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We Have To Be Here So This City Is A Pyramid Somewhere

Book By: jonpelletier
Literary fiction

This novel is woven around the question of whether we are alive or dead. In his manic dreams the author decides he is trapped between lives and in deep trouble. When he finally learns about himself, a creature saves him from the myth that is haunting him. Our hero is finally released from limbo into a city he used to dream about and soon falls asleep to find he is working for the higher power, much to his dismay, perhaps trying to become a righteous ghost.

Why is he being chased through lives by a creature trying to trap him in a sack? Or are these mystic creatures only trying to scare him straight? How does one escape from the trappings of strange realms? This work of fiction is a novel represented as a collection of short stories, to connote the absurdist realities of such spiritual topics. Nobody can know for certain any belief, as it uses concepts and words created by an imperfect human.

On the back cover it must be made clear that the protagonist is always the same person. Although his name and form sometimes change the story is being told of one man dieing many times as he is quickly passing from Earth to some other place. The deaths are sometimes hidden, sometimes abrupt, always cunning and lightly dosed with humor, allowing our hero to learn lessons about his personality and soul’s eternal weight.

This is fiction by a young and distinct writer. Although I am just beginning to send my work away to publishers and agents, I have entered five contests in the past 5 years. I won an honorable mention from the 2006 CBC Short Story Contest with one of the stories that is in this book and I won the three-hour writing contest earlier this year, receiving college credit. I have rarely been published outside of Okanagan College, but I am hoping that I could begin to make my living by writing books. My plan is to pay my way through further schooling by royalties and published work. I also have two other completed books, one fiction and one non-fiction.

Submitted:Feb 27, 2011    Reads: 47    Comments: 1    Likes: 0   

We Have to Be Here,
So This City is a Pyramid Somewhere
Jon Pelletier
The carpet was soft so they both laid over the opening to watch people wander through the city street, into shops and out of restaurants. The room was light blue, with a white ceiling. We could see a small waterfall in the corner, with a steep clay path for the water to flow down. The pool below was round and rose about a foot from the ground. There was a door in the corner of the room, which was closed. Opposite to the waterfall was a painting by Jim Morrison, titled "Enlistment" and framed in elegant black wood.

Ezekiel smiled and pointed his index finger and one young man in a red hat. Daniel smiled back and reached to a small pouch on his trousers. "Watch this," he said with great strength, "It's a magic trick." On that cue he pulled and pair of dice and threw them into the opening. They bounced back off the curved enclosure separating the angels from the world below. "Double sixes, it is your lucky day, pal" Ezekiel shouted. Just then a black sedan screamed past the man in the red hat and threw and duffle bag out the window. The man reached down and picked it up just as a police cruiser chased after the sedan. As the police flew by the man opened the bag and reached inside, finding three gold watches and a stack of twenty-dollar bills. "Nice toss," Ezekiel nodded, "my turn now."

Ezekiel grabbed the dice and shook his fist. "A part of me wants snake eyes for that fat broad on 18th street." Daniel laughed, "Toss them and see." He looked up and down 18th street and found the woman Ezekiel was gunning for. The dice were tossed into the bowl; they spun and danced like the wind around the woman. Her hair was tossed upwards as the dice climbed the side of the bowl and fell once again as the dice did the same. Slowly the white cubes eased into the center falling on a two and a four. "Slight misfortune," Ezekiel said softly. She stepped lightly and nearly skipped while whistling her new favorite song. The angel brushed his forehead and pointed, as a bike messenger dodged and dog jumping out at him and collided with the woman, spilling her, himself and all the packages on his bike all over the wet road. He slid on his hands for a few moments before rolling to his shoulder and knocking his helmet against the concrete. She was less lucky, falling to the right and into the street and striking a man on a motorcycle. The wheel of the motorcycle tore through her new dress and she landed beside the messenger. Both angels laughed and Daniel gasped, "I love this game!"

"We have to remember," Ezekiel said, "God has granted us with the abilities to meddle in the lives of the innocent. We must do so with utmost respect and admiration." "Of course, I would do nothing other. I love my job, I don't feel like getting fired." Daniel laughed at his pun. Ezekiel nodded, eye twinkling and stated coldly "It's a good gig if you can get it. We just must be sure to restrict ourselves to the stated guidelines of the game. We may have gone overboard on our slight misery." "But it is completely random, that why this is so entertaining. There is no ebb and flow to it, we are just making days or initiating disasters to these people. It's great!"

Daniel shouted, "I'm going to go again," while pointing at a car with his index finger. He pressed his finger against the bowl they were looking through creating a smudge. He threw the dice, contemplating living every moment through the whims of a pair of dice. The thought scattered as a bird flew past the window. He tried to locate the bird again and it had perched near the 4th floor of an apartment building, he looked inside and saw a husband and wife playing music together, the window was open and the sound was drifting down the city block. The rain was pattering on the fire escape creating waterfalls off the railings. Daniel smiled. He glanced at the dice, snake eyes.

The crow was perched next to the window as a draft pulled the blind over a lit candle. The blind began to spark and burn, the couple was too busy playing their song to notice. The fire began to spread and the angels watched in horror as the fire overtook the apartment. Daniel began to speak softly, "It is completely random, we are just watching." Ezekiel nodded, adding, "We can't feel responsible." The fire rose above the window and the tenants took notice of the flames. It was the woman first who screamed after opening her eyes towards the flames and her husband rushed to the sink to grab water. The husband threw a bowl of water on the flames as his wife swung at it with pillows. After about two minutes of accomplishing very little but fanning the flames the couple ran to their phone to call for help. After a quick conversation they ran out the door and pulled the alarm, running down the stairs to the street. The flames spit outside the window charring the brick wall as people streamed from the building on to the street.

A third angel enters the space occupied by Ezekiel and Daniel. "Danton! My friend, look at our carelessness." Daniel said, while wrapping his arm around him. Ezekiel chimed, "The dice were rolled and it was just their fate. We could do nothing to stop it. These truly are intriguing acts of God." "The lord is a very busy man," Danton stated flatly. The fire was now ripping the room into shreds and the fire trucks were just arriving outside, the men in yellow suits pulling hoses and opening hydrants. A panicked mother is searching for a child in the crowd, who is standing next to their neighbor. The couple is holding their guitars, the woman shivering with fright.

Danton stepped away from the bowl. He turned towards the door he entered the room through and tried to focus on the outside world. He could not see through the open door, only a small office plant on a pillar, then a wall. He looked back toward the two laughing angels and spoke softly, "There is a black man riding a bicycle on 2nd Avenue. Roll the dice towards him, I'm feeling lucky." The dice rolled and bounced along the surface of the bowl before falling backwards again and landing at 6 and 4 in the middle. Danton smiled, "Success! Wonderful!" Danton then blessed the man. His bike slowed to a crawl and he put his foot on the concrete. He blinked his eyes twice and smiled before pedaling his bike down the street and around the corner.

"This game is marvelous," said Danton, "Little fragments of lives not our own and the illusion that we are nearly effecting this observation of fate. Sometime I wonder whether the dice are doing the effecting or being effected by the natural progression of fate."

"We are allowed to choose the person," Ezekiel said softly, "The outcome is in our hands. This always runs us the risk of over-stepping our boundaries. It is a fear that haunts my enjoyment of this game."

"I was hoping to create a new scoring system and official rules for league play," noted Daniel.

"There are different forms, one die, blacks over spades, three dice…" Ezekiel wandered off, "Either way, it is a fun pastime. The conversion into league play would be a difficult one. I never have agreed with the scoring systems used in three dice. The second round should be worth twice that of the first. That always has lead to sudden death and trick plays."

"Not a traditionalist," Danton laughed.

"The traditionalists always have the run of the joint during other attempts at league play." Ezekiel said, "Always quoting from the Bedford Parlor rules. The old gents like Sir Gabriel and Sir Azreal, they are always playing Bedford rules. And their attempts at league play failed due to the younger of us refusing to abide by them."

"And nobody wants to watch old fellows playing parlor games."

Danton sat cross-legged on the floor next to the others. He pulled a half pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and lit one with his thumb. He coughed as he exhaled and then smiling asked for another toss. The dice were placed in his hand and he shook his fist. "See that redhead with all the hair? Over on 14th street." The other two nodded. He threw the dice against the back of the bowl and they bounced back towards the angels, and then fell in the center of the bowl. "Two and two," Ezekiel announced, "I have always liked this one." "Double score too, and they say nice guys finish last," Daniel laughed.

Danton waved his lit cigarette over the woman on 14th street. The smoke curled above the bowl and drifted back towards him. He said a small prayer and tapped the glass bowl that separated the angels for the mortal world. The woman bent down and found a penny, smiling and whispering to herself "What a wonderful day." As she peered at the small copper circle the sun broke through the clouds and shone upon the woman. The woman unbuttoned her sweater and began to walk sweetly down the road. She then bent down once again to pick a small red flower that had peeked through the sidewalk. She put the flower in her hair and continued to step livelily down the city block.

"Everyday miracles, I have always loved that one. I feel so grand afterwards," said Ezekiel.

Daniel chimed in, "I would only give two points for that, if I were the umpire."

"If we were keeping score."

"That one just didn't effect anyone, I couldn't find the miracle."

"A beautiful woman is a miracle."

"Praise the lord," Daniel smiled.

And like this the man had died, and this was the first world he experienced.

I Should Call My Mother Suzanna:
I should phone my mother, as I was hit with a bad flu.
It has been a coughing matter sent towards dead landscapes. I was clearing air and doing things purposefully. It is the Jabberwocky show, a perhaps poltergeist. Dear, I have been ill, smoking too much, cold, bad fever. But I have been surviving. My immune system is stronger after the battle. The battlefield is torn and smoking. I have a hair bottle and a dearly hated man in my sights. He lives upon smells, hair, small kids and death kneels but he made it, too.
And here I am doing nothing. Do I want to be here?
Who is the leader of this next story? She is eighteen. She is a dear to me meditative battle, filling my head with angst and medicine. She is a shoulder to cry on, a white spell farting on the Jabberwocky television show. We are flying over Canada in an airplane, looking at outlandish cities sticking out of the landscape like a cartoon and boundaries or map-lines below.
Is she the girl from Jabberwocky? Is she here to talk with me and tell me my dreams? Or does she do this to everyone? She has a dark name. Black is bluer with her on my troubled mind. But these words are just personal freedom.
This may be a turning point. The sun peeks through the clouds and my window. Good times should follow this, sir. All will be well again. First I must relate this story as best I can. I should be better at hiding my beliefs. If I had been, all this would have been avoided.
These were cheap prayers from a man developing sloth in order to save my reign and tear a whole new man out of this blueprint. They continued, though it seems rather arbitrary as I have little room and much to say. I hold the inner light but am afflicted with one upheaval. It was a scummy little bar that had a bad habit of playing Tijuana brass. And I had but one simple refrain, my true and dear simple prayer.
Truly I bow to this reckless wish. He held a red gun. I had a stapler. His knees hurt and they were not hiring weirdoes. It is sad because I feel like a daft able man next to him. The righteous consciousness joins another while they sleep.
An utter and disparaging loneliness seeps into me. So I drink beer. And she laughs, because she loves me. Another round pull my eyes together like glass orbs or a knife hurting me such as John would stab hunger through me. Sirens wail in the distance.
But I hope I haven't left you with the impression this story is about me.
The man leaves down the stairwell and out the door. The beginning light of every day chases this man to his car and he runs towards it in a black suit. The knife is thrown on to the seat and he starts the car. The black Cadillac pulls into the dawn. This dark man smiles and lights a cigarette. I had not seen him every before, or since, for that matter.
He is now sitting with Mother Suzanna. The dark man is wearing his black suit with a dark fedora. It is hard to tell if it is also black, as they sit near the back in a booth and write silly lines back and forth. The technical spark is myself, a loner with failed knees. His heart sank.
He reached for the bell and was swatted by Mother Suzanna. His hand flew back in fear. Mother Suzanna wrapped her hands of this diner booth, "It's a shame we can't smoke in here." The man never wore anything but black suits. He smoked three packs a day. Mother Suzanna didn't smoke. She also wore black suits.
Later, the halo on his windshield shone in brilliant purple and red. The crack up the middle separated the bright sun. He sniffed and drove a little faster. He felt burnt and reached for his cigarettes. He lit one and adjusted the mirror so he could look directly into his eyes. It is about what Mother Suzanna sees, so she can report it. The man had wasted an hour on the freeway so he pulled into an exit leading to a park where his car wasted no time slowing to the point of idle recreation. He had very little to do. He imagined ghouls banging on metal tables and hooting into the wind. A smile broke over his lips.
He knew what she would tell him, "I looked into the secret life of plants. I left a shutter camera out over a few days and watched how they moved and manipulated their environment. I watched how flowers form."
The man sat coldly staring over his dashboard and into the empty green space. He knew that somewhere a femme fatale held a wine glass. A ray of dusty sun shines off the coffee table made of glass. But all parties are afraid to look.
"People make mistakes, sir," the man would have to tell his boss, "I was left to the wolves. What else could I have done?"
And his boss would laugh. He would sip his morning coffee and say, "You will never flee these ghouls." The man choked and heard his boss continue, "The grim reality is that you are scared."
"They won't get me," the man said aloud to the empty car and green space.
He heard the femme fatale chime in, "Don't let them, kiddo." She stood from the high table. She excused herself and marched quickly out the front door of the shop. She passed the newsman with a smile. She passed a beggar at a quicker pace. Two men who worked a construction site whistled. And the man was still alone in his car.
The ghouls stayed with him. He had heard the noise and came across two laughing men and a pool of blood. Happy days and shared interests, one supposes. The ghouls vanish and the man has little to do but laugh maniacally.
Our hero writes a brief list for me:
1. Call a gargoyle.
2. Three perfect crystals.
3. I sleep in fame.
4. Death becomes me.
5. There is little I can do yet a prayer may send us past it.
Conspiracies and cutting jobs, dark asking and jewels, hard line carnies and festival lights, happy gnomes and figurative laughing, it was a generous banquet. I am the writer who orders another beer, watching, waiting and trying to find the ghouls.
Mother Suzanna shone a green light upon him. The man was watching it flow through his veins and he looked puzzled. It was beginning to darken in the late afternoon. He thought of the queen. Was she still the Queen? He needed to discipline himself. The writer had many empty books to write in, and the man could tell they were all about him. So he struggled with his coffee and laughed about his press pass. He had sent many manuscripts away, yet very few had been accepted.
He prayed he could pay his rent. He had $2000 dollars to his name, $1400 hundred to play with and $600 to keep at all costs. He was smart but socially awkward. He may have been famous in past lives, but that is neither here nor now. His goal is to have his work studied after his death. It had been his goal many years when it finally happened. The man should listen because the advice was golden. He shattered parental tension. He failed at gatherings. He had the economy. He could transform.
Casual encounters first, then taking steps for breathing. He sheltered himself from the mid-day sun but now that it was gone he was thinking of the Tijuana brass music that leaked out the diner doorway at about three in the afternoon. He was a sometimes prophet but paid five dollars for roaches he found in an ashtray. He had the blues.
He was found near the entrance of the alleyway sucking on a filtered cigarette. He had given up cigars for his health but felt obliged to continue smoking for the sake of his aches and pains. He had worked at a smelter his whole adult life. Now it was closing and his town would change. His friends would leave, finally. They had been threatening relocation for years.
He owned a thoroughbred horse. The thought at the time was that it was a success and an investment. It had paid little in cash but it was a good social detail. He would talk of it when he needed to increase his class or if the time was right. He told himself to feel good. He had food in the cupboard, a roof over his head and the need for at least two quilts. He was doing things on purpose.
But we were all his pawns. We all move according to his whims. In the end we will all work for him. The refusal to love Mother Suzanna has repercussions. Things are illegal due to the divine word and some are illegally against that. The infinite word is one that many ghosts and gargoyles protect. Many people fight this infinite word and fail to become trapped in the world they have created. Some become trapped as ghosts. Some leave this world to find a reception of pain. It is ill advised to deserve this.
The word of man is not the word of the above world. This world is tainted. Men have a common trait to waste time slowly. Men are tainted by ego and self-deprecation. The divine think past those menial words. They spew out into a thought that the femme fatale is yet to find. It is of the unknown. It is the elder of the two that is determined to be correct in his varied situation.
This so enraged the gargoyles that they put a guard in the air to follow the man in the black suit and Mother Suzanna as if they raced against him. The goal at the end would be a million dollar purse. The gargoyles had the man pass through empty and invisible gates to track his movement. And there the man sat, in his idling black Cadillac.
So he put the car in drive and moved it through the dirty street when he realized that the gargoyle had set a trap inside his car. He heard two children laughing and it kept him up at night. It didn't matter much what his personality was like at this point but he lived trying to get it back. It was the same as it ever was, as if he knew any better.
The car turned and was headed west, chasing the sun as it fell behind a skyscraper in the distance. He lowered the blind and adjusted himself in the seat. He turned the wheel and headed north to a shady thoroughfare. It was here that he would ask a man for money.
As he pulled into the bar parking lot he noted how empty the block was. He quickly made his way inside, away from the world.
"Could I have a glass or juice," he croaked, "And perhaps a chocolate chip cookie?"
Enter the two cats from the battle of Emregon. They were two cartoon-like light green balls with goofy eyes and lanky legs and spent their time tracing around the man and his femme fatale. They had brought little reaction from her or the barman. The one on the left held a staff and laughed at bad jokes. There was something about anti-humor. It always seemed to break the ice.
The barman handed him juice and a cookie. "Thank you," he said grittily. He sipped it as if it were dark scotch and turned to the woman to his right. She placed her hand on the table and the small green men stopped marching.
"Now we're sucking the government teat," she said.
The man giggled and asked her to call Whacky Chris.
She pressed a speed dial button on her phone within two rings he was on the other line singing a fancy song.
She asked him to take the two green men from the barroom. The man was sure of this because they laughed and moved towards the doorway.
The man smiled at her, "So the deal is on it's way through?"
She nodded.
Later he felt like he may have wronged the woman, and it was tearing him up inside. He felt certain that he had a heart. He imagined the way she talked, her attitude, the way she looked, eyes that were tremendously blue and she wore a Government of Canada suit and smock. They were friends of the old tie and demanded the kids to listen. They lived in warehouses on plushy pillows. Their families were the other kids that lived in the warehouse. He had always banked on that. He always wanted those opposite things. He was well fed now but had not always had such luxury.
The light changed and he pulled his vehicle through the intersection. He looked for an audience, smiling as he waved. The distance traveled down the road and back allowed him to unravel. He was passed the asteroid belts and far worlds.
He recalled trips to Vegas as his car slowed down. But a banshee trapped him, wailing towards him so he could murder the poor. A still light and whole worlds left him bare, as if a sectional sofa was left in the deep woods on some island that was only his.
He felt successful and accomplished. He felt disenfranchised and tough. He had a butterfly knife to swing around his knuckles. The banshee wailed just arms length away from him. She was old and haggard around the face. He held his place and swung the knife twice at her. The first she did not flinch, the second swing ripped through her arm. It was another apparition for this man.
And even harder mathematic equations created a torrent. Idle muses haunted him by the evening, as the Gods plan a new sun. He wanted to capture the example he had played by. He thought of other work, but his madness continued with a simple rapping at his window. It was keeping him up at night.
He needed to sell his idea to the subscribers, or perhaps move in and conquer someone else by video taping an artist, asking him interesting questions. If he could mask himself later, this first draft would not hold his own.
This was not our hero's point, although it may be circumstantial. At this point it might be good to state that the protagonist of this story was the whole time in contact with these varied and symbiotic characters and was in fact a thief.
The others were spellbound by his beliefs, resolve, determination and guile to face the world that treated him so poorly. The inspiration he had promised the other young artists came like a flash and in a moment he had left. For this they could do little else but thank him, not to his face or in a letter. But under their breath they thanked their luck in anger that they had not become so jaded that they treated the charity of others in such a way. This man in effect saved the others from squandering the life they were so blessed to receive.
The man had nothing of value except a blues harp and was motionless sitting in an empty lot of a rail depot that had seen far better days. There was nobody near the man. He held his grip tight and blew in the lonely silence. He had a secure petition and a lovely instrument. And though he had not thought of his mother in years, suddenly she became rather prominent. She was killed early in his life by a man she owed money to.
He was on his own in a tired and dreary world. He found friends in the urgent city somewhere in the poorest depths. But the murder was never investigated. She was his only mother and the police did not recognize the crime. One like so many, flying through the dead bureaucracy in this ill-fated city. She had words like the others but this fell unknown to his self and it made dark reminder of his youth.
He stole to provide a drug habit but never really drank. He never laughed nor cried. He split the page in two. He lit the night sky and looked at his letters. They were unopened and drafts blew into his house and perched on a round glass table. The other chair moved though it was empty and the man approached the second chair. He shivered as a force that would leave him approached. He boarded with energy and noted the door was unmoving and in fact was a deep sphere.
He read his favorite prayer by memory. If hell was what he favored he thought he would be mighty happy. It had no impact but he prayed for insecurity that the man held his aim through. He had prayed for her enough that tidbits of the Lord strained a lonely backseat with roses crumbling at half-mast. He had it this time, he thought of the two friends talking.
They would have been sitting there but they were not. It was probably for the best. But that little smiling girl from Jabberwocky was placed on the window or a turn of the candle. She danced like his world across the wall as the light flickered and landed somewhere beside the man who killed me.
Neither of us showed it, but we would race passed the trees, brooks and fences. We took liberty to slide on the bike tires as we strove to love our Father. We found nothing in obsessing over various trends or mercenary movement. Various people would raise our liberty and show that nobody and no force would take our measure as lead. In the end, your soul with all its earmarks will come to rest like mine. The faithful always claim to live in the light.
"So how do I know you are not a freemason?" the man asked.
"Had they taken them in fascist states?" I replied
"Answer the question," he spoke firmly.
I stood motionless and surveyed his face. He rapped against the table and stated his demands again flatly. I struggled to respond.
"I believe they are mostly harmless."
He struck the table again, "You God damned fool, get out!"
Civilization started with indoor plumbing and genocide because the Creator is cool as shit. This is a literal handbook. They hold all of his artists. They each took three days to incorporate the influx. The trouble with humor is that the President and other evil people holding guns drive Cadillacs. Do you think he will kill again? It is a topic that never left our opinion, but perhaps these men are chosen well in advance.
But one hundred years of genocide is enough. The literacy rate is higher now and many are happy to work. He was an accountant once again. Three years of school and he knew the technology of the world before. He was an accountant then, too. It is best to be near money, "Maybe I can hold some," he thought.
It is a textbook case of literacy.
I suppose he read for the fun of it. A servant of the dire lord, I take it for granted that I eat daily. So thank you. There by I am a disgrace to all living men. I do not live a life, but a series of sexual advances. The only illness you fall into is a blank line spending three days in a coffin. If you fall asleep you chased a demon. This ill will is finally your torture. Did you ever notice the TV screen?
The man's cigarette broke and the cherry fell out, "Damned thing can't light," he muttered under his breath. He was malarkey living like C. S. Lewis writing Alice in Wonderland. And perhaps it was all for a child in the same way.
Of course, near the end of all time, the Actual Freemason is the still around guy. A still around, stuck in a staying around kind of mood, the still around guy at the end. "That's my goat-boy," she said.
They asked me to leave and I left rather quickly. I held them to it, saving the last of the paranoid. The overwhelming reality of their true cause made idle small talk with those who were true journalists. They held him to it, folding less of the paranoid. Only the reasonable, the witty and the idle judged the irresponsible. And only the lonely are idle. The red tape and pants are a gonzo truth.
Real writers are much obliged.
Real writers need to be watched.
They told the man nothing. It was utter gibberish, garbage. Magic impulses and manic outcries, though he believed it all. Only the reference held a man half interested in believing. He sat idly searching and pulling words from other's thoughts. He would never leave Los Angeles again. I take that back, the LA of the north, Vancouver. It is a city of only red cars, but then we found this black Cadillac.
He needed coffee like he needed a bag of hammers to the side of his head but he stopped in anyways. The delusion was grated and the dreams succeeded to make sure he belonged to Mother Suzanna. The whole beverage was on her dime. So he asked to put "The Needle and the Damage Done" in the CD player. He never imagined it would keep him up at night. It was just the scratch of the minute where he stared out the window. But that never kept him up at night. She would, she might grab his arm.
It was a classy joint, he thought, the Devil's burnouts and white trash. He argued with the cashier enough to turn the next page. The whole restaurant turned on him. It was as if his fly was undone as he paced the counter with a smile. He had to leave and go elsewhere. The highway would be right. He could just drive away.
There was nowhere he could hide. He struck the steering wheel and allowed his car to drive itself down the straight and narrow highway. It was for the best.
His person conquest was one that trailed off. The turnpike was draining him. Traffic was getting worse and he knew that if he wanted to run away he had to do so now. He would do what the doctor would not. The damned were noted and two of the acid trips he had done recently caused an accidental ghoul. The draw of nicotine and coffee would save his note. If he ever left the depression the jitters would come. There was nothing up the middle or at the window.
Nothing would keep him up at night.

Maybe if I find the ape he will guide us away from the wolves. It was the chance we missed last time.
I simply asked for salt and explain that everything we reply could very well be a false statement. I explain that the drink is strong and the salt eases in down. So far we feel fine but expect these dire wolves to close in abruptly. The Doctor remarks we are again entering Pawn County, if the man sitting in front of us keeps calling us down.
The Doctor was calm and deliberate stating, "Righteousness that was the issue last time. We searched for the wrong people. Our first mistake was making plans to find traces of an orgy of metal and smoke on an airport runway. Do you think that?"
Steve Spectacle replies, "The issue is we forgot to check with the Mole-People."
I remain silent a moment and recall the old story.
Moleman is a myth based around the workings of a homeless man who takes people and puts them in a large burlap sack. They say he is very apparent in Las Vegas. We even heard he works to save souls.
At this time disgusting arrays of people tell us we are breaking every rule of the air and sea. In defense we explain we are good law abiding citizens of Festin, like all the others. The Doctor was misinformed.
"The trick," I tell him, "Is to beat these fools literally."
"Maybe we should test you when we land." Dr. Misinformed shouts towards a conversation he is not part of.
Fools think the trouble with Las Vegas is the homeless folk cannot help their stature in life. We are soon to discover the intolerant majority is the problem. The men and women of the street seemed afraid of the lights and sounds of the casino district.
But did they even realize it was there?
We asked many people on our tapes to define the American dream. The broad consensus of people told us the American Dream is opportunity. The others told us it was gambling. Most of the homeless mole people had never heard the term. Once, we had a quick reference from an obviously cold-dead woman. She may have been trapped in the dream once, or maybe she worked around that burnt lot in the center of the city.
So is Moleman is real or a myth? They say around my hometown that he lives alone in the darkness of the hills. But as of yet I have not mentioned that he refuses to take souls of those who hold sage. The people of earth told me this story as a child growing up. But this is Las Vegas, and we were about as far from perdition as you can get.
Is Moleman heroin in perdition? It may be the only issue on the minds of parents of teenagers, as the mayor has admitted that he sold the dope through the police in the 24-hour store parking lot next to the main local High School.
He had always mentioned the name with a tone of, "High's Cool." I had never noted that in writing, but I admit the whole town was cloaked an odd silence as he attempted to kill me. That is the trouble with running for office if you have enemies in high places.
But back to the point:
"This America is not what we want it to be." He told us. Somehow he referenced a word or two about Britain. This was strange enough at the time for me write it down. These homeless rarely talked of anything of the like. The debate whether Britain existed was quite a hassle on our recorded tape. This was recorded from memory, as it was only static when we listened later. I may have been shaking. I was scared from the ghosts we were seeing.
Was the mayor a mole person?
Why the city police pick him up just as we left?
Was he the Moleman we requested?
I came back to tea across from a strange Santa Claus having trouble keeping illicit admissions private. I looked his way as we sat peering at crack dealers outside and a very nice Australian woman.
And we are on the streak that got us into trouble last time. But we know better now. We left our casino before losing our path and shopped quickly at the staple store. On the street as we left the casino one of these strange mole people told me we must, as the key was to attach papers together. Though we cannot find the person who told us this. We bought one for us and one for her. I also bought a satchel to hold my modern disk for various files that I know about but these people seem to not.
The Australian lady accused me of stealing as we paid. I told them I worked very hard for my disks and she noted that I had no way to pay. A thief outside the Stapler Superstore had lifted my credit card as we crossed a fake placid light and camera filled void known as Las Vegas Boulevard. The doctor didn't mind the twenty-dollar bill. I paid him back later, as it was the righteous thing to do.
Dr. Misinformed and Steve Spectacle watched a district attorney changing socks outside an alleyway orphanage and we were told that the men inside the building excluded these children and they could not be taken for our assumed purposes. We couldn't understand him. The man stated clearly these children should only be bought to be tortured and nothing else. They were not for sale otherwise. And that was light on this street.
As we walked away we passed both a free and exclusive Baptist church. The free one was simply 50 yards up a hill and much roomier. The social club that one needed to be an exclusive member had a lineup and a bouncer such as any bar might. It was sold as a personal choice.
We sat in order to discuss this possibility. The doctor warned me and I missed a series of upright broken glass planted in a stunningly perfect grassy knoll. We began to believe that these people behind the Palace Casino in the City of Sin have made this world for themselves. I can't be sure if that is true.
Dr. Misinformed should take credit for my standing as a man of faith. That and not having a cut pant leg. Perhaps their world was a desert and this is simply what man made of an oasis. We tried to act like sinners in the first book because we were waiting for Moleman to come to us. It was a tone that seemed to keep Las Vegas spinning. It also made our trip a living hell.
Did we truly find Moleman on the way to the hotel? Was it a bitter hallucination? Was it just a thought? One can never be sure. Hindsight is blind in this town. We will see to it the mole people find us. Dr. Misinformed and Steve watched a wise policeman pick one up and he just jumped back to work. Was that the particular Moleman we wanted?
These questions haunt me this lonely night in a Las Vegas hotel room. I feel like I can't get out of purgatory psych-ward. So I asked these suits a few questions until we flashed false IDs at him and took thier drugs. That was the entire relationship. It seemed too simple to be anyone of myth.
That is the silly thing about Sin City. These simple fiends want to mimic our true goal. The rest are silly enough to think that they are God. The homeless man selling these simple tones made me think of that woman I met as I came back from my coma.
Her name was Divine and she said she was dreaming of me. I asked her why, so she told me that she wanted out of Dallas to quit using. Her street life in this town was sickly but she had a story of a man who prayed to a bird.
The bird was dead and in two pieces but this Mole Person knew his bird was God. Everyone made fun of him. So she asked one time and the bird connected its head to the body and flew away. She had thought of herself as dead ever since.
"Maybe we can find the bird?" Steve asked the doctor.
"The key is to write an actual book," he said after a pause, "That is the righteous thing to do. The American Dream was a hotel and I checked as we stomped past it on our way to the stapler outlet and casino. That lot is still burnt down."
"I think it's near the middle of the city," Steve replied, "Making it the exact center point of hell as a continent."
I am smoking in my dream. I didn't have anyone arrested but my friend suggested I try it. I said no. He offered me beer so we discussed very little until I suggest we stay in the outside plain and have a stiff drink, a nice change.
The trick is to be a revolutionary. I made myself this character so that I could take trips like this for science.
The illusion needs to be noted. One may be somewhere near Summerland but these men are in the care of the ward. This made me glad.
I remember moving swiftly out to our patio and telling a psychiatrist, "I be still in Las Vegas. That is the key to life."
The American Dream is haunted, they say.
The burnt out building has many stories.
A Whittier, California white supremacist that said something about his family needing ownership of the place killed a Chinese man during the breakfast rush. The place was then burned down to destroy evidence.
A famous court hearing followed the event and it was later confirmed that he should be installed as president of America. I believe that was a cold and remorseless campaign slogan: "I Am Torching the American Dream." That note was changed to "I Am Touching the American Dream."
He won the election.
I am sure that lot has been torched by many ghosts. I heard another tale of the burning being at a buffet. The place is a ghost story of reference to the people back home. To sum it up quickly the ghost leader of the gang had been feeding the citizens of Las Vegas other chained and haunted spirits. The old men that haunt the Las Vegas strip are eating ghosts that could not leave their bondage and lived over and again. A regular customer brought his bosses son once and the child claimed he wanted to leave. When asked why he chose not to submit to peer pressure he was cast under hypnosis and this child said the buffet was people.
The sign changed for months afterward and a stone cold air hung over the block as the monster that tried to do this to people vanished slowly and the empire he created in Egypt's image was struck by a wrecking ball. But the pyramid still stands. I believe it is near Teotihuacán but I may be misled.
We decided to leave our hotel room once again. But first we ate a peanut butter sandwich. It is hot in Las Vegas today. What we were promised is about to cross our path.
The disk we picked up on our quick jaunt down the Boulevard was simply stolen. It was marked with the word Pong on it.
I wonder if we should report this to the authorities. That is the righteous thing to do, but Las Vegas police are notorious for turning against the righteous actions of people deciding to make such moves. I would hate to be thrown in the dirty city cells as a foreign diplomat. What is worse is that I was hoping the game was included with my $19.99 purchase.
But that is the vibe of this city. They sing to a different tune. The theme song of Las Vegas is a drunken, belittled, speed filled Elvis singing gospel to try and save his career. At least he was about to move to that Ranch near Nashville. I believe he was required to sleep twice with an aging Marilyn Monroe before they both passed to the next world. That may have been the high point of American existence. It was that or the variety of crooked rednecks claiming to be prophets. Surely those same men who killed Kennedy had their way with these priests.
We walked away from the store and decided to take a path with a sign clearly stating "DO NOT ENTER, for we have a valley filled of damned."
Not many know that the balance of Las Vegas is this: If you drop as far as you can go at the last possible second you will land on top. That is right where you have to be. We knew this as we gambled on the empty, hidden path. Any sanctity left was torn from Steve as the first hand grabbed his ankle.
It was a juniper tree when he looked.
The man underneath gave me a simple, almost holy request that I could not hear. This scared me so I ran to cross the street. To my surprise Las Vegas has no respect for the pedestrian crossing law.
The machine I saw was metal. I knew that for sure.
It had gears and whiz-bangs of the clunking sort and looked specifically design for eating pedestrians. It shone its graying teeth at me as the man looked sorely at me and revved his engine. The tone was the contrast of loud and dull so as the man eating cross between a pick-up truck and a thresher called on his excavator friend to turn towards me I tried leaped to cross the somehow frozen desert river.
I was stopped cunningly by the doctor, "Don't do that," he said, "That River is known to eat people alive."
I asked if he saw the thresher I was avoiding. He told me frankly the river had warned him I was in peril and he assumed it was his conscious mind. So I asked if the tractor was moving after me and we walked startled through a swinging door into the parking lot next to a fast-food restaurant.
The parking lot seemed empty, but that was my second mistake. They also made an invisible version of the pedestrian eating automobile. I assumed the worst as they surrounded me so I made a mad dash towards a "visible-invisible" line and turned to the fastest one of the bunch. As I began barking noises at it in the common car language it only came out as screeching tire noise with the demand for respect as his master, a person.
The first woman who told me I was alone walked past and I made the mistake of telling her I could save her soul. I watched her turn into a baby holding two bags of groceries as she walked across the invisible line. I heard the woman laugh as she learned she should have heeded my warning.
She was quickly eaten by the entire ravished pack.
I turned to a man sitting watching the whole affair in terror and asked as a cover, "Pal, could you spare a dime." He gave me twenty-five cents in order to save his soul from these threshers. He knew. I knew. And that seemed to end it until I left that that convenience store and crossed the valley of the damned. I recall making the note to Steve Spectacle that the man who wrote Dante's Inferno had been to Las Vegas on Peyote.
We tried to dodge the falling bodies and shadow people without becoming them before I grabbed a plastic owl from the display table on the street. I used it as a gargoyle to protect me from these damned things.
We walked down the sidewalk and Dr. Gonzo tugged my sleeve and told me some gibberish about turning the wrong way a few blocks before.
He had no idea.
It is a better use of my time to document my thoughts: some are quite interesting I think. Tonight I will sleep all the way through because the drone of my insight is not why I am awake. It is the bitter air of hell or earth, I could not tell.
When I asked the Mole Person his opinion it was eerie to hear the man's response. It was valid because he felt he needed to explain his actions. My lawyer noted that that is not what we wished to discuss. Our recorded was not on to learn about career planning so we noted that we wished to find the one Moleman of Myth. He was the second homeless man to claim he had heard the tale. So we helped with his career and questioned him quickly. He claimed to be the Moleman of myth. Our work was done soon and all we were was two days in to the quest.
He told us, "It is common for dealers of hope to ask if that was the Mole secret, something that all homeless people have in order to hold their belongings."
My lawyer was quick, "But not anymore."
He said we needed to pay him for him to keep talking.
Dr. Gonzo and I decided it may be for the best and were accosted quickly by a swarm of police officials. We asked them why they thought it was us that needed to be sent away to jail. They claimed it was a money issue. Las Vegas officials took the bribe and left us.
A second car came needlessly and slowed asking if we were FBI. Instead of requesting clearance and having to go through the trouble of impersonating one I wisely suggested, "If we were, we would not have to tell you, sir."
The police officer vanished so we turned to the person who wished to be Moleman. We told the homeless gentleman to get in his sack implying the members of law that left us were outranked and had to do our bidding. The homeless man stammered, "I'm no myth man of nothin', and I mean I can help what you want to learn and still I think I have heard of that tale Steve."
He addressed me as a famous man though from this comment of all we can hear is some gibberish begging that we did not have him arrested. The most important things he said were recorded and are as follows:
We threatened that all it could take is phone call, which was true, and misdirected him until he gave up his bag of dope. The decision to let him keep it was on of righteousness. After that he was eager to please and notably much older than us.
"He wanted to impress his superiors every day," the homeless man said, "The eager men that holy churches take in, they have our settled lands. What do you mean I am a mole? Life is not under dirt, sir. I live behind a dumpster in Vegas. Is that commonly what you people refer to us as? Life's a bitch, it get worse every day."
"If you will it to," I said. "We are trying to spread something that seems to be kept secret."
"Is that you?" he asked, confusing us. "And why do we not care about Mole people? And you should not call us by your superior name. I can't even spell. Nowadays no wonder I live behind this cursed dumpster, sleeping on broken glass and spit and farts."
It is a shame that we cannot pick up most of what the homeless man said of our tape recorder but his last comment was of an old Black Panther leader, "We all believe that Erica Huggins is an attractive older woman."
We shrugged and listened to his insight.
"I am simply sure she is strong and heralds a divine insight, ever for a cracker like me. The strangest men in the world claim they have seen the Moleman. He was not like me with a sack, even though I know that is the myth. We'll have cream tomorrow with some money with the money. He has no sack like me. He had bird in two pieces and he prays to it."
He then pulled his sack away and held a yellow canary for us to see. We were on the right track and hadn't even noticed. The mole people knew of the bird was that man we met first. And here he was again.
We made ourselves as righteous as we could silently shared our whiskey. Our hero seemed a little eager to please. He wanted to drive a quarter of the way across this city to show us the effect, as he knew where the man with the bird lived. He claims he himself is God. People laugh saying there is no God in Las Vegas.
When we met the man by appointment he sent us shifting and dictated to us that the bird could not fly if we did not need to be saved, so I was punched in the back. So we asked instead for all the hell that we deserved.
It was a rabid time in which I thought my feet and hands were not being controlled by my own decisions. My left hand would move my right foot and vice versa. I took a cut on the leg and various paranoid thoughts that involved the matters I would rather keep private. It was as if I was in a backwards coma. The whole ordeal took about 2 hours to me before I woke in a stupor and was asked to leave a restaurant.


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