Riders are here. Goddamn it! You need to take care of them, too!" He slams the phone on the hook. Back in the Monte Carlo Building, Ed and Gilbert exchange glances, as Gilbert gives a half-sarcastic, "Does he think we're not even trying?" The sound outside the courthouse grew and grew. The mayor's fear had been confirmed when he heard someone outside townhall shout, "King of the Nazis! We know you're on your throne!" Several beer cans smash through the windows and begin to pollute the interior of townhall. "We're under attack!" the mayor screams and jumps under his desk, weilding his office chair like a shield. After a few moments of this, a car finally bursts through the all-glass barrier of the mayor's office. "Make him drink beer!" one of the Riders scream as they exit their vehicle. A keg is mounted on the shoulders of two Riders just over the mayor's desk, as they pour the contents of a 10-gallon keg over the prestigious desk and its "Mayor's Office!"-labelled stationary. After this they run through townhall, placing cases of beer on secretarys' desks, and then finally running off once they found a reasonable place to put their empty keg: deeply wedged into the toilet of the "mayors only" special bathroom. Among shouts of "Aahhhhwww!!!!!" and "Ahyooo!!!!", the gang of Riders get back into their vehicles, and drive off into the sunset, still screaming "King of the Nazis!", some turning it into lyrical song "King of the Nazis, because he could not be ordained as Priest of the Nazis...", and others still throwing opened cans of beer. Once all had returned to permanent quiet, the mayor crawled out of the beer-soaked hole, picked up the phone, dialed a number, and only says, "Kill the Riders, kill them all." "Yes, sir," Ed replies. Chapter 71 - Flight of the Riders A roaming flock of cars flies through the downtown streets in a flurry, leaving behind exhaust and noise. And then the lead cars unrolls its windows and lets the full furry of Flight of the Valkyries by Wagner blast through the downtown area, aided by the percussion instruments of car horns and the smashing metal of vehicle collisions. The Riders were in hot pursuit of their celebration of their raid on townhall, and nothing seemed to be able to stop them. "Hey, we got cops behind us!" the passenger in the lead vehicle indicates to the drivers. "Release the depth charges!" Several half-full kegs of beer were launched through the back windows of these vehicles, some of them stalling the vehicles of cops, others being deftly dodged, and others exploding from the sustained, carbon dioxide pressure. "We're out of depth charges!" the second-in-command informs. "Okay, new plan!" the lead Rider does a U-turn at about 80 miles an hour, and for a brief moment the other cars pile into it, but as soon as they touched it, as per the game of CarTag, they violently took off in the opposite direction. The Riders and the police were going head-to-head. One set of vehicles equipped with flashing red-and-blue lights and a helicopter or two was now going off against a set of vehicles that brandished beer-flags and jousts from the Knights of the Round Table of King Arthur. As the terror of Wagner reached their ears, the police broke and fled. None of them had any training in classical music, let alone drunk-driving. One police car swerved off into the park, crashing into the cement post where St. Peter had once sat. Another swerved into a nearby storefront, a heart-pounding thunder of shattering glass just livening up the string concerto movement in the opera piece. Only one police vehicle stayed on course when faced with the Riders directly, and it was quickly dismantled by a joust. "What the fuck are you people doing down there?" Ed's voice comes in over the radio, "I'm watching you, and it looks like you're just tearing up the backyard of the park downtown and breaking into minority-owned cornerstores. Stop joking around! Get those Riders!" One police officer, in a crushed car, manages just to pull himself out. He was covered in beer and had only a few drops of blood on him. "We'll get them! We're doing our best, sir," he pulls the radio mic from the crushed vehicle. His body now gets violently crushed by a speeding cop cruiser, whose driver grabs the radio mic and adds in, "In pursuit now. Shouldn't be a problem." Chapter 72 - Civil disobedience The Riders were intense drivers, and they ran through construction sites, parks, parking lots, and alleyways. Similarly, the police in pursuit were able to just keep up with them. But as the cop cruisers went, they smashed windows in the construction sites, ran over trees in the parks, dented up parked vehicles in the parking lots, and overturned dumpsters in the alleyways. The Riders dutifully observed the rules of CarTag, only touching other vehicles and the road. The Riders had gone so far that they went past Old on 43rd, and then went to 50th and 60th street, about sixty city-blocks from their starting point. Their trail of damage proved that the police were also dutiful in observing their obligations, or at least, the one obligation to Ed in the Monte Carlo Building to capture the suspects at hand. Finally, the Riders were able lose the scent of their pursuers, once they had reached the docks, the only way to go waterborne in the town's river. By now it was getting late and the place was abandoned. The police slowly drove through the various nooks and crevices throughout the harbor and its maze of cast-iron, cargo crates. "I can hear their engines, but where the hell are they?" one officer breaks the radio silence. For an hour, this went on, the soft crumble of pebbles as cruisers rolled past each pathway in the maze. "Going to have to break pursuit, we've got reports of homeless sleeping in the park downtown just outside town hall, mayor's orders, let's go," the order rings out through the radios, followed by the sounds of engines speeding away, as the docks are left in even greater darkness without the headlights. "Let's go?" one officer argues back, "We can nab the homeless later. But we've just nearly got these guys!" "You know your orders, Neil," comes back the response. While the others took off, Neil decided to stay, still roaming those lightless corridors of cargo and crate. Finally, he came across one of the Riders. The vehicle was parked, and nearby, there was a man leaning against the warehouse wall and urinating onto a fence. Neil exits his vehicle, "Put your hands up, right now!" He aims his pistol at the Rider. "I need just like, maybe, like, twenty seconds or so," the Rider replies, his stream undiminished. "I said now!" Neil shouts, "Put your hands up!" After a dwindling of the tinkling noises, the Rider turns around and agrees, but then he points to the hood of the car, where a case of beer is unceremoniously ripped open. "Step away from the beer, sir!" Neil shouts, but the Rider makes a running jump behind the car, grabs one of the beers, and holds it up defiantly to the police officer. "Put the beer down, sir!" Neil shouts again, but the Rider only cracks it open and begins to chug it. The police officer fires a warning shot at the case of beer that causes it to gush with carbonation. But the Rider keeps chugging his beer. "Okay, you've been warned," Neil shouts again, but then a bullet rips through Neil's throat, and he collapses. The rider drinks several more beers, while pelting the cans at the dying officer's body on the ground. After three drinks, he gets in his car and drives away. The docks are also close to the catacombs and the infinite singularity, which Micah still calls home. Now and then, of course, he will fire off a shot. Chapter 73 - Debeering "Hey, it's Ed," he speaks into the phone and leans back in his swivel office chair. "Yeah, I know who it is," the mayor replies from outside townhall, where a hazmat crew is cleaning away the beer and debris left by the Riders. "What have you got to tell me? Because I'm betting it's going to be bad, otherwise I would have heard it from everyone else already." "The Riders got away," Ed replies back quickly. "And Mr. Morris?" the mayor asks. "You never asked us to chase Mr. Morris and no opportunity for that presented itself," Ed shoots back. "What have you done lately, then?" the mayor asks whimsically. "I killed Harold for you," Ed responds almost saddened that his accomplishments are being ignored. "Your batting average is 0.333. Try to get that up a bit, if you can," the mayor hangs up his cellphone. Gilbert leans away from the phone and Ed hangs up. "He sounds lovely today," Gilbert adds in. "Mr. Morris is organized, no doubting that," Ed replies, "That's why it'll take more time with him. The Riders are disorganized, just like Harold was, so there's no excuse for ordinary police officers to be unable to apprehend their suspect." "Don't you remember?" Gilbert asks, "The mayor needed the police to beat up some homeless people who were sitting on his favorite park bench." "That's just a typical mayor's excuse," Ed replies, "Simple fact is, nobody in town likes going to the deserted docks, especially at night, and the longer those cruisers dig up that turf, the more likely something bad could've happened. Pulling a retreat at that point was just strategic. We'll still get the Riders." "Something like what could've happened at the docks?" Gilbert's interest peaks. "Reports are really sketchy," Ed responds, "Disappearances, that sort of thing." "Hang on," Gilbert pulls his binoculars to his eyes and leans towards the window, "I think we have a rioting mob." Ed proceeds the same with his binoculars, "Wait.... wait... wait... Are those zombies?" Chapter 74 - Prophecy realized As the evening closed, there is a bright light up in the sky with as much energy as two or three suns. People were blinded. Traffic was stalled. A zombie attack on townhall was thrwarted, leading to the retreat of Grand General Sigmund Freud and the Army of the Undead. The Anarchist Cafe drew its heavy, black blinds and refilled its coffees. St. Peter was nearly paralyzed by the stupendous beauty of that light, as it distracted him from crushing a fully-occupied police-cruiser. The people inside town hall, the courthouse, the Monte Carlo Building, and the police department streamed into the suddenly inactive streets downtown, following the light. "Yes, come closer, come closer," a heavenly voice beams out from the brightness, with as much power and intensity as several megaphones, as it slowly hovers towards the center of downtown. "Who are you?" the mayor finally speaks out, thinking that a representative should be the first to speak. "I am the second coming of Christ, I am the messiah of the prophecy," the bright light suddenly crystalized into a human being, draped in white toga and brandishing Roman sandles, "I am here to create a paradise for all who have accepted me into their hearts, as it was written in the book of --" "But you're a woman," the judge says. "Yes, I am the daughter of god," the voice of Jesus booms throughout the downtown district, "And I am here to save you from the wickedness of --" "Can a woman really do the saving?" the police chief asks, "The Bible (Timothy 1 2:11-15) says that women shall remain quiet on religious matters. So, it's obvious that the real god would not send a daughter, but a son, to come for his faithful." "The body is merely a husk of the soul, a form for the substance," Jesus continues, "And the substance I have to bring is salva --" "You're like, fully a woman, though?" the mayor asks, "If I ripped off your clothes, it would be like ripping the clothes off a toy doll? There'd be nothing down there, right?" "Have faith and do not allow your prejudices to interfere with your hopes," Jesus replies to his questioners, "Remember, the kingdom of god is within you, it is within all of you --" "My faith was in Jesus Christ, the Son of god," Ed cups his hands around his mouth so that everyone can hear him, "Who am I talking to? The confused, teenage niece of Zeus?" Gilbert says nothing, and decided to keep his voice to himself after the clash of his initial thoughts and the crowd's. "I am here to take you to god," Jesus speaks as his golden aura floats him through the air, "I am here as the messenger, the source, the enlightenment --" Suddenly, the aura disappears, and Jesus stops floating. She drops to the ground. "You...you all stopped believing in me," she says, "So, I've lost all my powers." Moments later, the chief of police arrests Jesus for disturbing the public, and everyone else returns to their jobs relatively unaffected. Chapter 75 - Not in the market for salvation yet For more than a thousand years, theologians have composed every argument to prove that their Christian god must exist. The so-called "Teologiocal Proof" and "Cosmological Proof" and other impressive-sounding arguments occupied more pages than there are drops of water in the ocean. And everyone agreed, every chemist, every physicist, every town mayor, every priest, every merchant, everyone agreed. Some disagreements arose, sure, like with Galileo, but nobody ever doubted the whole, entire basis of the social, political, and philosophico-religious system: that the Christian god was the one, true, undeniable god. But then Jesus shows up without a penis, and the whole thing collapses on itself. What Jesus Christ failed to mention so explicitly was what every merchant and seller of goods fails to mention: the downside. The second coming of Christ wasn't merely a plan to get everyone into heaven, it was a divine plan to desolate, destroy, and decimate all that remained of Earth. It was to create a living apocalypse, so that only those who accepted Christ could find the glories of heaven, while the rest would be left behind in disease, despair, and death. Coincidentally, as every god gets their powers from their believers, Christ lost all her power because everyone stopped believing in her. So, the apocalyptic plan couldn't be put into play yet. In fact, no plan could, so long as Jesus stayed in jail. So, basically, what was happening is the world was ending. "Honey, hit that joint, or pass it, please!" Faye reminds me of the burning J in between my fingers. "Oh, yeah!" I say as I graciously inhale from the joint and hand it to her. Leaning down, I grab another bottle of homebrew, pop it, and chug it. "I love when you get dramatic about your story," she says with as little air as possible, to conserve the smoke in her lungs. And I release the air that's been building up in my stomach. "It's getting kind'a cold and dark," she exhales a plume of gray and hands me back the cannabis rollie, "Got something to that can help?" Sprinkles of glitter and glowing dust brush off her shoulders as she does an extra flap of her wings. "Why sure, let's call the storms," I say. Then I grab the staff, bang it on the ground, and make that thunderous cry from my lungs toward the night sky. Lightning, thunder, and rain! Rain from the east, then a sudden tempest bursts between the air masses, and then it becomes rain from the west! More lightning and thunder. A piece of paper drifts into the alleyway, slowly slinking along on the broken back of the wind, and lands at my feet. With a care not to read any of the words on it, I quickly swoop it up, and hand it to you: S&P: +1.09% FTSE 100: +2.55% Shanghai Composite: -4.37% Nikkei: -3.13% Hang Seng: -2.87% SATN: +6.66% Chapter 76 - Analysis of a zombie Wake up, smoke weed, think about anarchy, and then grab a bus over to the Anarchist Cafe. Mordecai walks through the front door, "Hey, Nobody," he walks next to his friend. But it's not just Nobody. It's Nobody and a friend of hers, both of them stuck in their artwork. "Hey, Mordecai, this is Caroline," Nobody says, "We were talking about Freud after class, and we decided to keep talking." "Psychology student, huh?" Mordecai asks, "Coffee, right?" "Yes, please!" A round of warm echoes sends Mordecai to the kitchen. "Freud is just misunderstood," Caroline continues, "Of course the news is going to make him out to be a zombie that eats peoples' brains and barks back something like, 'Tastes like depression!' They're just trying to pitch for a socio-economic system that depends on people needing regular prescription drugs instead of confronting their actual problems." Jake and Cutter walk in and get introduced to Caroline. "Coffee?" Mordecai gets the orders of the new patrons. "Some people can't confront their problems," Nobody replies to Caroline, "And those people do show some improvement with pharmaceuticals for maintaining emotional balance. Confronting your actual problems may require bungee-jumping lessons and a deep urge to look down at the peak of your flight. A couple of pills made by the billion is something the government would rather pay for." "The government? Is there anything reasonable that it ever does?" Jake asks. "Eating brains, huh?" Mordecai slides the coffees across the table, "Are these figurative or actual brains?" "Actual," Nobody doesn't look up from her artwork as she answers, and with a deft movement of her left hand, flicks on the radio switch. "Grand General Sigmund Freud and the Army of the Undead have been rampaging the streets, scaring civilians, and engaging in combat with armed troops," the monotone reporter continues, "So far, the zombies have been unable to break into the townhall, the police department, and the courthouse. But numerous victims here have already been claimed." "What kind of social organization do you think zombies have among themselves?" Jake asks, "Think it's anything like ants, or bees?" Chapter 77 - And then it came into my life "Has anyone heard what the Grand General did underneath the bridge?" Caroline asks, and everyone shakes their heads, "There's a portal to a different dimension inscribed against the wall." "A portal to another dimension? Like, one you can walk through and then end up in some place strange?" Cutter asks, "It's not one of those really cool drawings that just changes shape when you look at it funny?" "It's an actual, dimensional portal," Caroline replies. "Cool, let's check it out," Mordecai says, "I've seen a lot of interesting things, but I don't think I've ever seen a portal. The group concurs and exits the Anarchist Cafe. Just as Mordecai is leaving, he sees someone enter. It's a freshly-bailed Jesus. She passes through the front doors and Mordecai walks past her. But then he turns around and walks back in, "Hey, don't I know you, do I?" "I don't think so," Jesus says, briefly thinking of the name of the establishment she entered. "But I must know someone who knows someone who knows you?" he asks, "You strike me as too familiar." "I think I just have that kind of face," Jesus replies, "You may have seen me on the news lately, I got into an argument with the town mayor and judge." "No, that's not it, I don't watch the news," Mordecai responds, "But anyone who is an enemy of the mayor and the judge is a friend of mine." He takes her order, whips up a delicious, hot coffee, and hands it to her. "We're heading to the bridge, if you want to come, there's supposed to be something interesting near the river, a multi-dimensional portal, allegedly," he says. "Yeah, sure, why not," Jesus grabs her coffee and exits the Anarchist Cafe with Mordecai. Her purpose was to find some place of sanctuary where she could rest and recuperate, but by then, she felt like it had served this purpose. Chapter 78 - Fly away "What is it?" Cutter asks, pointing to the glowing blob of blue that was stuck to the retaining wall of the bridge. "That's supposed to be the portal, I'm told," Caroline replies. "You just....simply walk into it?" Jake asks. "Oh, cool portal," Mordecai catches up to the group with a trailing Jesus. "How long has this been here?" Nobody asks. "I only heard about it the other day," Caroline says. "So, who's feeling like Yuri Gagarin today?" Jake asks. "I'll try it," Mordecai says. With one bold foot forward, he walks through the blue smudge on the bridge's concrete base. His body turns blue and it is as though he is occupying a full space underneath the bridge. "Whoa!" he turns back to the others on the outside, "This is amazing, you've got to try it! I hereby dub thee, Blueworld!" "What's it feel like?" Cutter asks. "It's different, I don't know," he says, "Everything here is blue. It's like, a park, but with blue grass, blue trees, blue lake, well, lakes are blue anyway, but it's like it's painted with acrylic paint, and everything's just dripping with passion and artwork." "Cool! I want to be next," Jake says. "Nobody, you're next, I need an artist's view of this situation," Mordecai's hand sticks through the blue barrier, becoming real life color again and beckoning to Nobody. She takes a step inside. There's silence for a moment. "Well, well?" Mordecai asks. "It's beautiful," she says, "Stunning. Heart-wrenching. Hey, what's that over there?" She runs to a distant object. "Oh, it's just a big rock. But the dripping and pouring blue just, made it look....like maybe anything." Mordecai walks over and leans over the rock. "Yeah, seems...like the most interesting rock I've seen," he says, and then he turns to the portal exit and yells back, "Hey, you guys should come in and check it out!" He waves, but Cutter, Jake, Caroline, and Jesus are just there, stuck, frozen, motionless. "They're not moving," Mordecai says to Nobody, as she remains fixated on the colors of the rock. Turning back to his friends one more time, "Hey, I said you should come in!" Again, they remain motionless. "They're still not moving, Nobody," Mordecai says. She sits up. "You're right, they're not moving," she replies, and with her inspiration dwindling to caution, "We... should go over there." As soon as they reached the portal, their friends became animated again. After a few more experiments, they finally realized it: when you are more than two or three steps into blueworld, time on the outside world stops completely. They spent days there -- Mordecai swimming in the blueworld's blue lake, Cutter and Jake climbing the blue trees, Nobody making careful analysis of the textures and hues, even Caroline and Jesus were throwing handfuls of blue leaves at each other. And not a moment was lost. Chapter 79 - Sage to sage The group finally decided to exit their blueworld paradise, returning back to a normal world that appeared to have hardly have changed. They head towards the direction of the Anarchist Cafe, and a light rain starts to pour. They're stopped in their path by a man in a long, black trenchcoat and a dark umbrella shielding his face. He lifts the umbrella slightly -- it's Mr. Morris. "Hi, Jesus," he says, "I was wondering if I could talk to you. It's about your case." "Anyone who seeks me out shall all things they need given to them," Jesus replies, "I mean, I mean -- yeah, sure, let's talk." As soon as Jesus and Mr. Morris disappear down an alleyway, the rest of the group ignites a joint and keeps walking back to the cafe. "I arranged to make sure bail funds were available for you, and that the guard on duty after your bail hearing wasn't influenced by either the judge or the chief of police," Mr. Morris says, "Hard to think about this system that requires so much insider-knowledge and cunning in order to make sure a known-innocent person is released from jail." "Innocent person?" Jesus asks, "I know they charged me with disturbing the public, but am I only an innocent person? Am I not the daughter of god, the second messiah, the closer of dark worlds and the opener of new heavens?" "Of course you are, that's why I like you and that's why people like that hate you,," Mr. Morris, like all district attorneys, was once a public-defense attorney, and his habits of always agreeing with his crazy clients never went away, "I'm not your judge, I'm your advocate, your ally, and your friend. You have nothing to prove to me. You have everything to prove to your enemies." "And what if all my enemies want to do is crucify me?" Jesus asks. "Then I'll file an injunction, and to guarantee it passes, I'll show up at the poker table that night where the judge is playing, lose liberally, and thank him modestly for the insight and brilliance he played with, you know, typical injunction stuff," Mr. Morris says, repeating more of the former defense attorney's lines, and forgetting for a brief moment that he would probably be arrested if he was spotted by any judge in town. "But you, Mr. Morris, what do you believe in?" Jesus asks, "Don't you believe in me as the divine redeemer of all Christians?" "If it helped our case, I sure would!" Mr. Morris responds, "But it's only likely to offend local sensibility, whether you're fighting a judge, a jury, a mayor, or the whole lot of them. Look, just make sure to comb that hair of yours before you go into court." Chapter 80 - Blast from the past Mr. Morris disappeared into a cab that dutifully ran up, stopped, and gave sanctuary from the rain to its one passenger. The raindrops only became heavier as Jesus watched the vehicle speed off into the distance. She heads back to the Anarchist Cafe, and walks past a television set in a store window. It's a tele-evangelist, "It's pretty obvious that a religion that uses women to principally communicate to humanity is incorrect, false, and invalid. That's why, I'm reinventing what we've all wanted -- the Nowomenist Church of Christ, where no women are scheduled to be saviors, redeemers, or priests! Only men!" Jesus shakes her head in disgust and keeps moving from the raindrop-soaked glass of the storefront. She imagines herself back at the Anarchist Cafe, where at least it was warm and the coffee was abundant. Just ahead, she notices a blue, metal mailbox hurled through the air and bursting against the park fencing into a thousand papers and flints of metal, each taking flight in a different direction. Around the corner, she hears in a deep, throaty voice, "Enough with your postal service! Death to all Roman systems!" St. Peter steps into the light at the intersection, before Christ and the whole world, and belches into the air, "Hrargrgrgngngngnhnhnhnhhh!!!!!!!" A rocket-propelled grenade zips by his head unnoticably, while a few stray police bullets chip pieces of concrete from the back of his head. "St. Peter, is that you? What have they done to you!?" Jesus approaches the forty-foot, animated statue. "Jesus! Jesus, that can't be you, either!" St. Peter replies, "I'm the incarnate of vengeance, power, and divinity. I should be the one asking what have they done to you, now that you're a woman!" "There was never a plan or any scripture or any angelic scheduling that said the divine redeemer of all humanity was going to return in the male form," Jesus argues logically, "The second coming is here, that's all that matters." St. Peter grabs his chest, pauses, and finally, "Lies!! Lies!!!! Death to your false idols, Rome!" And with a rising of the ferula, the divine staff strikes down, splitting the ground in half and knocking Jesus to her feet. "St. Peter!" Jesus gets up and screams back admonishingly, "You have confessed everything to me when you asked me for forgiveness! I could prove to you that I'm the real Christ by saying what you've done! What you and the Bacchus Sisters were doing!" "False prophet!" St. Peter swings the ferula again, "You shall be crucified for pretending to be Christ!" Chapter 81 - The age of warlords Jesus Christ dodges a fresh blow and lands on the sidewalk. "St. Peter, it didn't have to be like this!" she screams as she ducks through a narrow, side street. "You won't get away just that quickly!" St. Peter screams, heading in the direction of the Anarchist Cafe. "Peter, stop!" a voice shouts from the bushes. The Grand General steps into view. "Where is this anger coming from?" "You!" St. Peter turns around to face Freud, "I should've crucified you when you were still dead!" "Not just me," Freud lifts his right hand as a balled fist, and releases it into several, outstretched fingers. Zombies pour into the streets from the park, all of them surrounding St. Peter like a mob. "A crowd of disciples of Satanism!" St. Peter begins to get excited, "I shall have a merry day smashing you all to pieces!" "Why were you trying to kill Jesus?" Freud asks, "Isn't that the voice you heard whisper to you, that convinced you to become converted? Isn't that the person you saw in the dream? Isn't that what defined you as a person?" "Huh, what? No!" St. Peter visibly shrinks down to 39-feet, "That's not the real Jesus! The Jesus who whispered to me was a man! And the Jesus from the dream was masculine!" "Did you check? Physically?" Freud asks, "I mean, when this mystical ghost brushed up behind you, and whispered those sweet words of immortality and heaven into your ears, did you pat him on the groin and then ask him to turn his head and cough? Was there any physical confirmation that you had joined a male-prophet religion?" "You're just trying to confuse me!" St. Peter drops down again to 38-feet, "You fight with the mind because there's nothing else in you that can fight!" "Do you feel like you transfer responsibility and blame when you transfer attention away from yourself?" Freud asks. A number of the zombies groan and let out a few murmurs for "brains." "Death to you and your Roman ways!" St. Peter lifts his ferula, lets out a deafening "Hnrgngngangngngngnhnhhhh!!!!!" and swings his staff across the masses of zombies. Upon impact, the air became a sea of flying bones, rotting arms, green legs, and puss-overflowing eyeballs. "Zombies, fall back!" Freud regroups his army and makes for a retreat. Chapter 82 - At the coliseum "Hnhnragngngngngnh!!!!!" St. Peter screams as he lifts his ferula defiantly into the air. Then several fragments of concrete burst from the fingers in his grip, and he drops the staff. Looking into the distance, he follows a red dot on the horizon, until he sees Micah and his rifle in the Monte Carlo Building. "Disarmed, outnumbered, weak, you're at just where you've been afraid to be all your life," Freud shouts to the 35-foot statue, "Is this how you built a church? Did you bash your initiates into believing?" "No, but I made them stop eating until they were too weak to walk, and then I called it a religious practice!" St. Peter bends over and places his hand on the ferula on the ground. "I will do unto you as you would do unto that false prophet of a woman who just ran down the street!" Freud makes a dash up the arm of the grand statue, and succeeds in placing himself on St. Peter's shoulders. With his legs wrapped around his neck and his arms wrapped around the forehead, Freud was in a relatively unmovable place for the saint. "Oh, a zombie at my back? Are you going to eat my brains? My concrete brains with your frail, decayed teeth?" St. Peter starts swinging his arms around his head to hit Freud. "Teeth of another kind!" Freud pulls a pickaxe out of the back of his trousers, and begins picking away at the back of St. Peter's skull, and then in a much more clinical tone, "Tell me the first moment you remember experiencing fear." "Hell was only practicing on the sinners that came before just so they'd know what do with you!" St. Peter screams, "Hack away at my body, you'll never touch my soul!" In the struggling and argument, St. Peter begins scratching at his neck like a madman. He finally wraps his fingers around the tiny zombie corpse and flings the aged psychiatrist zombie against the park's gates. "And now, to have you destroyed!" St. Peter turns to his ferula, the ghastly, 30-foot staff made of concrete and rage. Then, there's a roaring sound at a distance, like waves in the ocean. St. Peter squints, and makes out the banner of King Arthur flying in the wind at a distance. "Ah, my Christian brothers, who have so long sought the Holy Grail of Christ!" "Bah bah bah BAAH BAAH!!! Bah bah bah BAAHHH BAHHH!!!" as the Riders approached, their screaming to the loud tunes of a Wagnerian opera could easily be made out by all except St. Peter. Someone leans out of the passenger seat of the lead car, and fires several open beer cans at the ancient Christian saint. As they pass, a jousting pole is stabbed into St. Peter's left leg and an exploding keg of beer is thrown at the right. The animated statue holds up its arms to protect itself from the onslaught. Finally, with the car horns and engines fading into the distance, St. Peter opens his eyes to his surroundings. The Grand General was gone, and so was his army. But the ferula, laying in the middle of the road as it did, was smashed to pieces, only left behind in the form of dusty concrete bits. Chapter 83 - Among the people Jesus stumbles through the front door of the Anarchist Cafe. "Jesus, coffee?" Mordecai asks from behind the counter as he is making refills for the others. "Coffee?" Jesus slowly regains her composure, "Yes, yes, sure, coffee would be good!" She takes a seat at the table near Nobody and Caroline. Neither Nobody nor Caroline look up from their canvas, both waxing their artwork with various light and dark shades of blue. "Anyway, blueworld is probably as much a part of our psychological construction as it is an actual, physical dimension in the universe," Cutter says. "You can't take a striding step into your own psychological construction," Nobody says without turning from her art, "And you can't throw leaves at someone in a psychological construction, either." "Why? No trees in psychological constructions?" Jake asks, "Because there's plenty of dirt, I can tell you that." "Hey, Jesus, what did that guy with the umbrella want?" Mordecai brings her and the others coffee, taking a seat and sparking the conversation. "A friend of a friend," Jesus says, "He just wanted to warn me about something." "Think he could score us some grass?" Cutter says with a lowered voice. "No, not that kind of friend," Jesus smiles, "Although, maybe. I'll make sure to ask next time." "We should smoke grass in blueworld next time," Cutter says, "That's our new plan, it has to be." "I wonder if combustion is possible there, since time doesn't pass," Mordecai says, "I guess it would have to be." As hours passed, they drank their coffee, and expressed more admiration for the possibilities of their new, blue dimension. As the day grew dark, Jesus decides to head out, and walks past a television set in a store. "New cults are popping up everywhere," the news anchor's voice reverberates against the window, "Cults devoted to America as their god, or Moses, or even St. Peter. They all have one thing in common: their new god is male, and they believe that any feminine savior is a demon sent by Satan. According to a new survey, almost overnight, Christian beliefs went from being shared by 80% or 90% of the people in this town to less than 5%, with a 5% margin of error. Neo-Christianity is not on the surveys yet, but it is clearly the dominant train of thought." That's enough for Jesus, and she just keeps walking. Chapter 84 - A walk through the mind "Jesus! Jesus!! Over here!" a voice shouts out to the savior as she walks past the park to the bus stop. "I don't recognize you," she says across the street. "It's me, Sigmund Freud," the voice barks back. "I don't know any Sigmunds," Jesus responds. "Come on, you know me!" Freud sticks his head out of the bushes. "Oh, Sigmund!" Jesus hurries across the street. "Can you walk and talk with me? I'd walk with you there downtown, but, I tend to draw unnecessary attention," Freud replies. "What about?" Jesus ask. "It's about Peter," Freud says, checking left and right for possible witnesses, "You know, the saint. I heard the whole argument you two had. Come on, let's talk." As they escape under the darkness of the park's trees, with sentry zombies posted to catch intruders, the two stroll through the park's walkways. Freud lights a joint, inhales, and passes it to Jesus. "You seem to need St. Peter," Freud says in a non-confrontational tone. "Me? Need St. Peter? No, no, it's the other way around," Jesus says, "He needs me. I'm the one who saved him from the damnation that came with the Romans." "You're being preachy. Have you ever noticed that might just be one of your internal defense mechanisms against conflict posed to your relationship?" Freud asks. "This is a mere tiny feud between vying parties in the church," Jesus becomes even more defensive, "It's a problem of managing the staff correctly, okay? It's not an internal problem, it's not a deep-rooted problem, it's not an analytical problem, and it's definitely not a psychological problem." "A psychological problem stemming from your weakness and inability to confront things where all your beliefs may be at stake, even if those things are doing you harm? Is that also one of the problems you're certain you don't have?" Freud asks. "Look, I need to get going," Jesus says, "It's been nice, but --" "Listen to me, Jesus! This relationship is over! St. Peter is not your friend and you shouldn't want him to be your friend. You have the memories, but you should also know the predictions. You obviously just got yourself mixed up with a really bad guy. Just walk away from it," Freud says. There was some brief silence, Jesus eyes searched the floor and Freud's eyes (one of them dangling) searched Jesus' face. "I'll think about it, okay?" Jesus finally says. "That's all that I can ask," the Grand General responds. Chapter 85 - If you brew it, you drink it Pop!! I flip the cap off a bottle of brew and liberally pour the libation down my throat. Half the bottle emptied, I wipe my mouth on my sleave, and let go of the accumulated air contents of my stomach. "You know you're charming, Charles, right?" Faye asks me with a twist and then a roll of her eyes. "Can't tell a story if you're sober," I reply, "Just like you can't blow a whistle when your mouth is dry." "Can you... do the storms again?" she asks, "Starting to get darker out, could use a little source of heat to charge up these bones and some energy to add glitter to these wings." Pop!! I open and drain another beer into my belly. Regaining my composure, I realize that she has said something at me, and I respond, "What's that?" Faye flicks her finger at the staff, and a dozen sparkles shoot from her fingertip and swirl around the wooden device. "Ah, yes!" I say, as I pick it up out of the cloud of glitter and magic. "Hey, Faye, where do you think the paper comes from?" I ask as I marvel at cracks in the grain of the staff. "I don't know," she says, "They probably come from many, different places. I mean, have you ever seen two that were exactly the same in purpose or inspiration?" "But it's just a piece of paper," I say, "It's thin, delicate, and can be torn easily. It's weak, it's just really weak. And it still lords some power over us." "Keep drinking those beers and you won't be thinking anything about your own weakness," Faye says. Pop!! "That's a good idea," I say as I take her advice. Finishing the last drop, I remember that I'm holding the staff. "Oh, right!" I blurt out, "The storms!" With my grip tightly wrapped around the wizardly instrument, I lift it up and bang it on the ground three times. Lightning breaches the sky, a torrent of raindrops pours left and right and up and down, and throughout the sky, darkness spreads then unfurls then spreads some more. A piece of paper falls from the skies. I hand it to you... Did you know that when you die, you existence isn't over? Did you know that you have a soul and that soul will either go to heaven or be damned to eternal misery in hell? Well, it's a fact! (Source: Revelations 20:13-14) Chapter 86 - New and old ways Wake up, smoke weed, head over to the Anarchist Cafe. "Coffee, Nobody?" "Yes, please!" she remains fertively passionate in her artwork. Cutter and Jake enter, also passing off their orders to Mordecai. "That blueworld is something different," Cutter says as he examines Nobody's art piece, "But, not like anyone would want to stay in there forever." "It's relaxing, but there's nothing to do," Jake says, "You can roll around in leaves or swim in the lake, but that's it. So, basically, it's just a country club where time doesn't pass, which makes it a very average country club." "What do you think about the physics are behind it? You think it's like some kind of chunk of dark matter that's somehow stuck under the bridge, and inside dark matter it just so happens that time doesn't pass?" Mordecai brings over the coffee and his ideas. "I would say it's much more like a dark energy signature," Nobody says, "It neutralizes the effect of the passage of time. But, that's only a theory. The worst part of it is that you cannot paint there. The canvas gets sopped in blue discolorations, and if you keep trying to paint, the canvas melts." "A melting canvas sounds much more like dark energy than dark matter, I'll give you that," Mordecai responds. "Hey, have you all heard the news about Old on 43rd?" Nobody draws everyone's attention without losing her own. "What? What do you mean?" Jake stammers. Nobody leans over and flicks on the radio switch, turning to the local, independent media outlet. "Lester Ross, the international billionaire playboy, has made public statements about resurrecting the manufacturing plant that was destroyed earlier this year. The new facility is going to receive a state-of-the-art renovation, and when complete, it will be manufacturing computer chips, robots, and circuitry, with a reach in international markets in Europe, Asia, and America, according to sources." "No way," Jake says, "Old on 43rd is being saved? But I have barely been laid off for a week." "My sentiments exactly," Mordecai says, "Well, it's not like they can have it finished by tomorrow. Walk and smoke?" Chapter 87 - Unto the breach Storms of bitter, icey snow and winds of cold, unforgiving breezes pelt and bash the prison on the outskirts of town. Everyone passing through the state notices it just off the highway, that redbrick building surrounded by 16-foot fences and accented by the endless glare of barbed-wire. Now and then, a tall tower with tinted glass announces its approach to drivers on the interstate, but it's difficult to see much of anything with the weather. Anna and John are separated into the male and female wings of the correctional center. But both of their bunks are typically the same; one unknown inmate that is always quiet in the cell but always loud out in the common area, the smell of decaying mess-hall food on disposable plates hidden under the bottom bunk, mixing in with the trashbag full of prune june that's been fermenting for the past week. Incarceration was not beyond the adaptation abilities of their plans. At one o'clock in the morning, Anna rises from her bed and walks over to the steel door of her cell. Inhaling a chestful of air, she uses her hands to cup her mouth and wraps it around the keyhole of the lock. She blows air through, and the lock melts away into oblivion. A few more melted locks, and she's already at the courtyard, standing between freedom and slavery. She waits a few moments, and John shows up. "We run, we get through the fence, and then we bathe in a river of cannabis smoke," she whispers to her friend. John nods, "And don't forget I love you." She nods back. They bolt through the wet, marshland fields and finally make it to the chainlink fence. With only some moist breath, they're able to melt this authority-built barrier. An alarm sounds. "Keep going!" Anna shouts. "Halt, now! Halt, now!" the megaphones that circle the prison begin blasting a repeated, robotic voice in all directions. Tink!!! It's so sudden, so quick, so quiet, no one would have guessed that it was even there. "John..." she collapses, a bullet through her throat. "Anna!!" he hurriedly places his arms under her back and legs to lift her, but -- Tink!!! A shot into his leg brings him to his knees. He reaches into her back pocket, grabs a small, sealed, cylindrical container, and throws it over the fence. Tink!!! Another shot, this time through his skull. His body drops to the ground, unconscious and without a heartbeat. "I love you, too." Chapter 88 - Who cares what you remember? "Remember, the government exists for one reason, and one reason only, and that is to try and kill you," a businessman with a Texas bowtie walks up and down the aisle between hundreds of metal, folding chairs, a tarp under his feet, with a massive tent between his head and the sky. Every few sentences, he needs to readjust his cowboy hat. "And if the government wants to kill you, what can you do about it?" the businessman turns and continues his speech, "Boom! Gunshot!" he mimics with his hand and extended finger next to his skull, "You're dead! What are you going to do? What can you do? You can get guns! I'm talking shotguns, machineguns, automatic rifles, napalm, mortars, claymores, or VX nerve gas!" Several men and women are passing out flyers, clad in black, "Staff" T-shirts and slightly enthusiastic faces. "You, sir, what would you like to accomplish today?" the speaker walks up to a person in the audience. "I want to be able to protect my family and my property," the audience member responds, "We have the right to bear arms to protect ourselves from anybody, criminals or the state!" A small round of applause ripples through the waves of the crowd. "Good answer, good answer!" the businessman readjusts his cowboy hat again, and then moves on down the aisle. "You, ma'am," he approaches a woman in the audience, "Would you like to tell us something about what you want to accomplish?" She stands up to the crowd and says, "I wanted everyone to finally recognize that I'm Jesus Christ, the daughter of the lord and the savior of all humanity. I feel like I might be unable to get this immediately, so, I'll do the only thing that I can do in the meantime -- arm myself with an endless supply of weaponry and hide out in a bunker until something happens that gets me what I actually want." There were a few uncomfortable faces in the audience and some nervous coughing, and the businessman nodded his head left and right, while wrinkling his face, as though he were weighing the pros and cons left and right, and finally says, "Good answer! Good answer!" A neon "Applause" sign lights up and the crowd bursts into positive, enthusiastic clapping. The young lady who had just spoke, she was wearing a T-shirt purchased at the Anarchist Cafe, which only had the words: "I Remember Harold." Chapter 89 - Your heroes are dead An ensemble of twenty police cruiser makes a line around the partially-destroyed headquarters of the local authorities. Spraypaint still lines the second floor's exterior: "Harold is innocent. They're all lying to you." A car slams into the first cruiser in the line, causing the sirens to go off. A few officers standing at the station's front door run over, and before they can identify the car, they hear, "Look at the Nazis run in their little, Nazi uniforms!" Ksht ksht ksht!! Several open cans of beer are ejected at the officers, forcing them to retreat. The caravan of Riders flows past the station, bringing everything with them -- passengers equipped with Viking helmets and screaming with megaphones, flags representing both King Arthur's Court and the Second Spanish Republic, some cars blasting Wagner and other cars Beethoven, a variety of spraypainted messages from a mere "Drunk!" on the hood of one car to a more elaborate "Cops Go Home!" on the side of another. A flurry of officers rush out of the building and into their cruisers. The endless screaming of a local chief acts like a whip, and his failure to accomplish this one task for the mayor is like its spurs. "Drag every Rider back here!!" Near the crossing at the bridge and the river, just above blueworld, the Grand General was moving his Undead troops. An attack was being prepared to liberate the remaining prisoners at the correctional facility just near the interstate. Standing in the center of the road, Freud was signalling to platoons when it was safe to move, as they were not just avoiding cars, but were operating in a completely silent maneuver. A car blasting Wagner roars past Freud. "Hold!!!" he manages to scream amidst the tulmut and chaos. Several more cars roar by, but Freud is left untouched, virtually ignored by them. A few seconds pass, and then all the Riders have disappeared. Silence reigns again near the river. Freud takes a good look at the road down and up the street, and then he reassesses the formation of his zombie troops. "Oh, shit!!" a police officer screams as his cruiser rips through Freud's carcass. With a street full of black, bile-filled blood, the officer turns the steering wheel, but this only spins the car out of control. More police cars pile ram into this one, and finally a pileup stops any further cruisers from attempting this route. This bridge is the only way to get from uptown to downtown, there is no other way over the river. Some of Freud's intestines are on the sidewalk, his legs are torn and broken in the center of the street, and by the grass near the bridge, his torso crawls away from the wreckage. Two fellow zombies help him out of sight and towards the relative safety underneath the bridge. "Your sense of guilt is what undermines you," he lets out, and finally, zombie Freud, the Grand General of the Army of the Undead, perished. With their general gone, the powers which animated the army vanish, and so do they. Chapter 90 - Time to go The immense herd of police at the local station was due to appear at a ceremony of the mayor in the city park, honoring Officer Neil who died while in pursuit of the Riders. But now that they were all piled up on each at the bridge, the Riders ran through the ceremonial yards with much candor and vigor. Banners were run through, refreshment tables were flipped, television crew vans were knocked over, and by the time the Riders had left, several sources of fire were burning all over the park. "I don't think it's safe yet!" the mayor balls his fists together in his bullet-proof limousine. He's sitting on one side while all of his secretaries are crammed together on the other. "Police say they're on their way, but it might be some time. But anyway it looks safe outside now. We can reschedule if you want, though," his secretaries dutifully inform him. A crowd of reporters outside is still bustling and fussing, checking recording devices and testing microphones. "Okay, okay," the mayor finally says, "I guess it's safe." He emerges from his limo like a bird emerging from a cage. A sigh came over the crowd, as the reporters realized they would be allowed to do their interview. "Good afternoon, everyone!" he steps up to the microphone. Just as he speaks these words, someone walks onto the stage from the opposite direction. It's Mr. Morris. "I believe I'll be taking the floor!" Mr. Morris shouts, as the crowd bursts into a jubilant storm of screams and excitement. The mayor flees back to his limo. "I have a press conference of utmost importance that I am calling here and now today," Mr. Morris lays his hands across the podium and establishes himself a firm presence, being lit up with powerful, bright lights randomly by the flash of cameras. "The courts in town are under the control of the mayor," Mr. Morris speaks, "The police departments in town are under the dual control of the courts and the mayor. Everything that is possible has been done to impede my investigation into the deaths occurring at the Monte Carlo Building, and that is specifically because the mayor has been sanctioning these killings and local police have been carrying them out." "What are you plans to do about? Have you tried appealing the court decision? Is there a plan for moving forward with a district attorney electoral campaign?" His reporters were exploding with questions. "I have been denied an audience with the governor and the president, so, today, I am leaving for The Hague, in the Netherlands. I will make my case before the International Court of Justice and the UN. That is all," and without answering any of the bombarding questions, Mr. Morris disappears from the stage. Chapter 91 - The last mass The black, rubber, breathing mask can be seen in the reflection of the plastified, cockpit window. But certainly, the pilot's eyes could not be seen, masked as they were behind another thick layer of black plastic. Only a minor nudge of the plane's yoke and then there comes the sound of air filling a pressurized suit and the feeling of rising upward quickly. "Hnanhngngnhnhnghnhhh!!!!" far below the jet, St. Peter's screams can be heard echoing between both ends of town. Across the green monitor lifted up between his legs, the jet pilot tracks a small green blip that comes up beside him. "You get a lock on the target?" a disinterested voice mixes with static and emerges through to the other jet. "Aaa-ffirmative," the other pilot responds, "Target is ten meters in height, careful, we have friendlies down there." "Haaaargngngnghnhghghghhh!!!" St. Peter lifts a mailbox and throws it at the line of Army soldiers shooting chips and fragments out of his concrete body. Far above the street level, aircraft made of silicon and metal floats on clouds and jetstreams. The sonic boom adds an extra echo to the screams of St. Peter, but the ground soldiers recognize the sound sufficiently, and begin to disengage their target. "Romans! You fear me! You should have feared the gloriousness of Christ!" "I'll fall through on first run, you follow and deliver the second payload," the pilot radios to his partner. "Rrrr-oger," breaks through the static. The two F-16's fall from their high-altitude orbits and approach the range of fire. "You shall all be destroyed!!" St. Peter's voice rumbles through the park, the townhall, the courthouse, the police station, and the Monte Carlo Building. Two lines of black fall from the sky around the 40-foot statue. Great plumes of dust fill the air, as though someone had blown up forty bags of concrete mix. Police and soldiers on the scene cover their eyes, mouths, and noses as the detritus smogs around them. A few seconds pass, and two more lines fall from the sky, at the relative center of the first two. Another explosion, more burning, more rubble, more dust. Constant coughing bursts out in random directions, there are a few calls for "wounded?" here and there, and the car alarms awakened moments ago start to quiet down. All that was left of St. Peter was the dust. Chapter 92 - Moving on up "What happened? You're serious? You're really, absolutely serious?" Ed's face is half-shock and half-grin as he listens to the phonecall. "Well, where, then?" he asks, "Excellent! Thank you, you won't regret this!" "Who was that?" Gilbert leans back from the window, binoculars in hand and half-keen interest on his face. "The mayor!" Ed's face beams, "He's allocating more funds to our department. That means we get to have a bigger office on the newly-renovated 27th floor!" "Amazing!" Gilbert stands from his chair, "When do we move?" "Well, we can't move yet," Ed says, "They still next to get rid of that glass that's been killing everyone who looks a it, Prexyte." They exchange a wink. "Speaking of that, why is the mayor helping us out right now?" Gilbert asks, "Mr. Morris is still running rampant throughout the world, giving drive-by press conferences about the mayor's murder record. We don't know shit about the Riders, either their motive or how they are organized, if there is any organization at all. And there seems to be a growing, local extremist movement in regards to the death of Harold, based on folklore and religion and that nonsense." "Well," Ed says, "We took care of Harold when he was a problem, we coordinated airstrikes against St. Peter, and we finally figured out a way to get Mr. Morris to leave town. We solved half of the problems." "But not the problem of those kids smoking pot!" Gilbert leans against the window with his binoculars. Ed quickly saddles up next to him with his own pair. "Yeap, that's the gang," Ed says, "Walkin' down the street, sipping their coffee's and smoking their joints. They make me sick." "We certainly haven't solved this problem," Gilbert says with the lenses still glued to his face. "Are you suggesting an airstrike?" Ed remains similarly glued the window. "Or maybe it's just not a problem that has a solution," Gilbert replies. "Sometimes you have the weirdest ideas," Ed says. Chapter 93 - A short path for a long wall After the attempted escape of the Perfect Anarchists, there are now some boards put around the holes in the barrier that surrounds the interstate prison. Attached are some strewn pieces of police-tape; they waft and dance in the wind. A few particles of snow begin to cover up and whiten the bloodstains. Micah walks by these barriers. A few guards inside a guard booth lift their heads at his passing, but they don't do much else. He stops at the snow mixed with blood and the yellow plastic. His eyes try to sift and sieve the events of that night -- his heart wanders through darkness and his mind through the infinite. "Hey, hey!" one of the guards walks out of the guard booth and points at Micah, "You can't stand there, sir. It's a security issue. Please keep moving." Micah exchanges a look with the officer. The guard holds his arm out and waves his finger in a direction away from the crime scene, like an officer directing traffic. Micah slowly takes a few steps away, and as the officer notices he has gained compliance, he barks, "I'm not waving at you, asshole." Micah wanders through the growing sheets of white falling from the sky, and he thinks about Anna, and then he thinks about John. He thinks about the blood he just saw and he thinks about the rage and vengeance in his heart. He also thinks a little bit about the Dragunov sniper rifle he has stashed away in the Monte Carlo Building. As he is walking along, his finger hits something that goes airborne. The clanking of glass against rock sounded like it was a bottle, but as his eyes focus, he clearly sees a cylindrical container. Flipping it over once or twice with his foot, in case he is dealing with mere trash on the ground, he sees a piece of paper bottled up. He leans down, picks up the item, opens it, and unfurls the item inside. It's the mayor's signed confession to the killings on the 27th floor. Except for the gigantic and unwieldy signature of the mayor, the sheets of paper contain mostly lists -- the victims, the officers, the cover-story of Prexyte, even who ordered the killings and why, with reasons as diverse as "ethnic difference" to "insulting an officer" on one end, to "has evidence" and "political opponent" on the other end. Backgrounds, family members, bodily markings, physicians doing autoposies, everything is here. All of the corroborating evidence is overwhelmingly so convincing that the mayor's confession and signature are merely like a bowtie on a massive present. Micah rebottles the paper, and shelves it in his inner coat pocket. "Better I hold onto this now," he says to himself, "Instead of letting one of those police officers get it." This is one last, final gesture. He knows that he was brought from the crypt of dead heroes beyond the river, and he knows that the forces that reanimated had splintered off from the great singularity. With the Perfect Anarchists and St. Peter, a perfect equilibrium of splinter energy remained, but now that he's the only one, there's an imbalance, an irregularity, a violation of the laws of physics. The clouds were opening, his body was disintegrating, and in a moment, Micah was nothing more than pure energy on a direct return route to the unintelligible singularity of energy. He merely dissolved into the sky. Chapter 94 - Showing a new thing to an old revolutionary A crowd from the Anarchist Cafe, with plumes and billows of smoke rolling through it, finally makes it to the bridge and the river. "You might like blueworld, it's kind of interesting, but, it probably won't hold your attention forever," Mordecai instructs the new initiate. "It's just...blue in there?" Joseph asks, "Nothing but blue?" "Well, there's blue things," Cutter says, "Blue leaves, blue trees, a blue lake." "And, what do you do in there?" Joseph asks again. "Anything," Nobody replies, "You can do anything you want. Time ceases to pass on the outside world, so, you can do anything you want, for as long as you want, without any responsibility." "So, that sounds too good to be true," Joseph says, "There's got to be a disclaimer or a scam somewhere. What's the catch?" "You can't build things, or create art, or make revolutions, or throw molotov cocktails," Jake says, "Anything you make, bonfires of blue or artwork of blue, simply vanishes as you exit. Even ideas seem to disappear, although the memories somehow remain." "Okay, let's go," Joseph says, as he puts a long leg into the portal. A surprised expression fills his face, "Whoa, this whole place is blue!" "Yeap," Mordecai replies. "Wait, how can we still talk, if time doesn't pass while I'm in here?" Joseph asks. "That effect only happens after you go in far enough," Nobody says. "Then you'll all basically appear to me like statues, and I'll be able to do whatever I want, for a million years, and then come back and say hello like it was two seconds ago?" Joseph asks. "Yeap," Mordecai replies. "This is amazing!" Joseph runs off into the distance. "How long do you think he'll be?" Mordecai asks the others. Joseph returns to the conversation. "I'm going to stay here." "For now?" Cutter asks. "I'm not sure," Joseph says, "At least a while." "Suit yourself," Mordecai says, "But it'll get boring eventually, trust me." Chapter 95 - My friend Pop!! I lift up the bottle and the beer races down my throat. "Whoooo!!!" I let a yawlp with my hands in fists and my feet dug into the ground. "Calm down, Charles," Faye says, "Your story is almost over. You do want to be able to finish it, right?" "Did you..." I start talking and then I forget what I was going to say, "Did...we have any more beer?" "Yes, darling," she flaps he wings points to a bottle on the ground just behind me. Pop!! Another beer into my stomach. "You can be so charming," Faye smiles at me. "You want some storms?" I ask, "I can make sure they're roaring, explosive, noisy, and as crazy and as powerful as you'd like." I give her that persuasive glint of my cracked smile. But she just stays there, hovering in mid-air, smiling at me so affectionately, without a trace of action or thought. I look into my beer bottle, notice that it still retains some liquid, and then polish it off. "Should I call the storms?" I conjure up the ability to speak a bit more clearly. But I look at her, and I see no response. Turning around, I grab the staff leaning against the brick wall in this alleyway. "Storms?" I say as I lift the wood in an unceremonial way. Finally, she breaks the silence. "You can be so charming," she smiles at me with a repetition. "Okay, storms it is!" I lift and slam the staff against the ground three times, and then I let out a howl, "Awhhohooohohohohhhoooooorrrgnhnh!!!!" I release the bracehold of my eyelids and search the sky, but, there's it's perfectly clear. No rain, no thunder, no lightning. I lift up the stick a little closer to me, examine its grain and its shape, but I see nothing that would make it lose its magic. "Hrmm," I curl my lip a little at Faye with concern, although she is still smiling. "I say!!!" I scream as I lift up the stick, "Come lightning! Aaargngngnhnghhhigghidxdxxx!!!" Three, four, five seconds go by. I open my eyes, and the night sky is as clear as ever. Then I see it -- tiny flecks of white snow, dancing back and forth. They are so unmenacing. Certainly no lightning or thunder, and definitely no papers filled with energy and power. "Can you believe it, Faye?" I say, "I ask for a cataclysmic disaster and I get a snowday." I look to her, she says nothing, but still hovers in the air, that beautiful, little nymph with her unending smile. Pop!! Just one more beer so that I can get my story finished. Chapter 96 - Hnhnngngrh Hnnghrh.... hnhngrgh.... ... Brightness. Consciousness fills my mind and bright, orange light fills my eyes. It's daylight, it's morning. I look around me and I am surrounded by empty beer bottles, dirty newspapers, and soggy cardboard that I had slept on. "Faye, can you make it night again?" I say, "I want to get a few hours more rest." A few moments pass by. "Faye? Are you there?" I lift my head and search the skies. "Faye, where are you?" All around me, I see no sign of her, just the bright reflection of the sun against red bricks and concrete. I struggled to my feet, and get a better view of my immediate surroundings. Trash, trash, and more trash. But I see some people crossing the sidewalk just outside this alleyway, so I rush up to them. "Excuse me!" I say to the couple, "Have you seen a fairy, about six inches in height, flying around here? Name is Faye?" "I'm sorry, but, I don't have any spare change," the male says without breaking his step. "I didn't ask for spare change!" I shout back, "I'm looking for a fucking fairy!" No response. I look around again. The clouds are harmless and slow-moving, the sky an innocent, light blue, and the occassional clicking of someone's shoes. I rub my eyes furiously and look around again. Things seem much different. Reassuring myself that the only change to take place was the passage of night into day, I trek on. "Faye!" I start to holler as I walk around, like a parent who has lost their child. A few people give me looks. After making a few blocks and doing this, exhaustion starts to pour into me. I could use a coffee. And there's at least one place I know I can go and get one. So I start a leisurely walk uptown. Some of the blood begins to flow again, and my mind feels finally awake. Though my eyes still incessantly dart in and out of alleyways to make contact with that illustrious fairy, I do so less and less as I walk, and I feel a little less anxious. She is a magical being, so, it's not possible for her to get into trouble. At least, that's what I always tell myself. Chapter 97 - Religion My journey brings me past the greenery of the park. Students at a picnic table, children laying in the grass, and adults making small talk near the -- near the St. Peter statue! For a moment, I'm frozen, fear strikes through my whole body, and I have nothing but this intense desire to run. But then I see the happy children, the bored students, the mediocre parents, and my fear subsides. They're not afraid of the saint? Why not? He's not moving. He's just sitting on his chair, with his ceremonial ferula standing on end at his side. His feet remain like stone, only a foot from the base of the chair, where some lofty verse from the Bible must certainly be written. It's like a statue! It's... because he is a statue! And the pharmacy across the street, it's not destroyed or burning, though I certainly remember it being crushed by St. Peter. In fact, it's bustling with customers! Although, there are a few people with Pro-Life signs standing in front of it and screaming something about St. Peter. I slowly walk towards the monstrous beast who I had seen tear up mailboxes, police stations, and tanks. But there's no rage here. While his eyes are full, there's only a slightly loud smile is across his face. Certainly no motion, certainly no emotion either. For a few seconds, I actually expect him to wink at me before he goes back into his apostolitically-destructive rage, ripping the children in half and throwing the parents and students in the river. But that doesn't happen. He just sits there, like he's a statue. "St. Peter?" I mumble under my breath, as though I could catch him off guard and make him reanimate by my own words. "Yeap, that is St. Peter," two of the parents walk over to me, "Are you religious? Would you like to be? Do you know Jesus?" "Jesus!" I say, as my attention from the statue disappears, "You know Jesus?" "Well, we're trying to talk to everyone about the savior," the other parent adds in, "You can find out more about him near the information kiosk." "Him? You mean her," I mildly correct her, to no response. "Where's this kiosk?" They point me to a small, information booth around the corner, with the sign, "Find Jesus!" My heart elates. Jesus will know where Faye went. I thank the two parents for their direction, but they only look confused by me. "Hi, can you help me find Jesus?" I coolly break into the conversation with the attendant at the Jesus-booth. "Yes, sir!" a man half my age tells me with bottomless enthusiasm, "Christ died for your sins, he was crucified by the Romans --" "I'm sorry to interrupt," I say with disappointment, "But you must know a different Jesus than the one I'm looking for. Thank you, though." Chapter 98 - Society I turn around from the confessional booth, or whatever it was, and the bright, gleaming reflection of the sun beats my eyes into submission. What's reflecting so much here uptown? I look for the source, and, it's the windows of the Monte Carlo Building. But -- there are no banners of Red and Black, there is no indication of revolutionary Anarcho-Communism, and there's certainly no spraypaint indicating which windows are staffed by FBI agents watching the people. I put my flat hand across my brow and stare at its glossy windows, and wonder, if somewhere behind that glass, I could still find Ed and Gilbert. But that reminds me. If I'm going to find Faye, or anyone who knows her, I'm probably going to have to look downtown. I grab a quick coffee from the Anarchist Cafe, and head in that direction. In walking to the bus stop, I'm interrupted by an overly loud television set blasting in a storefront window. The commercial was showing one of the Riders! The Rider and their vehicle do a triple flip in the air, before coming to a near standstill, but, by mere luck, it instead flips one more time, and then bursts into horrific flames. "Drunk and drugged driving comes with a cost," a voiceover message says, and then in a hurried, legal voice, "Message Paid for by Mothers Against Drunk Driving." I struggle to make sense out of the interpretation of this advertisement, but before I can, a news program starts. "Micah Xavier Johnson was infuriated, he told police negotiators, by the deaths of black men at the hands of police," a CNN broadcaster recounts in monotone, "Authorities believe that rage led the reclusive former Army reservist to kill five Dallas police officers..." No, no. Micah? That can't be the right Micah. There has to be a mistaken identity. The real Micah is part of the energy continuum now, he is one with the singularity. He's certainly not getting himself killed by a robot carrying a pipe bomb that police officers moved with a handheld controller! I walk by a few more television sets in a few more store windows, and it's all the same stories over and over again. The same sensational garbage just repeated. This gives me the idea to look for a story about Anna and John and to see what kind of nonsense the corporate media must be cooking up about the Perfect Anarchists, but I see nothing. Of course, Faye is my top priority. I'm looking for her, and for anyone who might know where to find her. As I get off the bus in the downtown area, the sounds of megaphones, shouting, and crowds can be heard. I follow the sound, and I find myself in a grand ceremony of sorts. The courthouse, the townhall, the police station, and the groundfloor of the Monte Carlo Building are all decked out with spinners and banners and twirlers and all that. There is a great stage in the center of it all, to which everyone's attention is focused. A man walks up to the microphone and starts speaking, promptly grabbing everyone's ears. He speaks clearly and without interruption, "As mayor, I would like to present the key to the city to our most distinguished, loyal and faithful of public servants, our district attorney, Mr. Morris." A roar of applause goes up around me, clapping and screaming and cheering. My mind sinks back into disbelief. Chapter 99 - Economy I roughly push myself to the front of the crowd. By the time I'm there, I see Mr. Morris holding the gigantic, golden key in a pose with the mayor, as thousands of snapshots bathe them in white, blinding light. "Hey, don't you know the mayor is a fucking killer!!!" I wrap my hands around my mouth and scream. "Why aren't you prosecuting!? Where's your dignity and honor!? The mayor is a murderer!!!" Before I can get out one more word, a brisk and hairy arm wraps itself around my throat from behind and I'm quickly dragged away from the stares and shouts and clapping, most of it increasing at the moment of my departure. I'm now a good few feet from anyone in the crowd, and I'm still getting dragged. Several police officers surround me slowly, but without concern. I dig my fingernails into this person's skin, and pull the arm close so that I can bite, but I miss. "You piece of shit!" I turn around and discover that it was a cop who was dragging me. I lean back my arm to swing, but before anything can happen, I feel this hissing buzz travel throughout my whole body and leave me completely numb. I collapse to the ground. I had been tased. Completely incapable of moving, one police officer grabs my arms, and another grabs my legs, and I'm quickly deposited into a nearby alleyway. While completely motionless, I was kicked in the head and chest repeatedly. I thought I was going to lose consciousness, and at least this would take the pain away, but my brain held on. "Let's arrest him," one of the officers says, to which another responds, "No, too much to explain by now. Just leave him." The maniacs finally leave me, and after several hours of holding the pressures of my skull, I finally get up. It's afternoon now, and the crowd has died down. I see my fedora lying on the sidewalk, and deftly scoop it up and back onto my head, at least hiding some of the grimacing bruises now. I know where I could look! Old on 43rd is being planned for reconstruction. It's still a big pothole in the ground, but there should be someone there who would know someone else, who would probably know where I can find Faye. Another bus takes me uptown to 43rd St.. Walking along, I finally come to it. Old on 43rd. But it's not blown up! It's still standing! Every brick and piece of rusted metal and bent rooftop panel is still there! Nothing has changed! No explosion. No damage. Nothing. I rush up to the sidedoor and knock repetitiously. A young man answers the door, "Look, I'm sorry, we're not looking for anyone right now. We can barely keep our company afloat with our current payroll, okay?" My voice is taken from me. It's just another rustbelt factory, another undermanned and underutilized series of equipment in a concrete building. Moments pass and I still do not have words. "Shit, are you okay?" the young man finally says, "You're bleeding. Come in and sit down." I follow his advice, still not sure what to say. He takes a few bandages from a nearby First-Aid box, and applies them around my forehead and the side of my face. To help get me going, he pours me a coffee in a paper cup, a replacement for the one lost at the town rally, and sends me on my way. I thank him with all my heart, and then he opens a door out of the office, blaring with machinery and equipment, and disappears forever into that noisy world. Chapter 100 - The self The river! I can go to the river! At least nearby, there'll be the catacombs that I can plunge through, the endless hall of heroes. Someone there has to know where to find Faye. As I rush across the bridge over the river, I remember something. Blueworld! Joseph is still there, he should know what's been happening and why the town has suddenly taken on such an odd twist. He can get me in contact with Jesus and Jesus knows where I can find the fairies. Underneath the bridge, all I can find is graffiti. Orange, black, yellow, red, used to spell out things that could only be legible to the writer. Bricks and lines of concrete for a canvas, but that's all that's here. There is no blue portal. There is nothing blue and nothing portal-like in all that I can see around me at all! My eyes stream from side to side, in a searching mode, but all I can see is: empty beer cans, empty beer cases, empty spraypaint cans, empty fast food bags. There's nothing here, and if anything is here, it's empty, rotten, or used up. But then, something that normally would escape my eye finally glistens up. There's a tiny, metal structure in the center of all this garbage, but it's so well-surrounded that you could hardly distinguish it. I gently kick away the garbage around it. It is a metal panel with the emblem of a flame on a thick, square, metal base. There's some engraving on here, that I can only barely make out... Dedicated to Joseph Bradley : Who took his own life from this bridge. You were too good for this world. My search had ended. Later on that night, as darkness took over the sky and fresh, sweet air was replaced by cool, sea-smelling breezes, I looked into the river, and I drank. I can't believe people actually drink canned, store-bought beer. This is atrocious, and I can hardly stand to drink it, but, right now, it's what I need. Faye is gone, I will probably never see her again, and my story doesn't make sense when I tell it to anyone else. And now that I try to find the people I used to know, they're all gone, too. Everyone's different; everything's different! I'm alone here, and I couldn't even find the Perfect Anarchists. I drank and I drank and I drank. I must have been barely conscious. Only my immense sadness was able to keep away my fear of being arrested for being drunk in public. I drank, and then I stared at the river, and then I drank, and then I stared some more. I drank so much that I must've passed out. In one of those lucid, barely-conscious moments of drunkenness, I look up and saw two people. A woman is speaking to me, "Don't give up hope, the problems you're experiencing may simply be ones of organization rather than idealism." Punkerslut, |
