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Read Fragmented: Event 1
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(Where am I? What is this beneath my back? Some sort of separated land as if the stone melted into tiny granules. The moon is beautiful. I have never seen such a moon. It is so brilliant that one could mistake it for a dull sun.)
He stands up and feels sand squish between his toes, noticing an oddly placed tattoo near his heel. Next to him are a pair of sandals. Instinctively, he slips them on and begins walking along the ocean shore, observing the almost daylight experience the moon is projecting across the land. As he walks down the waterline, he sees two large towers and people lined up and down the beach enjoying the night.
(Strange. I don’t recall seeing animals such as these before? They seem to have some sort of intelligence.)
He looks at his arms, legs, and body, realizing that he is one of them.
(Odd. I don’t remember being such a being. I don’t know anything. I don’t think I do remember anything. What do they call that? Amnesia. Right. What is this I am wearing?)
He pats his body all over, feeling the fabric of his clothes. There is a solid rectangular-shaped item in his left pocket. In his right, there is a cylindrical trinket accompanied by a metallic dreidel.
He pulls each item out and examines them for a moment, and puts them back. He then pulls the object from his left pocket back out and looks at it again. When he tilts it, it glows, and a screen turns on. It reads Wednesday, July 7th, 2021 – 11:03 pm.
He doesn’t quite understand what he is looking at or interpreting. He begins to fondle the device in search of buttons or something to work with. He has a sense of déjà vu about it as if he has worked with it before. First, he says, “Activate.” Then, “On.” Then, he sees a disk at the base of the screen and puts his thumb to it. The screen then unlocks, exposing multiple icons of which he hasn’t any clue of their purpose.
He puts the phone back in his pocket with the screen still on, letting it glow through the fabric.
(I wonder where I am?)
After walking some more, he comes by a sign which reads: MIAMI BEACH, WELCOME.
(Miami beach. What is a Miami?)
As he walks, he starts fidgeting with the items in his pockets. He picks at a loose piece of leather wrapped around his phone. It pulls back, and he feels a slot under it. He takes the phone back out of his pocket and flips a flap back on the back of the phone to see a driver’s license, credit card, debit card, and a card that reads, “Seville.”
Just as he reads the card, he looks up to see the name and logo match a sign in front of a building he is close to. He puts one and two together and heads to the building.
(I must be staying here. I hope it’s nice. Huh, this must be me on this ID card. Dr. John D. Asterope. Wonder what Dr. stands for?)
Dr. Asterope heads up to the hotel, exiting the beach, and walks inside. He is immediately greeted by a young girl working the front desk who says to him, “Dr. Asterope, welcome back. Your luggage arrived a few hours ago and has been placed in your room for you. Would you like us to send up any accommodations?”
“If you are hungry or would like a drink, just let me know or dial zero on your phone upstairs, and that will connect you directly to me. I will be here until midnight, then Patrice takes over.”
Confused about what to do, the Dr. begins to open his mouth but hesitates, and the girl can tell he doesn’t know where to go, so she asks, “Would you like me to show you to your room?” “Yes, that would be good.”
The girl responds with a big smile, and her hair bounces slightly as she walks out from behind the desk. The Dr. doesn’t understand his feelings when looking at the girl’s facial features, hair, and slim figure. He can’t comprehend it, but he likes it.
“Come on, Dr. Asterope, follow me.”
He follows her and watches as she walks to the elevators with an ever-slight left to right bump of the hips. Then they switch from right to left while her high heels click on the floor with each step. It is as if the sound of the heal snapping on the tile is meant to announce the derrière’s next shift.
“You are on the sixth floor.” The elevator announces it is going up.
The two stand quietly in the elevator.
The girl looks out the corner of her eye to check out the Dr., finding herself attracted to him. She thinks to herself, (I wonder if he is single. I don’t see a wedding ring. I hope he isn’t gay. There are too many gay guys here. I need a man, like a man’s man. He is tall and muscular. I bet his chest is firm and chiseled. I didn’t expect him to have a body like this.”
DING: Sixth Floor.
The two exit the elevator and walk down the hall to room 6166. “Here is your room Mr. – Dr. Asterope” “Ah.”
He doesn’t quite know what to say. He watches her as she slips a card into the door, and a red light turns green. Then the locks click, and she turns the doorknob and opens it.
“Here you are.”
She walks into the room, something she isn’t supposed to do unless requested. She acts as if it is her job to give him a tour. After, she sits on the end of the bed, trying to signal to him that she is interested in him and could come right up after her shift ends. Still, he doesn’t understand the body language.
He walks around the room and then looks out the window to the ocean. Not too far from his room is the area he had just woken at, and he can see the indent in the sand of where he was. The thought of he got here and where here is comes rolling back to his mind. He thinks he should feel anxious about it, but he feels comfortable as if it is supposed to be this way.
Not sure what to say to the girl sitting on his bed, the Dr. just kind of paces about the room. She sits quietly, waiting for him to say something to her, hoping he asks her to come back when her shift ends. After a few minutes, she becomes impatient. She starts to open her mouth, but a bell sound comes from the Dr.’s pocket right before she does, and the rectangular screen glows.
“What was-is that?” “Huh? Oh.”
He takes the device out and looks at the glowing screen to see a message from 034017. He then reads: Have you arrived?
“Wow. That is a funny-looking camera you got there, or is that one of them portable TVs?”
The Dr. doesn’t say anything to the young girl; he stands there just as confused about the device as she appears to be.
“Well, I can see you are busy, so I will get going. My name is Jenny, by the way. If you missed that from my name tag. I get off at midnight.”
She again implies that she would like to spend time with him after her shift if he were interested. He looks at her and grins slightly. Then, he puts the device back in his pocket and fidgets with the stuff in the other pocket without taking them out. He contemplates if there is a connection between them all.
“Ok. Bye-bye now.”
She thinks that maybe he is just shy, so she decides to take the initiative by telling him, “I will be at the hotel bar about 12:15 if you felt like having a drink and someone to talk to.”
He snaps out of his dazed state when he hears this and looks at the girl pushing herself up off the bed. He asks, “Do I know you?” “No, not really. I mean, we met earlier when you checked in, then you left.” “What time was that?” “I think about 4:00 pm. It was right when I started my shift. Are you alright? You were a lot more chatty this afternoon. Did something happen to you?” “I do-don’t know, really. You say I checked in this afternoon. Checked in?” “Yea, you came in told us your luggage was being delivered and that you would be back later. I gave you your key, and then you left. Where did you go?” “Hmmm.” “Well, if you want that drink, you’ll know where to find me.”
The Dr. again goes silent and turns back to looking out the window, and he hears the door close shut behind him.
(Meet for a drink. Drink? She must mean some sort of consumption. Maybe this is the pain I am feeling inside. I think this body is telling me to do something. Perhaps I shall meet this girl. Perhaps she can shed some light on the situation at hand.)
Bing: Another message comes through from the same sender with just a question mark.
(What is this messaging system. Who is 034017? ‘What time is it now?’ ‘It is 11:55 pm.’ ‘Let’s go meet with this girl.’ ‘Alright. First, let’s check the luggage. I feel like I know what is going to be inside the burgundy case.’)
The Dr. opens up the luggage. Inside the case is a grey rectangular block of metal with a bitten apple logo on it. He puts his fingers to it and slides them across, feeling the smooth and satisfying texture of the material. He takes it and sets it on the bed next to the suitcase. The rest of the luggage is everyday clothes, except behind it is a thick leather folder about the same size as his phone. He takes it and flips it open to see a strange-looking badge that reads: Agent Asterope.
(Agent Asterope. I guess I am an agent. What does that even mean? Why can’t I remember anything?)
The Dr. takes the laptop, badge, phone, dreidel, and the cylindrical trinket to the hotel desk and sets them down neatly organized. He sees the indent in the crease of the laptop. He slips his finger between the screen and keyboard and pops it open. The screen lights up and suggests he use his fingerprint to unlock it. First, he puts his finger randomly on the laptop, thinking any part can detect it, then he uses common sense and puts it on the shiny black key in the top right. It then unlocks.
The desktop shows a list of folders, all with different titles. He looks through them and sees one labeled: Seville.
He is not sure how to operate the device. He puts his fingers on the keypad but doesn’t press any keys. He then looks at the square cutout mousepad and puts his finger on it. The cursor shifts just a hair when he does this, and he has an ah-ha moment. He then moves the cursor to the file and starts tapping, assuming that the action required to unlock the file must be correct. When the file opens, it is empty.
The Dr. decides not to investigate further into the computer until he understands his whereabouts. He changes his clothes into something from the suitcase and goes back down to the lobby. When he arrives, the girl is gone, and Patrice is in her place behind the desk.
“Excuse me, can you tell me where the hotel bar is?” “Sure thing Dr. Asterope. It is just straight back that way, then down to the right. Can’t miss it.” “Great.”
It isn’t hard to find the bar, and when he walks in, there she is, sitting all pretty with her legs crossed and a tall pink martini in front of her. The Dr. goes to her and pulls a barstool out next to her and sits down. She looks up at him and smiles, then she takes a cherry stuck to a plastic pick and bites it off with erotic gestures.
“Hey, there, handsome. Glad you could make it. You feeling better?” “I suppose. What’s that you are drinking?” “It’s a tequila sunrise martini. Wanna try it?” “Sure.”
She hands him the glass, and he takes a sip. The juice hits his tongue, and it tastes good, but his brain tells him not to consume anymore because of the sugar content. He says to Jenny, “That’s good but a bit sweet for me. What do you recommend for me?” “How about a scotch?”
Not knowing what scotch is, he simply concurs.
“Hey, Jordy, can I get my friend here a Macallan, 12-year.” Jenny turns back to the Dr. and asks, “You want ice with that?” He scrunches his lips and squints his eyes, and says, “Sure.”
A few minutes later, he is presented with the drink. Jenny then holds her glass up and publicizes, “To a beautiful night.”
The Dr. picks his glass up, clinks it gently to hers; then, he thinks how he knew to do that. He then takes a sip, not expecting the strong fumes to flood his nostrils and the burn of the liquid on his tongue. When it hits his throat, he coughs, and the girl laughs a little. “Maybe scotch isn’t your drink either.” As he coughs, trying to get the drops of scotch out of his lungs that went down the wrong pipe, he says, “Maybe not.” Once he gets himself together, he takes a good sip, now knowing what to expect. “That’s better. Tastes good.” “Good.”
“So what is that camera deal you have? I have never seen anything like that. What are you some sort of secret spy?” He doesn’t know what it is either. While he thinks of what to say in response, he feels the warmness of the alcohol fill his belly, and then suddenly, like being struck by lightning, he sees flashes of memory fly through his eyes as if the back of his pupil was a movie screen and his optic nerve is the projector in the back of the theater. He becomes still like a manikin as he watches the information present itself to him.
“Are you alright, sweety?” A few seconds pass, and he says, “Yes.”, then takes another sip and when the ethanol flows into the blood, more images and data come pouring in.
“What are you doing? It looks like you are watching a TV in space.” “Sorry. The alcohol is kicking in. I don’t think I usually drink.” “What do you usually do?” “I am not sure. I don’t think I am from this time.” “Huh? Are you a crazy person?” “No. I don’t think so. What year is it?” “1998.” “What year do you think it is?”
To avoid any misunderstandings, he replies, “1998. I am only joking. This scotch is strong.” “Oh, good. You had me worried there for a moment. So, John. You mind if I call you John?” “Not at all.” “So, John. What brings you to Miami, and where are you from?”
Before he starts to try and respond, the barkeep reappears and asks if the two of them would like another round. Jenny replies quickly, telling Jordy to get a second of the same. The bartender then asks if they would like a tab or separate bills. Jenny looks to John, anticipating he will do the gentlemanly thing and offer to pay, and he does. He remembers that he has a credit card under a flap on his phone. He pulls it out and gives it to the bartender. The bartender then takes it and sets it on a receipt on the counter by the mirror.
“Would you like me to keep this open?” “Open?” “Yes, if you choose to have more drinks or perhaps order some food.” “Oh, yes. I suppose so. I think I need food. Are you hungry, Jenny?” “Maybe an appetizer.” “Alright, what’s good?” “I love the calamari.” “Calamari it is.” (Whatever that is.)
Essential human communications start becoming apparent to the Dr. as the two of them sit and converse with each other. The images flying past the back of his pupil help him understand how to respond and what to do. Each sip of scotch he takes brings on more instructions, and the situation becomes easier to handle. When she asks questions of his past, he can extract data that allows him to reply in a manner to her desire.
The calamari arrives, and the two take little bites between sips until the plate is empty. They have another round and continue flirting with each other. The Dr. is starting to like the situation and doesn’t understand why. The drink makes him more and more comfortable with each sip, and she becomes prettier and prettier to him. She starts to press her shins up against his and slide her foot up and down his calves. She can tell it is exciting him.
(What is this girl doing to me? It feels so interesting. I don’t think I have ever felt something like this before. At least not in this casing.)
At the beginning of their conversation, she again takes a bite of cherry stuck to the plastic stick. This time she sucks on it and pulls it out, making sure to make her lips look voluptuous. It excites the Dr. further. She leans forward and whispers in his ear, “Are you ready to go back upstairs?”
The simple blow of wind on his neck inches his pants upward, and she was watching. She puts her hand to his thigh and presses it up firmly to his groin. Then goes back to face the bar, finishes the last of her drink, and signals to the bartender that they are ready to check out. The two sit quietly until the bartender returns.
When Jordy returns, he comes up to them, leans forward over the bar, and says softly, so the other customers don’t hear, “Is this some sort of a joke?” Jenny asks, “What, Jordy?” “This credit card doesn’t expire until 2023. The machine won’t even recognize it.” Jenny grabs it from Jordy’s hand and looks at it. It is smooth without any brailed numbers and has a metal chip embedded in it. “What the hell is this, John? You some sort of scam artist?” “No. Sorry, that must be a prop of some sort. Can you charge it to my room?” “Prop?”
Jenny tells Jordy that the card on file for the room worked fine, so it is OK to charge it. Then she says, “Or I can pay. Let me pay – that is fine because I invited you anyways.” “Alright, thanks.”
The two of them make their way back to the Dr.’s room. Jenny asks him, “So what is up with that card and that weird camera? Are you from the future or something?” “Maybe. Just maybe.”
(Maybe I shouldn’t be bringing this girl back to my room, but something tells me that I need to be with her. A primal instinct I cannot control.)
“Do you have any protection?” “Like a gun or a knife.” “Cute. No, a condom.” (Condom?) “Um.” “I’ll take that as a no. Well, are you clean?” “I think so.” “How often do you sleep around?” “I don’t – well, I do sleep. What do you mean?” “When was the last time you had sex and were tested for STDs?” “I don’t think I have ever had sex.” (Not sure what that is?)
As they walk into the room, Jenny presses herself up to him slipping her hand down his pants, saying, “You are in for a real treat then, Doctor.”
When he feels her embrace him, more images fill his eyeball, and he is reminded of making love.
The two spend a few hours entangled in each other, and then Jenny falls asleep. While she sleeps, the Dr. further investigates his trinkets. He takes the pen-shaped object and clicks a button on it. When he does this, a short needle pops out the end. The sight of it brings a flashback of memory to him. He sees the needle stick into his throat from the reflection of the mirror in front of him. It startles him, and he drops the device. When it hits the ground, the force pushes the button, and the needle retracts.
Dr. Asterope wakes up in his bed to see the girl at his desk staring at his computer.
“What are you doing?” “This is the craziest laptop I have ever seen. There is no way this isn’t some sort of government secret spy shit. Who – are you?”
Feeling much more comfortable with the girl now that they have had intercourse, he decides to tell her the truth that he doesn’t know who he is or how he got here.
“I don’t know who I am or how I got here. I just woke up on the beach with those items in my pockets, and when I came to the room, the laptop was in my suitcase.”
“Says here on your badge thingy that you are an agent. What kind of agent?” “I don’t know. I really don’t know.” “You are not joking with me, are you? This isn’t some sort of way to get out of calling me or seeing me again?” “Believe me – I wanna see you all the time.” “It looks like you got some messages on this camera deal last night. Here.”
Jenny hands the doctor his phone. He then unlocks it to read a string of messages from 034017.
Have you arrived?
What is this I hear about you having sex? You know this is against protocol.
“What does it say?” “I don’t know.” “Do you know how to unlock this computer?” “Yes, you put your finger to the top right button.”
Jenny puts her finger to the button then the screen shakes and says incorrect password. “I think it must only work with your finger.” “Alright, one second.”
Dr. Asterope gets up off the bed and walks over to the desk where the laptop is. He then sits down and unlocks it. Once unlocked, he feels a pinch on his neck, and everything goes blank.
A few hours later, he wakes up and feels the sensation of the sand supporting his back as he lay on the beach staring up at the moon. He pushes himself up off the sand. The previous night that hasn’t yet happened begins flashing before him like a picture slide printed on the back of his pupil. Simultaneously, other parts of his memory come back, and he has a sense of where he is. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and slides out the cards in the wallet case attached to it. He sees his driver’s license, the credit and debit card, and a key card, but this time the access card says Miami Beach Edition.
He checks the date and time and reads Wednesday, July 7th, 2021 – 11:04 pm. Only a minute after he first checked when he woke up last time. He remembers he is supposed to meet someone at the Miami Beach Edition.
(Dr. Watson. Yes, Agent 034017: Doc Wat. We are to meet at midnight. Wait, was last night just a dream? I don’t quite know exactly what I am doing here or who I am. I just know that I am supposed to meet the Doc. I wonder if there are any messages.)
He checks his phone for messages, but the strings are empty. The whole phone is blank, and there is nothing but factory presets—not even a single contact.
Not too concerned about the situation, the Dr. walks back to the hotel once named Seville and enters. He expects to see Jenny at the desk, but the whole lobby looks different, and she is not there.
“Hello Dr. Asterope, will you be checking out tomorrow? Your luggage is in your room.” “Room 6166?” “Yep! That is the one.”
As the Dr. stands in front of the desk, he watches as the girl texts or fiddles with something on her phone instead of providing him service. After a minute, she looks up at him and asks, “Did you need something?” He doesn’t say anything and walks away, and she goes right back to her phone unphased.
He decides to head up to his room to see if he has the same luggage. When he arrives at his room, he is surprised to see that the luggage is already open and the laptop and his badge are sitting on the desk just as he left them last time.
“Hey, you.” “JESUS! Where the hell. What?” “I was wondering where you went. You just up and disappeared right in front of me this morning. I mean – like – are you a magician?” “Huh. I thought. What? What day is it?” “Same day as it was this morning. Some guy stopped by looking for you. He said to tell you that he’d be at the bar at midnight. You got time for a quicky?”
Confused about what is happening, he first decides that he must leave, but then Jenny walks up to him and lets her robe slip off and fall to the floor. The moment he sees her petite and supple bosoms, he gives in and takes her right there on the desk, pushing the items aside.
The dreidel gets knocked off the table, rolls across the floor, and starts spinning while they are going at it. When it did this, a holographic image appeared of a man dressed in a trench coat and fedora hat, keeping his face unseen. He begins to talk: Agent Asterope- Your mission is to find and destroy project tinker bell. If your memory dilutes you, rub the tattoo on your leg to jump-start your I.M.S. (Inorganic Memory Storage).
He sees this happening in the mirror’s reflection just above the desk while he has Jenny’s legs wrapped around him. He decides he wants to finish before he rubs this tattoo. Then he feels her legs wrapping tighter around him and her arms squeezing his neck. He is still thrusting in her, and the combination of the loss of oxygen from her choking him with an orgasm sends a rush of blood to his head, and everything goes fuzzy. He sees little stars dancing all about the room, and he then passes out.
When he wakes up, he is back on the beach again, and this time he has the Seville card. He immediately rubs the tattoo on his leg, and it starts to illuminate and rearrange. He realizes it is not an actual tattoo. Instead, it is liquid nano storage of data that remains secure during interdimensional travels to extract any information that may have been lost in transferring one’s body. The former tattoo melts away and seeps into his skin. His body becomes erect as if possessed as the material makes its way through the blood to his brain cells. Suddenly everything becomes apparent, and his mission is clear.
This time he knows exactly what to do. He jumps up and heads back to the hotel, and Jenny is back working at the front desk. He replays the same act as he did the first time he met her and heads to his room to avoid suspicion.
The suitcase is there unopened this time. He takes the laptop out, turns it on, and goes right to the Miami Beach Edition file. When he opens it, there is a picture of Jenny titled Tinker Bell. He then opens another document that explains the mission at hand. It warns of the dangers of falling in love with her and to steer clear of any provocative situations.
WARNING: Intercourse with target Tinker Bell could cause a temporal vortex. Do not engage without full memory activation. Suppose you are in a sequence of repetitive events. In that case, she is also in the same sequence with all memory of the previous events.
When Agent Asterope reads this, the door opens, so he quickly turns his head towards it. He sees Jenny standing there holding something. He tries to see what it is, but he cannot make it out from a distance.
“Looking for me, sweety?” “Who are you?” “Does it matter? I was really enjoying our endless days of lovemaking. It’s too bad you don’t remember them all. You got me pregnant once, and we had a good life together. Then you disappeared, and here we are again.” “How many times have I been here.” “Oh, I don’t know, maybe twenty.” “And it lasted longer than the day on occasion?” “Decades. I was actually hoping you’d be interested in another long-term stay. We are destined for each other. We can stay here together forever, my love. No one can stop us just so long as we continue making love. But this is the last time we can do this since you activated the transient tattoo. Come with me; I want to show you something.”
With his full memory activated, he recalls the complete mission to destroy Jenny. Still, the very sight of her is intoxicating, and the memories she mentions come to him as miniature flashbacks. A simple sensation of true love fills his heart. He tries to stop himself from thinking that way, remembering that he was warned of this girl and her manipulative ways. It was a common saying in his class: When is a Jenny lying? Whenever they open their mouths. Stories of these situations had been told amongst other agents and the difficulty of walking away from pure beauty and innocent sex.
Agent Asterope couldn’t help but follow her, thinking that if something goes wrong, he can just restart the mission from the beginning knowing the end result now. As he believes that, she says to him, “You won’t be able to come back after this one. Your I.M.S. is activated, and now your memory won’t survive the trip.” “Why would you tell me this?” “Because I love you. I have and always will love you.”
Confusion fills the Dr.’s brain as to whether or not she is lying or telling the truth. “You don’t need to be confused.” (I don’t?) “No.” (You can read my mind?) “Yes.” (You can read mine also.)
The two of them walk down the beach in the moonlight, having a telepathic conversation with each other.
(Don’t you remember who you are?) (I am Agent Asterope – Timewave Operations- Task 3.) (That is one of your identities.) (You and I were sent here millennia ago to initiate this race. We have been lost in time. I have been trying to find you for centuries. I created the temporal vortexes to trap you long enough for you to remember your past. At least that was my plan. Somewhere in the past, we had to jump bodies to survive, and yours went wrong. We got separated. I have been searching for you for eons. I even split myself into multiple persons to try and find you faster. This is why your team calls us Jenny’s. But they are all just me. I am just simultaneously existing on multiple timewaves.) (How do I know you are telling the truth?) (You don’t. But how do you feel when you are with me?) (Perfect.) (Then let that be the truth.)
Dr. Asterope stops and leans in to kiss Jenny, and she becomes still, letting him embrace her. He can tell by the looseness of her muscles that she trusts him. (He’s coming.) (Who?)
Without notice, bands of electricity start to wrap around the two of them, and they become frozen, unable to move. Just before Dr. Asterope passes out from being tased, he sees Doc Wat. The Doc is holding a long shiny metal photon emitter, spitting straps of lighting laced ropes out of it and around him and Jenny. As his eyes drift shut, he hears Dr. Watson say into a small speaker on his coat, “We got them.”
(Where are we?) (In a timewave capsule, being sent back to one of their basecamps. You should know all about it.) (I do. I was sent to capture you, but why are they charging me?) (Because you are their real target. I am just a pawn to them. I tried to keep them away for as long as I could. It was when you activated the nanotech tattoo that they were able to locate us.) (But, I have been with them since I was a child?) (Many have. They recruited all the men on a particular set of timewaves, knowing one of them is you; they just didn’t know who. So they set up a trap to try and find you by using me.) (How did you know about this?) (I got wise to it with the first one they sent. It wasn’t difficult as I can read minds. You can’t imagine how happy I felt when you arrived.) (How long ago was that?) (Technically, only hours, but I was able to keep us tied up for a few hundred years. We had a family once. It was beautiful. Our daughter lives in another dimension.) (We must break free and find her.) (I wish we could, but we are in a cellular structure that separates us from reality. There is no way to reach the worlds we lived in. Humans may be primitive, but when it comes to imprisonment, they are pretty ingenuitive. Stems from greed.) (What will happen to us now?) (This is it. An eternity of this.) (What is this? I can’t see, hear or feel anything.) (This casing is a cross-dimensional data platform designed to host a conscience at a two-dimensional level, which means we cannot reach anyone in our fourth-dimensional world. To them, seeing us is like trying to see the writing on a piece of paper by looking at it from the side.) (We have to get out of here.) (The only thing we can do is wait for someone to download us into another organic vessel or for the material to decay, and we can be released.) (How long will that take?) (Essentially forever since this is a quartz-based hard drive we are in. The decay rate is astronomical.) (How can you be so calm about this?) (We are immortal. This has been our existence since the beginning of time. I am just happy we are back together.) (What is your name?) (We have had many words over the ages. Most know us as Adamah and Ḥawwāh.)
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[20 | Unit 6140] Download or Read PDF
Sometime in the future
“Hey Steve, I think you should come over here.” “Where you at, kid?” “Back—back in the bedroom here—by the closet.” “Alright, I’m a come-in. What’s hap-nin back here?” “Look at this. Is this a swastika?” “I think that there is a sauwastika kid.” “Yea, that’s what I said- swa-sti-ka.” “Nah, kid: Sauvastika. It’s that left face-in gnat-z one, you know, clockwise turned one. It’s a Buddhist symbol or some-en—I think. See them dots there in the centers. Hindu garbage.” “Look: they are everywhere. All up and down the wall.” “Put yer flashlight up there to the ceil-in, kid.” “Jesus. Is that blood?” “Nahhhh. It’s just some deep red paint pigments. Blood don’t stay bright like that long after hitten oxygen. This fella sure did a number on this here place.” “How do you know so much about this stuff?” “Oh, you know, just hearing things here and there—you know how people are. They love to talk, and talk bout stuff they know bout. You just get dem going like start-en a lawnmower, and they won’t stop run-in they mouths till they run out ah gas. Easy way to gain someone’s trust too—just let them talk their little hearts out. Also, an easy way to learn who not to trust. See. There I go blab-in on just like-em. But really, I heard mostly from the history channel. You ought-ah try watch-en some-in educational every once while kid. You’d be surprised how enrichen knowledge can be.” “Wait. What do you mean about ‘not to trust?’ How’s that?” “Well, people that don’t wanna talk, dey usually try-in to control the conversation. Dat way, dey get some-in out of it. Well, not the shy ones but the strategic ones. You ever find yourself talk-in someone that keeps ask-in questions, and you just keep talk-in and talk-in more and more?” “Ahhhh, Yeah.” “Hand me a light bulb here, kid, so I can screw it up in the closet get some photons go-en in here.” “60 watts good?” “That oughtta be fine. Anywho, you are likely be-in manipulated for their own personal gain of some sort. Keep an eye out for question-askers. Easy way to spot-em is when you find yerself blab-en on and on, and in the middle of yer blab-in, you think to yerself ‘Wow. This person really likes me and is interested in me.’, they ain’t. No one in they right mind gives a hoot bout what anyone else has to say less they married and wife-E is trying to nag some-in outa ya.” “Wise words, Steve – wise words.” “Yeah, but the wise are lonely, kid. Very lonely. Best to tuck yer pride deep up yer butt less you want to lose dat pretty young gal you always toat-in round. Arrogance will get you nothing but a bottle of lotion. Just remember: Whenever, and I mean whenever you is having a conversation with a woman, you are always wrong—especially when yer right. This why ain’t nobody wants a woman in office—they is prone to communism—got to control everything.” “So, what’s the deal with this place?” “Oh, some old professor lived here. Physics, I think. No one knows where he went off to. He actually had some help in the design of this building—I think, back when he was still working at the campus. They say he lost his marbles and then went looking for them.” “Alright, then. What do you want me to get started on then?” “Suppose we should replace this drywall here first and then put new drywall up on the bare studs. We gonna have to rewire the whole place too. We’ll have to get the maintenance to turn off the power for the build-in fore we do that. Kid, why don’t-cha run on down the lobby and ask that pretty little brunette—what’s her name again? Lay-Na?” “Lena, I think.” “Yea, Lena—that’s it. She ain’t gots the best for look-in, but her back ends like a crisp apple. Go on down there and ask her to get them to shut the power off for this unit. Also, tell her to tell the maintenance fella I may need the whole build-in or neighbors units shut off too. We aughts fix up the electrical first while the walls are all exposed, and I gotta figure out where the currents come-in from.” “Anything else?” “No. I think that should be about it for now. I’ll start pull-in down this here closets walls—get rid of all these back-faced gnat-Z mark-ins fore someone gets the wrong idea. You gets all these scraps off the floor and sweep up good after you get the electrical shut off—if it ain’t been already. Hard to tell- the way olé professor here reworked everything. He has some backup flow of electricity come-in from somewhere in these here walls all up along the studs. Weird looking studs, though—never seen anything quite like it outside of this building. I have to locate the source fore we fry ourselves.” “Sounds good, Steve.” “Okay, Billy. Let’s get to it then.”
Steve and Billy walk away from the closet, and Billy heads to the condo’s front door. He then props the door open using a loose brick, which seems out of place amongst the rest of the material. He then heads out of the apartment, into the hallways, and off to the lobby. Steve stays in the unit kicking aside broken pieces of drywall to clear a path along the walls’ base. He then begins inspecting the wiring lined up and down the metal studs and feels the sudden urge to remind Billy of something- “OH HEY KID” “YEAH STEVE?” shouts Billy from down the hall. “GRAB THAT BARREL from the TRUCK while you down there. THAT GREEN ONE.” “GOT IT.”
Steve continues to inspect the wires throughout the unit. At the same time, Billy gets to work cleaning up the chunks of wall scattered about the concrete floor. He picks them up and tosses them into the barrel while still holding one, then shouts across the room, “Hey Steve, what is this, you think?” “Kid, you got something to show me; bring it on over here.” “Alright. It’s just some crazy drawing. Here what do you think this is?” Billy hands Steve the piece of the broken-up drywall half dusted in powered rock. Steve blows on the piece to clear the picture up, then rubs it along his thigh and takes a look. “That there – is a Toroid.” “Toroid? What’s a Toroid?” Steve looks at Billy confused, points to the image, and says sternly, “Kid – this is a Toroid.”. He then hands it back to him. “You think some of this stuff might be worth money, Steve?” “Hell if I know Kid. I did see a cracker that looked like Elvis sell for five-grand once. I met the guy when he moved in here. Odd duck that one. I couldn’t tell if he was a genius or just plain full of it. I wasn’t convinced he even had an education; that was until I saw a documentary on the History channel mention his textbook. Hypothetically Physics – no Hyper Physics – no no—it was—yup, Hypothetical Physics. I remember because they explained the difference between theoretical and hypothetical. It was pretty interest-in stuff. I didn’t understand a lick of it, but still interest-in. I can see how someone could lose their mind spend-in a lifetime think-in about that crazy voodoo.” “Maybe I’ll hold on to some of these drawings. Never know, we could be sitting on a lottery ticket.” “Sure thing, Kid. Maybe get back to work now?”
Steve goes back to fidgeting with some wires in the wall. Then, out of nowhere, he frustratedly says without turning around, “Kid – you got any more questions, use that phone of yours yer always playing with. I’m get-in paid to work here, not teach. You wanna learn some-thin, go up the street to the university, hand them a hundred-grand, and someone with a fancy pants attitude will give you a really big book to read.”
Billy stops talking after feeling a bit offended by Steve’s sharp comment. After that, some time goes by, and the floor becomes clean. Billy then feels the urge to start asking Steve more questions. Just before he opens his mouth, a light tap on the open front door is heard. “Hello. Anyone here.” Steve talks loudly from the other side of the condo, “Hey there – we back here in the bedroom.” “Okay then – I am coming in. Heading down the hall to the bedroom.” “Come on in. We ain’t gonna bite ya.” “Hi there. I’m John, one of the building maintenance. I understand you are having some troubles with the electrical?” “Hey there, John – we’ve met before on a few occasions.” “Oh. Yes. You were up here a few years back.” “Well, it seems olé professor here went on and tapped into someone else’s electrical.” “Hmmm. How’s that?” “I ain’t quite sure as of yet. I was hope-in you may shine some light on it. We have shut the power off for the unit’s breaker box so that we ain’t got no electrical flowing in, but here on every other wire or so, I am getting a reading that they have currents.” “I see. Well, there isn’t any way he could have tapped into a neighboring unit without disrupting their electricity.” “How do you figure these wires are getting current then? See, they all run to this unit’s breaker box, but without taking the whole thing out, I won’t be able to see where they go to. You can check all the lights and outlets in here – they are not getting a charge.” “Hmmm. Let me check the box.”
John goes on over to the wall where the breaker box is and inspects it. After a few minutes, while Steve stands patiently waiting, John says, “Well, you shouldn’t be getting any electricity in here, so yea, it is all turned off.” “Yes. I know this, but where is the current in these other wires coming from?” “There shouldn’t be any flow going through here; the breaker box is turned off.” “Yes. I am aware, but when I put my voltage detector up on the wires here, we get a clear signal of current.” “I don’t see how you could be; the breaker is shut off, and also the power to the breaker has been shut off from the building’s main breaker.” “John: You are not hearing me. The man has linked this place up to another unit or some other source of electricity. I can’t fix any of this here electrical until I find the source.” “I don’t see how he could do that. Each of the other units are directly connected to the main breaker – it would have disrupted the electricity.” “Alright. Okay. I understand that, but look. When I put my voltage detector up against the wires here, we have a clear current flowing in and out, so where is that coming from?” “There wouldn’t be any electricity in here; the breaker is off along with the source from the main breaker. Is there anything else you need? I have another tenant I need to get to shortly.” “Are you hearing what I am saying, John?” “Well, if you have any more issues, let me know – I have to run now.”
“Geez. Is that fella just messing with me, or what the heck.”
“Billy, you understand that guy?” “Nah. He sounds like a religious person being explained science.” “Some-thin, I guess. Alright then. Since he is as useless as a polished turd, let’s try and figure this out ourselves. I am gonna try out all the switches and test every wire mark-in em for hot and not hot. Don’t you go touch-in none of them. And I need you to go back down to the lobby and get the main breaker flipped on and then off again. Alright, Kid?” “Yea, Steve, I got it.” “I also need you to call me up here on the phone while you down with apple bottom flip-in the switch.” “Sounds good.” “But, let’s get all this here drywall off the floor first.” “Sounds good.”
After Billy and Steve got the place cleaned up nice, all that is left is to tear down the closet’s drywall—which was oddly untouched by the tenant.
“Now, Billy, don’t forget to give me a call on the phone before you have them turn any electrical back on. I don’t want you come-in up here find-in a french fry.” “I will, Steve.”
Steve positions himself inside the small walk-in closet, and then shuts the door behind him to get access to all the walls. This leaves him tucked in a dark box with little room to move around. While he stands just barely rubbing elbows to the wall, he pulls his phone out of his back pocket and turns the flashlight on. He then rests it at an angle on the floor, so he can illuminate the room. Once he has vision, he looks for the light switch and toggles it back and forth to check for any electrical flow. Still, nothing happens—the room just continues to remain lit by Steve’s phone. Steve then notices that there is more writing on the back of the door, so he moves the phone to another wall and angles it to illuminate the door’s backside.
Steve examines the writings on the wall:
3 3 3
4 4 4 4
5 5 5 5 5
6 6 6 6 6 6
7 7 7 7 7 7 7
8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8
9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9
The same amount of numbers, of which number there is in a row, is how many numbers there are in the row.
3 + 3 + 3 = 9 3 + 6 = 9
3(1 + 1 + 1) = 9 WHAT DID HE MEAN!!! 3-6-9
(1 + 1 + 1) + (1 + 1 + 1) + (1 + 1 + 1) = 9
9 – 6 = 3 9/3 = 3 6/3 = 2 2(3) = 6 6/2=3 (3)(3)=9
6 + 3 = 9 1, 2, 3 3 is the first non-prime number after the first prime number. 6 is the first non-prime number after the second prime number. 9 is the second prime number after the 3rd prime number. 2 times 3 is 6, and 6 plus 3 is 9, but why?
Steve continues to stand in the half-lit closet, looking at the writings. He ponders to himself what must have been going through the man’s head when he scribbled gibberish about 3, 6, and 9 on the door. As Steve continues to contemplate various fits of insanity, a sudden “POP!” and “sizzle!” sound startles him, and he about jumps through the ceiling. The lightbulb just above his head blew out, leaving a blinding string of filament fizzling in a spherical ball of half charred glass. “Yowzah! I’m awake now! Damm Kid was supposed to call me before they flipped the switch.” As Steve’s heart settles back to a regular beat, he looks up to see the snapped filament fading into nothingness. He watches as the last bit of red-hot glow dwindles away to a burnt up lightless thread of tungsten. When the filament completely goes out, so does the light from his phone.
“Geez. Stupid technology always failing on ya at the worst times.”
Steve turns around in the small closet, searching for the doorknob but cannot figure out which wall he is facing. The room suddenly seems a tad roomier as well. Steve’s elbows are now free to move outward without hitting the walls. He moves his hands up and down the walls, methodically inspecting every square inch as he searches for a doorknob but cannot find it. He thinks to himself, “This doesn’t feel like drywall.” as he goes in circles, trying to find his way to the handle. “It feels like cold cement.”
Before he starts to get scared like a child locked in a public bathroom screaming for their mother, he takes a deep breath and says, “Alright. Maybe there wasn’t a doorknob, but how did I pull the door shut then. Just wait for the kid to come back and open the door. Where’s my phone anyway.”
Steve has all but lost his compass of the closet, not knowing which wall is which. He kneels down and slides his hands across the floor, leading to the baseboard, and then moves in a counter-clockwise motion, never breaking contact with the wall’s base, but he never hits his phone. Steve makes another pass but still cannot find it. He begins frantically scouring the floor in the pitch-black room for his phone. He then realizes that he should be able to see the light at the base of the closet door through the crack between it and the floor, but there is zero light—he might as well be blind.
“Is this a hexagon shape? I swear I have hit six walls go-in round. Where the hecks my phone at? I must have kicked it. This room isn’t that small, I should be able to find it if I just check every part of the floor. Where is the wall now? I cannot even find the wall. Is the room get-in larger, or am I go-en crazy here? Alright, Steve. Just relax, fella. Just sit back and wait for Billy. You are get-in flustered and are start-in see, or well not see things in here. Imagine-in things is what I mean.”
Billy gets back up to the unit and yells out, “Hey Steve! I got them to shut the power off, but you weren’t answering the phone. You wanna get started on the wiring of the place then? Steve?”
“KID! Open this dang door for me.”
“Hey, Steve, where you at?”
“In the closet, Kid. Damit, open the fuck-in thing! I cannot get out.”
“Kid. You better not be playing with me. I don’t think I will have room for you on the team anymore if you are. Kid?!”
Billy heads down the hall and back to the bedroom and sees the closet door is shut. He walks up to it and says, “Hey Steve, you in there?” but gets no response, so he grabs the doorknob of the closet, turns it to the right, and tries to pull it open, but it won’t. “The hell. Dam-It” He pulls on it a few more times, thumping it back-and-forth until he sees the hinges and realizes that it opens inward, not outward. “Idiot.” He gets the door open and sees all the reversed swastika symbols painted up against the wall being illuminated by Steve’s phone, but the closet is empty. “Huh. Wonder where he went off to.” “Hey, Steve. You in the bathroom or something?” Says Billy getting no response. “He must’ve gone out to the hall or something. Forgot his phone. I’ll get going on the scraps till he gets back. Maybe he had the runs or some-in.”
Knock-Knock-Knock “Someone at the door?”
He walks over to the front door but doesn’t see anyone standing at it. Billy walks up to the opening and pops his head into the hall but doesn’t see anyone. “Weird.”
When he goes back to the bedroom where the closet is, he notices that the door is shut.
“Steve, you in there? You messing with me, man?” Billy grabs the doorknob and pushes the door open. He sees Steve’s phone is still resting against the base of the floor and wall with the flashlight on. This time Billy picks it up and turns the light off, and the half-lit closet goes dark. He instinctively flips the light switch in the closet as if he were at home—despite the electricity being shut off—but the light switch had been in the on position when he went to flick it up, so he taps it down and then, without reason, flips it back on. When he pushes it back up, the broken filament fizzles for an instant, and Steve suddenly appears in front of him, dangling from the ceiling choked by his own belt. His dead half popped out eyes gaze right into Billy’s, and Steve’s face is almost close enough to be kissing. Billy jumps back out of the closet, turning pale white. He flies back, trying to keep his balance while Steve sways back-and-forth. Billy then slips on a piece of dusty drywall left in the closet and falls to the ground right on his tailbone. Billy watches the bulb slowly fade, and Steve’s body becomes transparently in sync with it, also fading away. Within seconds Steve’s body disappears just as the light flickers, its last spark of illuminance leaving the closet empty and dark.
Billy sits on the floor, holding himself up with his palms on the cement, and stares into the empty dark closet – speechless – waiting for something to happen. It’s as if he can sense whatever is going on is not over. Suddenly, oddly cylindrical and uniform looking lightning bolts fill the closet scattered about, jolting from wall to wall. Each strike illuminates the closet, and the room looks different every time—first, rectangular, then a hexagon shape.
Between flashes of light, a body comes into view. “Steh-Sta stash Steve – is that ya ya you?”
The room then goes completely lightless as if it became a black hole and no light could escape it, making it appear to be void in space. While Billy sits on the ground looking into a vast nothingness, a body begins to materialize into a tall thin man. The man then steps out of the closet dressed in a flannel jacket with Kneehigh snow boots and a winter skullcap flattening down his shoulder-length hair. The man steps forward, crunching into broken pieces of sheetrock, and notices Billy on the floor in front of him. He asks, “What room is this?” “Whah-huh?” The man walks further out of the closet and then steps over Billy. He says under his breath, “six thousand something. must be” “Kid.” “What year is it?” Billy doesn’t respond. “The year Kid, what year is it.” Billy is in a sort of state of shock but manages to stutter out, “twen-tee-tee twenty.”
“Hmmm. Looks like the Dr. isn’t here anymore.” The mysterious man takes a vial out of his pocket that has a brush attached to the lid. He carefully pulls it out, making sure to scrape off the thick liquid from the stem of the brush onto the container’s inner walls using the lips of the small bottle. He then turns around and shuts the closet door. Billy watches him draw a bright-red straight line and another connecting it on the outside of the door. While the man is taking his time making the lines straight and even, Billy comes to his senses, thinking this has to be a gimmick, and pushes himself up off the floor and says, “Hey. What’s going on here. Where is Steve?” The man doesn’t reply; he just continues drawing until he completes a nonagon and leaves it to let the red liquid drip down. “Hey Kid- you know what the day is?”
Billy doesn’t want to comply with the stranger, but he feels not doing so may be worse, so he responds, “Monday, the 23rd – October.” “2028?” “Yea.” “Alright, then.”
The tall thin man slips the vial back in his pocket, turns around, and heads to the hallway. He stops on his way past the propped open door, puts his fingers almost romantically on the gold-plated unit number under the peephole, and reads out loud, “Sixty – one – forty, 6-1-4-0 – 10-23-28 and 6140. It has been a long time, my friend.” He drags his fingers slowly over nametag under the door knocker, and then walks off and disappears into the hallway.
Billy gets up off the floor and runs into the halls to catch the guy, but he is already gone. He stands at the door opening, still holding Steve’s iPhone in his hand, wondering what just happened and where Steve could be.
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[19 | Insane or Sober] Download or Read PDF
BANG-BANG-BANG – BANG – BANG-BANG-BANG
Jolted awake from a deep sleep, James’s heart felt as if it were given a shot of adrenalin. BANG-BANG-BANG. “Huh. What is going on?” BANG-BANG-BANG. The muscles in his body stiffen, and his eyelids stretch to the back of his head. He sees nothing but darkness, and his mind runs without brakes. BANG-BANG-BANG. “Christ! I’m coming.”
(Oh, God. Jesus. What did I do? Where am I? Is it dark outside, or am I in a windowless room? We need a drink. Is there any alcohol here? Wait, I must be in my bedroom; there are no windows in this room. Yes, this is my mattress. Thank God. Last thing I need is to wake up in a stranger’s home again or on the street again. No, we drank all the alcohol. What time is it? Where is my phone? Shit – did I lose my phone? It must be sometime after midnight by now. Crap – where is my phone at? What time did we fall asleep?)
His eyes close back shut, but he feels them wanting to pop back open, the same sensation one has when they are tired but cannot sleep. The release of chemicals in the brain increases his energy, but his body is so fatigued, just rolling over is a struggle. BANG-BANG-BANG – BANG-BANG.
(Who the fuck is at the door at this time. Jesus.)
At this point, falling back to sleep is no longer an option, so James gathers up his strength and gets himself out of bed. He thinks to put something on but quickly learns that he is still wearing his clothes from the previous day. (Shit. I must have been really fucked up to still have my jeans on.)
He makes it to the door and looks through the peephole, but no one is there. He then squints to try and look around, but no one is off to the left or right. Then he notices something out of place. There is an ax with a wooden helve resting against the wall in the hall across from the door.
In any normal situation, the site of this ax accompanied by the pounding, would have caused a rush of anxiety. However, James is not entirely lucid at-the-moment, so he removes all of his clothes and goes back to bed, thinking whoever was at the door must have given up and left.
Sometime later, James finds himself uncomfortably wedged on the corner of his mattress. He is half wrapped in sweat-soaked sheets that covet his torso. He wants to move to the dry side of the bed, but it is too much of a challenge, so he pulls the sheets off his body. When he unveils himself, his perforated skin continues to excrete beads of sweat. Cold air then disperses across the field of water droplets sending shivers to his core, so he pulls the wet drapes back over himself, feeling the unpleasant sting of fluid-soaked threads.
(This is not going to be a fun night, or day, or whatever time it is. I need water.)
He rolls side-to-side, trembling and twitching, flexing and unflexing his muscles. He moans in agony while scrunching blankets into his hands. He grips them fiercely then releases them in succession. He squirms about the mattress pulling the blankets off his body and then back on every few seconds. (Too hot, too cold, too hot. Too fucking cold—Christ.)
He endlessly expels warm salty sweat from head to toe. The body reserves no water in its attempts to flush the toxins.
The stress becomes too much to take, and his brain is still racing. He continues to toss and turn until his body shuts down. His eyes teeter-totter on him; then, he finally starts to fall back asleep. The moment before he slips into an unconscious state, voices from people talking next to his bed stop him from crossing the line of slumber.
An older man and a few children are chatting next to the bed, but he cannot see them because his eyes are still shut, and he cannot seem to get them open.He thinks to himself whether or not there is a TV in the room with him, but he doesn’t own a television.
As he tries to sleep, they continue making chatter, and it begins to irritate him. All he wants is to sleep soundly without interruption.
Instead of using sight, he tries to shift himself to get their attention but cannot move. He is stuck laying on his back frozen, struggling with all his might just to open his eyes but cannot. He is forced to endure the noises and eventually falls back asleep to the sound of whatever the three are watching.
The sound disappears, and he wakes up in his bedroom, still lying on his mattress, dying of thirst. This time he doesn’t bother fighting the pain he is in—accepting the situation for what it is, quickly falling back asleep.
The instant he falls asleep, he wakes up and feels the inability to move again. It is as if he is in a gravitational field far stronger than his own strength. A force that fixes him in place. Panic and anxiety riddle him as he struggles, unsuccessfully, to open his eyes. His eyelids feel as though they have been fastened together with super glue.
After a long pointless fight trying to open his eyes, he gives up and accepts his predicament, and then, suddenly, a slight crack of light seeps into his pupils. (It must be morning now. I must have been asleep for hours. Water. I need water.)
Before he goes to get water, he rests his eyes a few seconds and then opens them back up. When he opens them, the morning light is gone, and the room is dark. The sight of no light frightens him, and he, again, cannot move his body. He then falls back asleep and wakes back up to hear the television.
The shocking realization that he was dreaming that there was light sent him back into a sleepless state, (Oh god, I was just dreaming. This nightmare is just beginning. What time is it anyways and day? I don’t remember seeing my phone anywhere.)
He tries to roll to his side to get more comfortable, but his back is still glued to the mattress. He lays in a frozen comatose-like state, looking into nothingness, a dark, windowless room. Only a faint glow of light bends around the corner of his eye. (Is there a TV in here.)
James cannot tell if he is dreaming or awake. The same sensation people describe when they are abducted by aliens comes to his mind. He becomes scared to open his eyes, concerned that a little grey man with big eyes is standing at the edge of his bed. The fear of what he might see makes it nearly impossible for him to open his eyes. He wants to overcome his imagination to prove to himself that an alien isn’t standing at his feet, examining him, but he cannot open his eyes. It’s as if they are fastened shut. The terrifying thoughts of alien abduction soon pass, and he falls back into a slumber only to wake back up a moment later.
He lays motionless, swaddled in the blankets, but this time, he can get his eyes to open with relative ease. He looks off to the side of the bed, without turning his head, and sees a man sitting Indian style with children. They are watching an old TV from the ’50s. These are the same voices he heard earlier. (I heard them talking in my kitchen the last time I woke. What are they doing here, or where am I?)
He can’t quite make them out as his eyes are still adjusting to the light. Once his eyes clear up, he finds that he is still wedged in the corner of the room on his mattress pasted to the sweat-soaked sheets. (Water-water-water.) He thirsts for water but cannot move and falls back asleep, waking right back up again – and again – and again – and again. With each succession, he is able to open his eyes and move his head a little bit more, allowing him a better examine the intruders.
It is too exhausting for him to care that there are people in his bedroom. He chalks it up to passing out drunk at someone’s house and falls back asleep.
He opens his eyes and still cannot move. He realizes now that he is in his bedroom and can move his head, but the rest of his body is still immovable. His eyebrows scrunch with frustration wondering why these people are in his bedroom, disturbing his sleep. He tries with all his might to open his mouth and yell at them, but he can only think the words (WHY ARE YOU-YOU, why – errgghhhh.), and falls back asleep.
When he opens his eyes again, he can see two young boys staring at an old television. The light from the round glass tube glares in front of them, shining on their faces. James begins panicking, wondering where he is and who these people are and how they got into his home.
He can now turn his head and open his eyes, but his body remains stuck to the bed as if it is strapped in hospital restraints. The struggle to move sends him right back asleep, but he is quickly woken up by a man talking to the children. He again sees the glow from the TV on their faces but cannot see their faces. He tries to keep his eyes closed and pretend they are not there, but his eyes open anyway, and he finds he is alone again in his dark bedroom. (It was still just a dream. Water-water-water. I need water. Is there any water?)
He uses all his strength to shift his body from one corner of the mattress to the other. He then flails his limp hand alongside the edge of the bed, scraping the ground in search of water. He moves it slowly so as not to knock anything over. First, he hits what is clearly an empty bottle of wine. The lack of fluids within caused it to topple over and ding when hitting the floor. He then encounters a larger plastic pitcher filled to the brim with ice-water. (Thank you, oh, God, thank you. The water is life, but I wish for death. Should I sip it? It will only help to heal and prolong the end, but the suffering is too much to bear. I must drink, for I shall dry if not.)
James lops his head over the side of the bed and uses his tongue to grasp onto a straw. He had placed a pitcher of ice-water next to the bed before he had laid down. He knew from experience, the effort to sit up and sip from it would be too much, so he stuck a straw in it. He grips the straw with his lips and sucks up close to half a gallon of water, swishing the last few tablespoons in his dried-up cottonmouth. The cold-water spreads throughout his stomach, seeping into his cells. As it spreads, it amplifies the preexisting shivers and shakings. He then moves like a snake and slithers back under the blankets.
Once the water settles, James repositions himself on his back, then wraps himself like a mummy with the blankets’ dry half. He crosses his arms over his chest and pretends he is in a coffin. He lays there, stiff as a board, hoping and praying his body will turn off and he will be released from the hells of withdrawal.
The moment he fell asleep in his cloth coffin, a scraping sound woke him. His throat had all but glued itself together from dehydration. He tries to breathe smoothly but cannot get air to flow in and out without it causing a rasping-whistle sound, a sound that keeps him from sleeping calmly.
(Water – water, I need water aqua-aqua-aqua-aqua-aqua—I am dying. Please, Jesus, help me. God, please. Why do I have to suffer this way? Why do I do this to myself? Jesus, please help me. I am ready for death. Take me now. I don’t want this. Please, Jesus, take my life now. Please – Please – Please. I am sorry for everything I have done. Please, Jesus. I am ready for death.)
Amidst James’s pleading, he has a moment of in-depth contemplation about God. (Why is it that when I am sober and doing well, I cannot grasp the concept of God, but when I am suffering in such pain, it seems all but clear and obvious that there must be a God? It is easy for people to believe in God when they are hurting, but when all is good, it must be of their own doing.)
James wakes up again. He tries to lift his arms up to go for the water, but they are stuck. He is still adhered to the mattress and can only get his eyes open a little this time. He hears the man’s voice and can feel the children bouncing on the foot of the bed. This time he can get some words out and shouts them in a half-demented tone, “What the FUCK are you doing?”
His vision sharpens as his eyes dry up and come into focus. He seems to have control over his body again, so he quickly pops himself up to get a look at the people realizing he had been dreaming. (That freaked me out. Water.) James drinks the last of the pitcher’s water and is too tired to refill it even though he knows he will desperately need the water. He weighs his options to walk the 10-feet to fill it or just go back to bed and suffer without it. Ultimately, he decides that suffering is less work than getting off the bed and walking a few feet to the kitchen to refill it. He quickly falls back asleep.
More time goes by, and the morning light fills the room. James opens his eyes and is now seeing clearly. He sees the man and the children in his bedroom again and begins to panic.
The children are playing at the edge of the bed, and the man is camped out sitting Indian-style, watching the old TV, which is playing a show that looks familiar to James.
He can make out that the television is a black and white set, and the show playing is from the ‘50s or ‘60s, he thinks. It is hard to make out the faces—everything still seems blurry. His eyes shut, and he falls back asleep. He wakes up again and can now keep his eyes open, and he can now move his head. He turns his head slightly to see these people are still in his room. He can hear more voices coming from the other rooms. It sounds like a family gathering. He screams at the top of his lungs, “WHAT ARE ALL OF YOU DOING IN MY HOME!!! Get out. Goddamnit.”, but they ignore him as if he isn’t there. He quickly tires himself out, trying to break free, and falls back asleep.
He wakes shortly after, finding himself back in the darkness, and then wakes up again to see the light but no people. He feels the sticky pool of sweat that is being absorbed by his foam mattress and thinks, (I really need to shift to the other side of the bed. Eh, it’s too much work.) He falls back asleep. He then wakes up again by the sound of the voices. At this point, he is confused about whether he is asleep or awake. The dream state and reality state are becoming hard to differentiate between. He has lost count of how many times he has woken up and whether he was or is awake. His connection with certainty has been severed.
Countless repetitions of his night to day awakenings go on for what seems like an eternity. At one point, James makes eye contact with one of the kids. She is a little girl with straight blonde hair that curls up at the end. She has big blue eyes, which appear far too big for her head. She is staring at him with her head tilted and eyes angled up. He can see her teeth; they look like broken pieces of glossed pottery straight out of a kiln. Sometimes, in the sequence of waking and falling back asleep, she would be looking directly at him with a sharp pointy grin. Half the time she was there and the other half she wasn’t.
Confused and stressed out by the situation, James tries to keep his eyes closed shut so he doesn’t have to deal with the intruders. But when he shuts his eyes, he is finally released from the invisible shackles leaving him able to get off the bed and move about.
James wakes up now, fully capable of movement. He realizes that he is no longer on his floor-bound mattress before getting out of bed, but instead, he is lying on a metal-framed bed. He sees the little girl at the end of the bed with the back of her head facing him. He pulls back a wad of soft pink and white sheets and blankets. He thinks he should feel scared, but the room has a sort of familiar sense to him. He swings his feet out from under the blankets exposing yellow and blue striped pajama bottoms. (Where did these come from?) When his feet hit the ground, he faces the man and the two young boys who are still glued to the television. He looks at the TV but cannot hear any sound. The boys are almost frozen, like life-size dolls, and the chatter in the other rooms is becoming more palpable.
James gets up out of bed, and the people do not seem to notice he is there. He starts to get irritated, wondering why these people are in his home and why they won’t just let him sleep. He is in terrible pain from withdrawal and needs undisturbed rest. When he walks out of his bedroom, he grasps that this is not the same unit as his.
(Where am I?) thought James as he walks out of the bedroom and into the hallway. The floorplan looks similar to his, an almost identical layout, but with twice the kitchen space, almost as if someone stretched it.
He sees two women and a young girl in the kitchen. The girl looks to be about fifteen, and the others are in their forties or fifties. He immediately notices the perfectly petite physique of the girl. Her calves pop out from a blue sock hop dress. She has a pink blouse tucked in it, and her hair is done up in a springy ponytail with a ribbon wrapped around it. The other women are draped in antique dresses with hair in tight buns. They all have aprons on except the young girl. (They are making something out of flour, perhaps piecrust.) thought James as he watch’s—spying on them from behind.
He can see them all bending their knees in and out as if they are moving to music, and he can hear them talking. But he cannot hear any music. He can see a radio on the counter with the dial tone turned on, but no sound. He tries to make out what they are saying, but it is all muffled like they are talking in tongue or speaking backward.
He walks up closer to them and says, “Excuse me, what are you all doing here?”, to which he receives no response. The back of their heads is all he sees—old 70-year-old haircuts and a cute girl. He says again, “HEY! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE?!!!” but still nothing.
Frustrated, he decides to get out of the condo and figure out where he is. Just before he turns, the young girl who is making a piecrust stops to swing her head around and then puts a finger over her lips to shush him. (That face. I know that face. Where have I seen this girl before?)
Terrified about what is happening, he decides to flee the scene, walking quickly to the front door to escape. He opens the door and slips out into the hallway. The sight of the vomit green carpet comforts him, letting him know he mustn’t be far from home.
(Wrong floor I must be on. Drunk I was. I wonder who them people were? I probably befriended them because of the girl. Was that her bed I was sleeping in? Hope I didn’t break any laws.)
He paces down the hall, searching for the elevator corridor but cannot seem to get to it. He turns back, and the little demon-faced girl at the edge of the bed comes bolting after him down the hall. He didn’t notice it before, but one of her legs and arms is strapped up in a brace and harness like a stroke victim. The little girl runs at him, limping and wobbling back and forth like a retarded linebacker. She tilts her head 45 degrees, aimed right at his crotch. “Shit!” James screams. He turns and trips and props himself up off the ground as quickly as possible, panicking trying to get away from the little blue alien eyed girl.
After picking himself up, he runs down the hall as fast as he can, not realizing that he has run in an entire circle without turning around, ending back at the door he came out of. Scared out of his mind that the little girl is going to attack him and start chewing his flesh, he tries to get back in the condo. He pushes the door’s handle down while he positions his body weight against it, forgetting that the door opens outward. He turns and sees the girl getting closer and closer. This time she says with a child’s voice, “I love you, Jimmy.” clink “Jimmy, come here, Jimmy.” clink “Jimmy-Jimmy. Please Jimmy.” clink “Don’t leave me, Jimmy.” clink “We will be so happy together Jimmy.” He can hear her teeth clink together between each sentence as her leg and arm flop down the hall. He pulls the door out, keeping it split open just enough to tuck himself through it. Scared that he won’t be able to shut the door and keep the freak child away, he hesitates and trips over himself, falling to the floor. Once he hits the floor, he blinks and is stuck back on the mattress, unable to move. He is back listening to the man talking to the children. Frightened and terrified by what just happened, he passes out as if knocked by the butt of a gun on the temple.
James opens his eyes and wakes again, and the room is still pitch black. He wonders if he is at home or lost. He rolls over to have a drink of water, and the water hasn’t even been sipped on yet. The pitcher is filled to the brim, and the ice cubes are still the same size; they haven’t even begun to melt. He puts his hand to his side, searching for his iPhone, and finds it right where it usually is. He checks the time and sees that it is 1:17 am.
James falls back asleep after drinking some water. When it is daylight, he wakes up, swings himself out of bed, and leaves the bedroom. He walks past the man watching TV and sees the kids are now sleeping on a fold-out cot next to the metal-framed bed. He then turns into the next room, and the whole layout of his condo is reversed. It is like a dyslexic moment. (Is this how the condo always has been, and I just have been seeing it differently?)
The women are still packed in the kitchen preparing for something—a celebration of some sort. They are all making pies, cookies, and appetizers together. He wonders why these people are in his home, waking him from his much-needed rest. He decides to try and get them out, so he started talking to them, “I don’t want you here. Why won’t you leave?”, but they do not respond.
At one point, one of the women waves her hand at James to say, “pish posh you.” He can’t tell if she knows he is there, or if she is looking at someone else, or just singing along to music he cannot hear.
Oddly, it doesn’t seem as though he is yelling at strangers. He feels a deep connection to these people somehow. Especially the young girl in the sock hop dress. Something about her face he cannot quite put his finger on. Still, he doesn’t like that they are intruding on his space. He cannot recall who they are, but he feels a deep-rooted connection to them. He hates people disrupting his personal space. He thinks this is what it is like to get into a relationship with someone—no more rest.
He examines the women thinking, (Why would these people just barge into my home and disrupt my peace and wake me from my sleep like this? I didn’t ask for this. Who are they, and why do I feel like I have a deep connection to them?)
He ponders the situation further, trying to make sense of the problem. (I must have a deep connection with these people. Particularly the young girl. Gosh, she is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. I think I am in love. Does she know me? Are we together? Something about her makes this all worthwhile, and not only worthwhile but desired.)
While he stands there and admires the young girl from the backside, the man that was in the other room crept up on him—from behind. He had been standing behind James close enough to be breathing down his neck—had he had a breath to breathe.
James is startled by the man’s voice: “You asked for this when you stuck your dick in my little girl.” James jumps and turns around. The man stands a foot taller than him wearing a wife-beater shirt and blue jeans. James replies and says, “What was that?”, but the man ignores him, walks over to a rocking chair, sits down, and stares out the window.
(Did I get drunk and sleep with this man’s daughter? I don’t like this; the man doesn’t have the decency to respect my lifestyle and sleeping schedule. I need my sleep.)
James walks up to the girl and puts his arms around her, pressing his stomach against her back. He then puts his hands on her waist and feels that her belly is swollen, and she is pregnant. He then presses closer to her and moves his hands up to her shoulders, and then slides them down her arms until his palms eclipse the back of her flour dusted hands. At the same time, she pushes the curves of her bottom into his groin and turns her head slightly for a kiss. He puts his hand to her cheek and turns her head a bit more, then presses his mouth to hers. The sensation he gets when their lips touch makes him feel as if nothing in the world matters, and he has found absolute purpose. (Something about this girl, I know her.)
One of the older ladies gently whacks James on the arm with a ladle. Like flipping a switch, he can now understand what they are saying, “You too keep it together here; we got to get everything ready for the Christmas party.” The young girl smiles at the lady, kisses James on the lips, and says in a silly-like fashion, “Alright, Mom.” She ducks out from under James’s arms and then hands him a wad of dough, “Roll this out, sweety for a pie crust. I am making your favorite! It was going to be a surprise, but you woke too early. I saved a bunch of sour cherries from the cherry tree out front. Froze them back in July so I could make you a pie for Christmas.” When she moves away from the counter, it becomes evident that she is five or six months pregnant. James says under his breath, “Cherry tree?” “Yea, silly. The one you named after me.” “Ella?” “That’s my name! Don’t wear it out!” She whispers into his ear: “The one you took me under. Remember, the night responsible for this little bun.” She kisses his neck and then walks off, heading to the restroom.
James went on rolling out the dough. He is very methodic, taking it slowly to make a perfect circle. He pushes the pin down on the dough’s center, creating a trough. He turns it 90 degrees to make another imprint crossing the trough perpendicularly. He repeats this until a uniform flower imprint is in the dough, and a cylindrical disk appears. Then he gently rolls the pin over the dough, eliminates the indents, flips it over, and makes another pass. He repeats this while rotating the dough until it stretches out into a large circle, about 13-inches in diameter.
James finds himself comfortable and at ease amongst these people, a feeling he had only dreamed of, a feeling he thought he isn’t worthy of experiencing. He thinks to himself about how he found what he has always been looking for. The American Dream – a beautiful young wife, house, family, cookouts, two-car garage, and kids on the way. He thinks to himself as he feels the dough’s smooth surface, (Life is good.)
The young girl returns and tucks herself up to James and says enthusiastically, “Wow – I am impressed! That is the best rollout of a pie crust I have ever seen!” The other ladies look over and say, “Ohhh my, Jimmy- now we know your role in the kitchen!”
He moves away from the counter to let Ella take over and then looks for the man but finds an empty rocking chair still rocking. “Where did he go?” One of the women responds, “Who?” “The man that was rocking in the chair.” “You must still be drunk, Jimmy. We are the only ones here.” “Oh, yea. Right.” “You did have a bit much last night, honey.” “It was Christmas Eve – let him be.” “Yes. Gotta let loose everyone once in a while else you’ll tighten up and snap.”
James doesn’t respond to them—he just thinks, (The last person to call me Jimmy was my mom.) “Mom, you mind if we take a break? I need to lay down for a bit.” “Sure, Honey, you two lovebirds, go take a nap. Take care of that little angel in your belly.” “James looks like he needs some more sleep too.” “Pale as a ghost he is.”
James and the young girl walk off into the hallway and enter back into the room. He sees the pink sheets and metal-framed bed and then realizes he had been sleeping in this girl’s room.
James is on autopilot, feeling pure bliss being with the mysterious yet familiar girl. All his life, all he wanted was to fall in love and have a family life, and now he has found it.
The two of them slide into the bed and lay on their sides to face each other. James tries to get close, but her pregnant stomach keeps them separated, so they twist their feet together. Ella looks into his eyes, romantically and says, “I love you, James.” He isn’t sure what is happening. Still, he reciprocates and then kisses her passionately.
“I wish my mom wasn’t in the other room. I would take you right now. If we are quiet, we could get away with it. Risk it?”
She rolls over and puts the swell of her back up to his stomach and then pops her butt into his pelvis, securing their bodies together like a puzzle piece. He feels immediate pressure build in his pants, and his heart thumps with anticipation of her opening up for him. She reaches her hands around her back to pull his bottoms down. She had removed her panties when she went to the bathroom so she could easily pull her dress up under the covers. She grips James firmly and angles him inside her. He feels the slippery warmth embrace his girth. The moment he begins to enter her, his eyes shoot open, and he hears someone yelling at him, “DON’T YOU REMEMBER – Don’t YOU!”
He hears a voice coming from somewhere, but he cannot see. It is still pitch black. It is the voice of that man that was camped out next to him, but when he turns to look, his eyes open again, and he is still pushed up in the corner of his bed, sweating profusely. He had been dreaming the whole time.
Great despair overwhelms him, a realization that he has lost this girl in his dreams forever. It was so real to him that tears well in his eyes when learning that he was dreaming, and it was a fabrication of his imagination. She was literally the girl of his dreams.
He has to urinate terribly now, but he ignores the urge, desperately trying to get back to the dream state he was just in. He felt love and comfort, a sensation he thought he would never have. Unfortunately, the urge to use the bathroom is too much to ignore. He pulls himself off the mattress, pushing himself upwards with what felt like a more generous than necessary force, and makes his way to the bathroom. He stumbles slightly against the walls for balance as he finds his way in the dark.
He stands at the toilet with his hands pressed against the wall for leverage, waiting for the tepid death to emerge. The need to release is strong, but his dehydrated body is having trouble letting it go. Weeks of funk are stuck up in his bladder and kidneys. He is so parched that his urine practically comes out solid. It drips out of him and hits the water making a loud thunk, and he can smell the rank-moldy-vinegar scent wafting up into his nose. He titles the moment, “The reembrace of death brought to you by bodily functions.” The color is so deep that it turns the water a dark orangish-brown, resembling apple juice. (That must have been the whiskey I drank.)
James is starting to come awake after standing in the bathroom light. The fantasy he just had has left a pit in his stomach. The kind of feeling someone gets when they are in love with someone that is not in love with them.
When he walks out of the bathroom, he is not in his condo. He flips the light switch on and examines the place. It is a small apartment on the outskirts of town. He recognizes the location by the interstate outside the window. The room resembles a hotel having two beds in it, one on each side of the room. Both beds with a simple metal frame not dissimilar from the one he was just in with Ella.
One of the beds has no bedding, so he lays down on the mattress with blankets and pillows. He tucks himself up and looks out the sliding doors on the wall parallel to the foot of the bed. He looks out the window at the grass yard and recalls renting this place so that he could get away from the condo he purchased. He couldn’t remember why at first but then recalls. (It was the distractions from the neighbors that would pound on the walls endlessly every evening like clockwork. Oh, yes, that is why I left. I couldn’t get a good night’s rest because of the psycho neighbors that cannot stay still. God, what the fuck is wrong with them. Oh well, acceptance is key. At least, I can get a good day’s rest now.)
He is not currently aware if he was dreaming or if this is reality. He simply goes about his business as if everything is normal. He lays down on the bed, listening to the constant flow of traffic from the interstate. He feels the summer breeze blowing in through the screen door. The fresh air brings on comforting laziness helping him fall asleep.
Days go by for him, and he sleeps peacefully through the nights. He has fully recovered from the withdrawal period and is now back working on his physics formulas. He spends most of the day at a small desk positioned in front of the sliding patio doors toiling away in his notebook. He writes equation after equation filling half the book up with theories on time-waves and displacement rings, which converge on certain intervals.
In the middle of a physics trance, the landlord came barging into the apartment. The landlord escorts a woman and her daughter to the empty bed and says, “Here, you can stay here.” James sits in the chair after the landlord leaves, speechless, wondering what the hell these people are doing in his apartment. He looks at the woman. She looks like she just came off a 5-year meth binge. She jumps right in his bed and wraps herself with his blankets. The little girl runs through the room, past James, and slips through the screen door to go outside.
James gets up and runs to the door to catch the landlord. He shouts down the hall: “What is going on here?” The landlord responds while walking away: “Those is your new roommates.” ‘I don’t think so. I don’t want lodgers.’ The landlord ignores him, closes the door, and disappears.
James is now standing at the bedside, staring at the girl lying on his bed and not the other bed, which is clearly vacant. He is debating whether he should jump in with her or kick her out. (I bet she is ready to fuck right now. Probably why she jumped in my bed anyway. How long has it been now? About five years, I think, maybe longer.)
James contemplates unprotected sex with the stranger for a few seconds. (Even a scabbed face meth head is starting to look appealing—just so long as she has a decent body and her snatch doesn’t smell like a can of catfish stink bate.)
[19.1 | Later]
The day jumps without notice, and James finds himself lying in bed under the covers looking at the strange woman. She is wearing nothing but a bra and some sweatpants and has a slight potbelly sticking out. He is considering sliding his hand down her belly, into her pants, then between her legs, but just as he moves his hand towards her, the thought of how she might smell stops him. He wonders how he even got in the bed in the first place. (How did I get in this bed? I was just at the desk, and it is starting to get dark out.)
He snaps out of the daze he is in and becomes hugely frustrated about why he would have to share a place with someone. His whole goal of relocating from the condo was to be alone, on the outskirts of the city, in a quiet area, so he can work. (How can this person and her daughter just be placed in here without my consent?)
Without notice, James jumps off the bed and takes off through the sliding doors. He steps outside and lands his foot right into a pile of broken glass. Just as he feels the sharp edges about to break the surface of his skin, he quickly pulls his foot back to avoid it. The jerk causes his body to fly forward, and he falls palms first on the cement, just missing the shards. While he sits on the ground examining his scraped palms, a beer bottle rolls up next to him. “Damnit. Why the fuck people leave this shit here.”
He pushes himself up off the ground and sees, in the corner of his eyes, what looks like the woman’s daughter. He turns and squints but isn’t sure what he is seeing. (It looks like she is being raped on the side of the street.)
He gets up and runs over to her, so he can rip the man off her, but when he gets closer, what he sees isn’t a raping at all; the kid has turned into a half-man, half-woman beast child having anal sex with itself. The small demon creature sits on the curb of the street, shoving its cock in its own ass, moving back-and-forth while its tits bounce about. Shocked and horrified, James turns around and runs back to the apartment, bursting through the patio doors and slamming them shut behind him.
After he closes the doors, he trips over a beer bottle. The bottle rolls under his foot, sending him face-first into the edge of the bed. He sees his future while flying through the air, ending with his face smashing into the metal frame. He doesn’t have time to protect himself and cannot get his arms up quick enough. He is headed right for the metal bars. The girl watches with a twisted look of pleasure. Just as his face is nearing it, and the acceptance of oncoming pain comes to fruition, he shoots up from his bed, back in the dark lightless room, soaked in sweat, and screams, “Fuuuuuuck! Goddamnit!”His dry throat hisses when he breaths. He is so dehydrated that his trachea has practically closed in on itself, sticking together like pasty glue.
The room is still dark, and the water next to the mattress remains untouched. By the size of the ice cubes, he can tell that he has yet only been in bed for a few minutes, even though it has felt like days.
The dreams he has been having are so irritating and disturbing that it takes him a while to calm down. He feels the same way someone would feel after days of being tortured for information. But he is comforted knowing he is back in his place now. He feels a sense of relief, knowing that this had all been a dream. However, he is still distraught over losing the young girl he fell in love with only seconds ago. He thought he had found acceptance in a celibacy like state of life, but his dream of Ella has woken an overpowering desire for true love, a passion that burns deep within his soul.
Sunshine and Death
James continues to lay on saturated sheets. He cannot fall back asleep, and his brain feels like a needle is stuck in it. A Christmas song plays on repetition in his head repeatedly, and all he can think about is committing suicide. He thinks about buying a gun, (The gun is the solution. If I had a gun, I could put it against my head, pull the trigger, and then I’ll be dead.) He tries to fall back asleep but cannot. The only thing that soothes the pain is the fantasy of killing himself. He prays to a God he doesn’t believe exists for help, (Jesus or Jesus or God whoever. Please help me. Why do I do this to myself? Why must I torture myself this way? I am ready for love. Please deliver me true love. Who is this girl from my dream? Where can I find this love? Please, Jesus, help me. A gun that is all I need. I need a gun. If I buy the gun, I can have some fun and pull the trigger, and I’ll be done.)
Life goes on
After a few more hours of tossing and turning while fantasizing about suicide and divine intervention, James is finally able to get out of bed. He doesn’t feel as bad as he thought he would feel, so he gets dressed and heads to the lobby.
The place looks slightly different than he remembers. It seems as if it had been filled with brand new antique décor while he was on his binge—not different furniture, just new versions of what was there before. There is a beautifully carved round wood table standing in the middle of the room with a freshly picked bouquet of long stem roses. They are pink and white like the blankets from that girls’ bedroom.
The lobby is empty, and the only person he sees is his own reflection in the peculiarly placed mirrors. He notices a newspaper on the table. He looks down at it to see the date, “December 13th, 1954.” He doesn’t think about the date as odd. Instead, he thinks one of the elderly tenants probably had it in storage and thought it would be interesting to share. An article catches his eye, so he stops to read it.
Madison, WI Journal – December 13th, 1954
Local man found breaking into neighboring apartments while severely intoxicated
A young pregnant girl woke in the middle of the night to a severely intoxicated man jumping in her bed. She claims he attempted to force himself upon her just before her father was able to chase him out of the unit. He tried to catch him, but the man mysteriously disappeared. The residents think they know who the man is and helped the police to identify him. The man has since been detained until further questioning can be completed. The Metropolitan Place condominium tenants are in a state of shock, learning that this man had been living in their storage units for years. He was, apparently, sneaking in and out without being noticed. They all believed him to be a former professor at the university. They asked the management how this man could have lived in the building for so long without being found out, but the management had no awareness or knowledge of him. They assumed that the man had been living in an unclaimed storage unit that was off the records. It is tucked in the corner without a door number and no lock. He had been able to pass off as one of the condo owners by being careful when he went in and out of the building. When they searched the storage unit, they found cases of empty wine bottles that had been stolen from another resident’s storage unit. The mysterious man even found food and water supplies meant for a disaster. He was able to keep himself clean by use of the exercise room’s bathroom. He must have been living in the building for years, they speculate. Only a few people even met the man. The residents are in disbelief that this could happen right under their noses. They have filed a group-wide restraining order against him but do not know what his name is. All they have is a picture.
James looks at the picture in surprise. Wrapped by text is a photo of himself but twice his current age. He cannot believe his eyes. (Wait, am I still dreaming? What is going on here?) He puts the paper down and turns to see an old lady sitting in a rocking chair. He screams at her, “What the fuck do you want!? What is happening here?!!” He looks again at the newspaper and sees bloody fingerprints on it. He looks at his hands and sees his hands are covered in blood. There are blood spots stained on the walls and streaked across the mirrors. He thinks to himself, (I must have dragged myself across the walls to keep my balance while drunk.)
He flips open the paper to find the rest of the article on page 4:
“On Oct. 10, 1916, the dome on top of what was then called Main Hall caught fire. The one responsible for the tragedy was the previously well-respected physicist, Dr. James Francis Quasar. After the incident, he had been stripped of his professorship. He then went on to pursue his experiments privately. Some years later, he disappeared. The police only learned who he was after a former student saw his photo on the news.
Apparently, over 40-years later, the missing professor again moved to the downtown Madison area. He gained work at the university as a janitor and moved into a small apartment next to the prestigious Metropolitan Condos.
After the Metropolitan incident, he was found in his apartment (formerly metro-hotels ‘a conversion to modern living’), seemingly trying to drink himself to death. There had been many reports made to the police about a crazy wide-eyed man stumbling through the halls of Tower II of the Metropolitan Condominiums, but they never panned out. In interviews, tenants said that he would be coherent for some of the time, and he would make his way into people’s units by befriending them. Some said, ‘he was a perfect gentleman,’ but then suddenly a switch would flip, and he turned into a raging lunatic. Others described him as a tall-dark-handsome man with a charming way about him and a seductive smile. In contrast, most said he was a gibber-jabbering drunkard probably doped up and on disability and that he couldn’t hold a conversation with anything more intelligent than a dog.
Somewhere along the line, people started showing up dead in their condos. It was thought to be suicide or natural death at first glance, but after multiple perversities occurring in a short string-of-time, police began to suspect a murderer is on the loose. They dubbed him ‘Doctor Serial-Suicide.’
The morning after, a call came into the ‘Madison Police Department.’ The former professor was passed out drunk in a family’s bed with two children lying motionless. Apparently, this happened while the family prepared food for a Christmas party in the adjacent room. Their holiday enthusiasm, television set, and radio drowned out the murder of their children. They were completely unaware of what had happened until they found the man sleeping with them as if they were stuffed animals placed upon the bed to provide a sense of security.
There is currently no evidence pointing to the professor as the one that committed the crimes other than him being found in the bed with the children’s corpses. There had been no sexual assault, and the cause of death is unknown. When questioning Dr. James Francis Quasar, he had said, ‘I am not supposed to be here.’, and nothing more.”
James finishes the article while sitting on one of the oversized Victorian chairs in the lobby, wondering what could have happened, where he is, and why this was happening to him. He looks over at the old lady in the rocking chair, and she is just sitting there with her toothless mouth shut. He starts shaking frantically, and then he sets his head back and closes his eyes. When he opens them, he is back on his bed, staring at the ceiling fan.
A massive sense of relief comes over him when he learns everything has been a dream, and he is back in the comfort of his sweaty mattress. He lays on the bed, feeling the breeze from the fan blow across his naked body wishing the fantasy life with Ella were reality. He musters up all his brainpower to try and put himself back into an imaginary state with her but is interrupted when he hears loud pounding on the door and a man shouting, “OPEN UP – POLICE!”
He snaps out of his daydreaming and runs to the door, thinking there must be a fire or gas leak. He looks through the peephole to see three police officers standing outside. They continue to pound on the door disturbing everyone on the floor, so he opens the door, and the officers immediately grab his arm, ripping him out of his home. They grip with such force; he feels the blood vessels pop in his bicep. James speaks in a very calm way saying, “Uhmmm, what the fuck are you doing, officers?”
“Is your name James?” “Yes.” “Have you been drinking tonight, sir?” “I had some drinks earlier, but I was just in bed sleeping.”
One officer restrains James, while the other two ransack his home.
James is wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. The officer pats the thin cloth and asks, “Where are you keeping the drugs and weapons?” James responds, confused, “What?” The officer begins to read him his rights, “You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. …”
James is confused and not clear-headed at the moment. He is standing in the hallway with his hands cuffed tightly together behind his back. The cuffs have no chain connecting them. They are just two rings locked together, forcing his elbows to pop out like chicken wings.
The neighbors all peek through the crack of their doors lined up and down the hall. He hadn’t met the neighbors yet; at least, he doesn’t remember if he had. He can see that a few of them were the people in his dreams. And at the end of the hall is the blonde-haired, blue-eyed porcelain-toothed child freak that chased him. (I must have met them when drunk to have been able to manifest them in my dreams. But where is the one? I don’t see her. Could she be real? Could she?)
James pleads with the officers to let him go, “What are you doing? Why are you arresting me?” The officers tell him that they cannot let him be alone in his current condition, “We cannot leave you to yourself, sir. You are clearly severely intoxicated and a danger to yourself and others.” “What do you mean I am a danger? I was just sleeping.”
The cops ignore James and drag him off half-naked, down the halls and through the lobby as if to purposely embarrass him. He is reminded of the Game of Thrones’ scene: “Shame – Shame – Shame,” he could hear everyone thinking it. They dragged him out the front door into an undisturbed layer of freshly fallen snow about 6-inches deep. They prop him up in the back seat of the squad car. They take him away without any explanation or verification of his identity.
[19.2 | Insanity or just insane?]
James finds himself in a detox center locked in a padded room wearing nothing but a disposable paper gown. He can tell that he must have been asleep for some time by the level of anxiety he has. As the alcohol in his system diminishes, his nerves upsurge. This feeling triggers the need for a drink. He usually starts drinking before it comes on. Now that he is locked up and has no alcohol available, he is forced to sober up. He thinks of it as a blessing in disguise—just like what happened in Dallas, with the stock market, before moving back to Wisconsin. (But what did I do this time during my blackout?)
As James becomes coherent, he is jostled by the situation. No one likes being detained and locked up, particularly for doing nothing more than sleeping in one’s own bed.
He sits up against the cold leather padding and sees himself in a stainless-steel mirror bolted to the wall across from him. Next to it is a small window, which allows for a glimpse of the moonlit snow to shine through. It is just enough light to irritate someone trying to sleep but beautiful enough to force one to enjoy, regardless of the situation.
He fell asleep shortly after being tossed in the cushioned cell. When he awoke, he wasn’t sure where he was? He had been so drunk, he couldn’t quite recall how he got there until he felt the bruise on his arm. The stinging pain became evident when he propped himself up, and the nightmare of cops ripping him from his home will leave him scarred for life.
He notices the door to the room had not been shut or locked. He stares at it, wondering what kind of trouble he will get in if he leaves the room. He isn’t sure why they would leave a door open in a jail cell until he realizes that he isn’t in jail but in some twisted sort of detox.
He gets up and pokes his head out the door to see a small group of people sitting in chairs in an open lobby. They are spread out, backs against the walls. On the other side of the room is a glass shielded counter with nurses protected by it.
The nurse sees James’s head pop out. She exits from behind the protective window and heads over to him. She shoves a breathalyzer in his mouth with a rude look on her face and says, “Blow HARD!”
He didn’t want to cause any problems, so he blew into it, and it revealed that he is about triple the legal limit. (Goddamnit. It is Dallas all over again.) She looks at him and says, “You better get comfortable. You will be here for a while.” “How long is a while?” “Got to blow a zero and speak with the therapists before we can release you.” “How can you keep me here without me doing anything wrong? I was just sleeping in my home, and those cops ripped me out without a warrant or anything.” “Honey, you are drunk, and a neighbor called saying you were a danger to yourself, possibly suicidal. Here in Wisconsin, if someone says you are suicidal and you have alcohol in your system, you have no rights. We have to detain you until we deem you are no longer a hazard to yourself or others.” “WHAT! I am not suicidal! Who called and said that?” “They have the right to be anonymous.” “What the fuck kind of bull shit is that? So you are telling me that if I wanna fuck with someone, all I have to do is call the non-emergency number after they’ve had a beer and say they are suicidal, and you will lock them up in here?” “Yes, sir, if there is alcohol in someone’s blood and anyone makes that claim—whether it be anonymous or not—we have to detain said person until they are free from alcohol and psychologically analyzed.”
He knows he is shit out-of-luck in this place, lest he becomes Houdini. He thought he could use his money and call a lawyer, but the twisted governing officials of Wisconsin figured out how to bend the law so they can restrain anyone they want whenever they want.
(Alright. No reason in getting flustered. Let’s just sit this out and get it over with. Will be nice to sober up finally.)
James sits next to someone in the open room that has his face buried in his hands and greets himself, “I’m James, funny meeting you here.” The man turns to him and looks at him with a blank emotionlessness. He opens his mouth to speak to James, and his jaw falls right off his face, slipping out of its socket. He tried to talk, flapping his tongue back and forth, flipping droplets of spit and blood about. Flying dots of red absorb into James’s paper gown as he watches the fleshy tooth lined jawbone saturate the other guy’s gown. James looks at him and says, “Nice to hear you are doing well.”, then gets up and goes back into his padded room to sleep.
He lays in the bed, looking around, thinking about how similar this room is to his condo. Small with a mattress, mirror, chair, and a single window.
He tries to sleep but can’t, so he decides he doesn’t even want to try after everything that had happened. The fear of more nightmares and lost love haunts him. He is still wondering why he had gotten hauled off by the police and dragged into this place. It is beginning to look strikingly similar to the trash area at the condos. The cement walls mixed about under thick white padding look identical. (Perhaps it is common architecture in the area.)
While lying on the provided mattress, he starts to think he is still dreaming and is still in his bed. He thinks back to everything that happened. (Is this some sort of twisted sentence in hell.), when a nurse walks by, clanking her heels like some sort of stilettos. He looks to watch her walk by, but there are no shoes, just raw bone snapping on the cement floor. Femurs shift back and forth under a white dress like curtains in the wind.
James looks back into the mirror and sees he has aged some 30-years.
Unable to mentally and emotionally handle what he is seeing or what is happening, he begins crying and curls up into the fetal position sobbing himself to sleep.
[19.3 | Intellect of the mad man]
James wakes up from his series of extensive nightmares to find himself sleeping in a bed discarded in the trash room area of his condos. Cops had been standing over him while he slept, trying to wake him up for a few minutes now. He comes to, and the officers ask if he is alright and if they needed to call anyone? James is quick to his feet, replying, “I had a little too much to drink and couldn’t find my keys. Someone so graciously left a mattress here for me to rest upon while I waited for the cavalry to arrive. And you have arrived! Thank you for your kind services. I shall return to my quarters now that the day has begun.”
The officers had found his keys in his pocket along with an old article of newspaper folded up neatly. “Your keys are right here, sir. We would be hauling you in, but the lady at the front desk told us you live here and had recently moved in and that you may have locked yourself out. Do you need help, sir?” “No, thank you, officer. I am fine to get up and go home. I must have forgotten I had the keys. Welcome to Madison, right?” (Will the nightmare never end. My neighbors must think I am insane or some sort of crazy person.)
The cops depart, and James waits for the elevator. While he waits, he notices a picture of the old lady, the one that was in the rocking chair. He learns from the flyer that the building he lives in is connected to a senior center and that he must have hallucinated or imagined this woman. He sees on it that there are Alcoholics Anonymous meetings held there daily. (Shit, if that ain’t a sign from above—don’t know what is.)
It is 7:00am, and a meeting would be held the following Monday. (Maybe it is time to give up the drink.)James thought as the past months blurred through his mind.
The emotional pain he is feeling inside has been incomprehensible. There is nothing worse than having no clue what you did for months on end. It is the equivalent of hellish rattles to the souls-core. (Many people see an alcoholic as some sort of irresponsible, crazy person, but they haven’t a clue of the truth, and they are lucky to live in such a fantasy land.)
On the elevator ride up, he continues to contemplate. He thinks about how crazy persons were hung or burned at the stake in the past or even sunk in freezing water while locked in a cage just because they were mentally ill and misunderstood. People assumed they must be witches overcome by demons or something, but, in reality, they were just misunderstood and or chemically imbalanced. Many people treat alcoholics in this fashion as if they had a choice to pick up a drink but trying to explain to them how that works is as pointless as explaining color to a blind person.
He is now sobered up, feeling the urge to begin drinking but wants to refrain. He gets into his unit, locks the door, and empties his pockets. He sees his iPhone on the counter and checks the day and time. The time reads, Saturday, June 7th, 2018, “What?” He realizes that he has only been here just shy of a month.
He sees the yellowed paper next to his keys and recalls the newspaper he found in his dreams. He picks it up and slowly unfolds it as if his dream had come true. It reads about how there were multiple suicides in this building. “All the suicides were due to great shame or inability to accept their lives.” At least that was the conclusion after the investigation into a possible serial killing. A killer who disguised his acts by methods of untraceable suicides. A theory that failed to be taken seriously since all the victims were in the same clinic, (The Metro Clinic – Phase II, a home for the mentally insane.)
He dropped the paper down to the counter, wondering what this could mean and where he may have found it.
(I must still be dreaming. This cannot be.)The article further read and tells the story of a former professor that had held himself up in his apartment, apparently drinking himself to death. He had accomplished his mission in less than a week, they say, but nobody was ever found.
Dream or foe
James concludes that perhaps he died at some point during his binge and is now stuck in some endless circle of mind-torture. He isn’t convinced he is awake yet until he sees the notebook on the windowsill next to the rocking chair. He notices that more pages had been disturbed. He walks over and picks it up, opening to the most recent page. In it, it reads, “The building is still resonating on time-wave 5. It has displaced between 2019 and 1950. Note: it appears that we have located the pretemporal position of displacement. Keep a close eye on the progress of his research.” (What the hell is this gibberish.) thought James as he flips through the other pages filled with drunken scribbles. (Alrighty then. I must have been really fucked up.)
He sits down in the rocking chair and stares out the window, looking at a clear blue summer sky. He was hoping to see the snow he dreamt of. He looks to his reflection in the mirror to see his pale dry-flaky-dehydrated face and tries to remember the last time he drank water realizing he probably hasn’t had any water outside of ice cubes since he moved in, a month ago.
He rocks slowly back-and-forth while looking out the window when he hears footsteps and turns to see a nurse walking up to him. She says, “Good morning Mr. Quasar. Beautiful day out today—ain’t it?” He isn’t able to respond. He is stuck and unable to communicate. He realizes that he cannot move his arms or legs and that is strapped to a mattress. The nurse shoves a tube into a preexisting tube that is wedged in his throat. He feels his throat sticking to the plastic. His breath makes whistling sounds as it flows around it. She connects the tube to some brown liquid that pours into his stomach.
He can only roll his eyes slightly to look about the room, but that is it. A little girl stands at the opening of the door staring at him. It is the same girl he saw in his bedroom staring at him from the foot of his bed. He tries to move again but cannot. Not only is he strapped down, but he feels drugs coursing into his veins. The nurse had stuck him with a needle when he wasn’t looking. Her face was no longer moving; it took on the same appearance as a porcelain doll. He watches the nurse leave the room, hearing her heels click on the floor. He becomes drowsy, and as he passes out. Just before he dozed off, he read a sign on the door: “Metro Mental Hospital: Phase II- Room 0416.”
[19.4 | Friends in Strange Places]
After James is considered stabilized, the nurses remove the tube from his throat and let him out of his restraints. They explain that mixing alcohol with his medications and mental illnesses will cause severe hallucinations. If he does it again, he may not be able to return to a state of clarity.
The nurse says to him, “We won’t move you into maximum security this time. We learned that it was your former roommate that had his wife sneak in the alcohol for him. You were just unlucky and vulnerable, so we won’t hold it against you—this time. However, if you become drunk again, you will find yourself in a restraining jacket indefinitely.”
James is still a bit confused about accepting this reality. He is trying to understand how he went from his condo to drinking for months to being in a mental hospital. His brain fights furiously to recall anything he can piece together.
While he struggles to find an answer, a familiar-looking doctor comes into the room and wants to have a chat. The doctor asks, “What is your profession today, Mr. Quasar?” James is having a hard time comprehending the question and takes a minute to respond. (What does this man want to hear me say. And what does he hope to get out of the response?)
“Well, I am retired. Doctor.” “Good, wish I were in your shoes. Retired from what?” “I am a former college student.”, The doctor chuckles lightly and says, “And your name is James, correct?” “Yes, that’s me. The one and only!” James looks at the name tag of the doctor, and it reads, ‘Doctor J.F.’ (Where do I know that name from? I feel like we have met before. Wait that is the monogrammed name on my front door. Same initials as mine.)
The doctor sits down and begins asking very detailed questions about where James has been, what he has been doing, and how long it has been going on for?
James sees his reflection in the mirror, and it doesn’t look the way he remembered himself. He sees himself strapped in the hospital bed with long hair and a long beard but not older like before. (How long have I been here for? I look the same age, but it must have taken years for my hair to grow that long.)
POUND – POUND – POUND
The doctor is deeply interested in the rooms he was staying in, asking James, “What numbers were on the doors? The numbers on the knockers, James. Do you recall the names on the knockers? What rooms were you in?”
BOOM – BOOM – BOOM
“THE NUMBERS, James!” he shouts.
The doctor takes a deep breath and relaxes his muscles so as not to get excited.
“James, which numbers on the doors did you see when you moved in?”
He confusingly replies, “Well, it was unit 6140. It said Doctor J.F. on it.”
The doctor whispers to himself, “Outstanding!” and then says under his breath, “We finally have the right place and time.”
POUND – POUND – POUND
“Have you come across any notebooks?” “What are you trying to find out?”
Ignoring his question, the doctor asks, “Do you recall what the year is?” “It is 2018.” “Jesus, you have been stuck that way for 20-years. How old are you right now?”
Not understanding why the doctor said he had been stuck that way, James replies softly. “I am, uh 25, I think, but the last time I looked in the mirror, well, I am not sure.” “You are not who you think you are. Do you understand where you are?”
“Yes, a mental hospital.” “No, you are trapped between dimensions half in the past, half in the future. This building and the former building or whatever building you have been in are all built on a magnetic hotspot. A ley line of 3, 6, and 9. These lines connect different dimensions of time that all coexist simultaneously through their wave intersections and don’t exist simultaneously in space.” “Now, I know I am crazy, Doctor.”
POUND – POUND – POUND
“Not at all. You have another person’s history flowing through your mind, and you cannot stabilize due to a device you invented. It caused your conscience to vibrate in space and to separate the time-waves we all live on. I need to know what year you are living in, day and time as well.” “Last I recall, it was June something 2018. Or sometime in December. I am not sure.” “Do you recall the precise day in December?” “I remember seeing my birthday, December 13th, in the newspaper.” “What newspaper?!” “The one about the serial suicider” “What year?!” “Uh, —54, I think.” “That sneaky bastard. Alright, you originally moved into Phase II of the Metropolitan Place on December 23rd, 2019, the night of the Christmas party. Do you recall this?” “I do not recall. I am in a mental hospital, after all! What are you trying to fuck with me or something? And what is that god dang pounding! Sounds like someone stomping my skull in!”
“Alright, then.” The Dr. Replied.
POUND, POUND, POUND-CRACK
James looks back into the mirror to see himself dressed as The Doctor hovering over the bed, which is now empty. He turns his head around to look for the Dr. when he sees reflections of bronzed colored mailboxes. He turns to look at the mailboxes and suddenly finds himself standing in his condo’s lobby by the mailroom.
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[18 | History] Download or Read PDF
“Hey Siri, search Google ‘construction 53703 Metropolitan Place’.”
“I found this on the web:”
Google- Construction 53703 Metropolitan Place
madison.com › news › default-claims-filed-on-condos…
DEFAULT CLAIMS FILED ON CONDOS TWO BANKS ARE …
Feb 6, 2008 — The fate of the newly completed Metropolitan Place II, a 164-unit … Construction of several ambitious condo projects and conversions of …
www.madisoncampusanddowntownapartments.com › …
Metropolitan Apartments | Madison Campus & Downtown …
Metropolitan Apartments located in Madison, WI offering FREE HEAT!, FREE … Great location walk to shopping, entertainment, campus, State Street, dog park, … Intercom Access Building; On Bus Line To Epic; Some Handicap Accessible …
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“Hey Siri, search Google ‘construction 53703 Metropolitan Place 2008’.”
“I found this on the web:”
Google- Construction 53703 Metropolitan Place 2008
madison.com › news › default-claims-filed-on-condos…
DEFAULT CLAIMS FILED ON CONDOS TWO BANKS ARE …
Feb 6, 2008 — The fate of the newly completed Metropolitan Place II, a 164-unit … Construction of several ambitious condo projects and conversions of …
madison.com › business › some-pricey-condos-here-are…
SOME PRICEY CONDOS HERE ARE BEING SNAPPED UP …
Aug 1, 2008 — At Metropolitan Place, 333 W. Mifflin St., prices have been reduced … The 2008 Parade of Condos, sponsored by the Madison Area Builders …
www.emporis.com › buildings › metropolitan-place-ii-…
Metropolitan Place II, Madison | 101597 | EMPORIS
Metropolitan Place II is a 13-story high-rise building in Madison, Wisconsin, U.S.A.. View a detailed profile of the structure 101597, including further data and …
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J.F. taps on the EMPORIS article.
(‘13-story high-rise? They said it is 12-stories. The elevators only have L-12 on the buttons.’ ‘Don’t forget the basement. It is not included in this count.’ ‘So, the 12th floor is actually the 13th floor, or the basement is the 13th floor?’ ‘I guess it depends on which floor one starts at.’ ‘Alright. Let’s not get superstitious here. On the other hand, numbers have great meaning—maybe not by themselves, but when applied in engineering, numbers are quite significant. Take the Cicadas, for instance: they burrow underground and only emerge to breed on yearly prime intervals, so to avoid cross breeding’s with other Cicadas.’ ‘Yes – the periodical Cicadas comes out to breed but need to avoid other variations of their species. For example, if one type comes out every 13th year for three cycles, say 2000, 2013, 2026, and the other comes every 17 years, 2001, 2018, 2035, then they flip to 17 and 13, they will never come at the same time.’ ‘Ah yes – the beauty of the prime numbers.’ ‘I knew something was off about this place.’ ‘Well, what does that have to do with a building?’ ‘I don’t know. It just came to mind.’ ‘Alright then.’ ‘Let’s check out some old articles.’)
October 11th, 1916 – Madison State Journal
Tragedy on Campus
A fire broke loose in the dome of The Main Hall at The University of Wisconsin—Madison yesterday afternoon. Top physics student, James Francis Quasar, is in custody under suspicion of performing illegal experiments. So far, they appear to be the cause of the fire, a fire that led to twelve students’ injuries and the death of three. It is unclear what his experiments were. Other professors are currently investigating them and stated that all work is confidential regardless of legal inquires and warrants due to government top secrecy.”
December 1st, 1916
Madison State Journal
Laws do not Apply to the Connected
Grad student/assistant professor James Francis Quasar’s case was dismissed yesterday morning. It appears the case was dropped without firm reasoning. The judge stated, “Due to an insufficient amount of submittal evidence, the court must dismiss this case, clearing ‘James Francis Quasar’ of all accusations.” Local parents of students are furious and plan to sue the university for the catastrophe when an experiment executed on October 11th apparently went wrong. The assistant professor is presumably accused of causing the fire, a fire that initiated the collapse of the Main Hall dome. After the building is rebuilt, the university plans to rename it “Bascom Hall” in honor of John Bascom, the university president from 1874 to 1887. Even though the experiment caused three deaths, the graduate student did not lose his job. He is said to be continuing his experiments in the basement of “Science Hall” despite the hundreds of complaints from professors, students, and parents. The university’s only public explanation was: Experiments bring performed in the former ‘Main Hall’ are of the utmost top-secret. There is no evidence linking student James Quasar to the fire. For our country’s safety, the work being done by top officials in cahoots with our university staff must remain privileged.
December 20th, 1920
Madison State Journal
City Fears for its Safety
The Good Doctor is at it again! The recently graduated student, now Dr. James Francis Quasar, is again being accused of performing dangerous and illegal experiments. Experiments were thought to be the cause of the death of three innocent students four years ago. Since the tragedy, the former student is now the head professor of the Physics department. After publishing his groundbreaking work on time-displacement, he was appointed this role—a topic emerging from his Hypothetical Physics thesis. Many Madison residents, WI, are nervous about the professor’s part on a new construction site downtown near the capitol. It appears he is in charge of the construction of an enormous building. There is great secrecy surrounding the architecture and materials being delivered. The building’s structure is to be located on the block encased by West Washington and West Mifflin.
The little we could find out led us to believe that there will be two towers, Tower I on West Washington and Tower II on West Mifflin. The structure is said to take up to 20-years to complete.
Having new buildings put up is not abnormal. However, the reasoning why a mad physicist would be in charge of the construction, architecture, and managing of the engineers brought this to our attention. Further investigation led us to believe that this is due to an anomaly located at this geographical position. We researched the professors’ studies and dived into his recently published textbook title, ‘Hypothetical Physics.’ In Dr. Quasar’s book, he mentions that there are electromagnetic hotspots positioned about the Earth. The strongest one discovered may be right between Lake Mendota and Lake Monona. Based on the book’s data, it appears that the location chosen for the building is the same location he speaks of in the text.
Electromagnetic hotspots are found using geometry across spheres. Many monoliths, pyramids, and other massive structures have been found built on these hotspots. It has been hypothesized that the sites were specifically chosen to amplify these hotspots or ley lines. Ancient astronaut theorists believe these monolithic structures positioned about the “ley lines” would allow the builders to communicate with beings from other planets, galaxies, or even dimensions. Although, in Dr. Quasars’ textbook, ‘Hypothetical Physics,’ he makes valid arguments that theorize that these monolithic structures are not for communicating but rather to collect and store energy. The energy is then dispersed into the ground. It would be the ideal way to power an underground civilization that could only harness large quantities of energy from a celestial body’s surface activity.
According to Dr. Quasars’ text, this particular hotspot is the most active and most potent in the Americas or likely on Earth. It is said to be so because of the location, i.e., it is wedged between two large lakes, which create a sort of invisible medium between them. A medium that can contain and trap electromagnetic anomalies. People did not take Dr. Quasars’ theories seriously. Many people have still reported strange phenomena in this zone, such as lightning bolts shooting out of their fingertips while standing on the frozen lakes during snowfalls.
The precise use of the building is unclear. Citizens are frightened that dangerous experiments are to be performed.
December 24th, 1960
Madison City Journal
Bankruptcy on Mifflin St.
The 16-yearlong vacancy of the Mifflin St. high-rise has come to an end. It is to be taken over by the local banks and is planned to be remodeled for residential use. The bank will convert the mysterious building, initially designed for local scientists’ physics experiments, into condominiums.
The original architect and project manager, a former physics professor, Dr. Quasar, had been the primary resident leading up to his disappearance, speculated to occur sometime during 1943 or 1944.
According to the city’s records, the construction began in 1920 on a plot of land formerly owned by Dr. James Francis Quasar and his wife, Elevyn. They signed the plot over to the university and government under the condition they would be granted rights to keep permanent residence on the property. No one is quite sure what happened to Dr. Quasars’ wife. Over the years, it appears that the former professor just vanished from the university. Some people believe that he murdered his wife and buried her deep within the building’s construction and then left the state or country years later. Everyone we interviewed said there is no way that could be true, stating, “The love between James and Ella was pure and unbreakable. Only God himself could keep them apart.”
Former colleagues of James had reported that he had lost his mind after his wife Ella went missing. Then, after the death of his closest friend Nikola Tesla, he stopped talking to anyone. His former students said that Mr. Tesla was the only person that helped him keep it together after his wife disappeared on his 35th birthday, December 13th, 1919. When we interviewed one of his former students—now esteemed physicist Dr. Adam Aker—he told us, “Dr. Quasar was the happiest, smartest, kindest and most generous person I have ever known. His pure optimistic approach to life was desolated after Ella disappeared. The only thing that kept him sane was his obsession with his experiments. I tried to keep in touch and offered my help, but he would always say to me, ‘It’s best we keep you where you are.’, and leave it at that. I remember that he befriended Nikola Tesla. The two of them had resided in his buildings for a decade or so. I think they found comfort in each other’s genius. The two of them had become social outcasts over the years for their talks on alien races and how they are responsible for the existence and the deliverance of knowledge to humankind. This led many to think they were off their rockers. I believe it was due to this that James and Nikola isolated themselves in his buildings. I tried to stay in touch over the years, but around 1940, I never heard from him again. Leading up to that time, he had become consistently drunk and stopped showing up for lectures. He was only sparsely seen by one assistant in his basement office in Science Hall. She said that he would randomly appear, stretched out over weeks and months without notice until he just never came back. She knew when he had been there by measuring the amount of alcohol in a bottle he kept tucked behind a loose stone in the wall. She said that sometimes, his notebook would also be resting against the bottle, but she never invaded his privacy. Then, sometime around 1943, when Nikola passed away, the lights of his building on Mifflin St. went out, and no one has seen him since.”
December 24th, 1960
Wisconsin State Journal
Lightshow on Mifflin St.
On Tuesday, December 13th, a brilliant light show dazzled amongst the falling snowflakes. The show was so spectacular that Madison’s whole city was lit up in the middle of the night around 2:00 am as if it were a summer day.
The strange light show originated above the isthmus wedged between Lake Mendota and Lake Monona. Spectators claim that it emanated from the twin high rises on Mifflin St. and West Washington a few blocks from the capitol. The viewers say it looked like veins of electricity were connecting each individual snowflake to the top of Tower II on Mifflin St.
Tower II had recently been acquired by the local banks. They are set to begin remodeling it for condominiums, which will be named “The Metropolitan Place Condominiums.” The previous landlord had been the missing professor, Dr. James Francis Quasar. When questioning the banks, they had no knowledge of the light show or where it came from. They said, “As far as we know, the building has been vacant for years.” We went to the local university to question their astrophysics department. They said: The light show mimicked the ‘Aurora Borealis.’ It was a freak occurrence likely due to the heavy snowfall generating friction. The large space between the two high rise towers created a sort of vacuum that then turned the buildings into a giant capacitor. The two frozen lakes must have built up a collection of electrons. The friction from the snow and the building’s design created the perfect situation for the weird strings of electricity.
When asked if the professor who designed the building meant this to be the case, they declined to respond. Some students came out and said, “The building itself acts like two huge prongs of an electrical plug protruding into the sky. It creates a sort of positive and negative intake which isolates the static electricity into waves of lights flowing in circles between the towers.”
Some suspect that this was a secret experiment by Dr. Quasar. But the university physics department says, verbatim, “It was simply a rare natural phenomenon. An archaic-drunken-physicist who is likely dead or passed out drunk in a ditch somewhere couldn’t be responsible for such a complex experiment.”
October 3rd, 1970
Madison City Journal
50 Years of Construction Finally End
The former head of the university’s physics department, professor Dr. James Francis Quasar’s buildings are finally finished. The downtown monstrosities had a constant backslide with funding the original construction and then the remodeling for the condominiums. Somewhere along with the original structure, Dr. Quasar had disappeared without leaving behind any knowledge of where he went.
The rumor goes: While the building’s construction was taking place, Dr. Quasar was performing experiments in some secret underground lab, the former basement of he and his wives. However, the building has no basement on record, so it must have been closed off or hidden, considering the rumor to be true. A few of his former students said he was rambling on-and-on—night-after-night, at local bars about some time-wave displacement equation that he couldn’t solve. They said he would sit at the bar drinking Gin, scribbling endlessly in his notebook trying to solve something.
Apparently, Dr. Quasar was suffering from severe alcoholism after his wife disappeared. When interviewing some of his students, now in their 70’s and 80’s, they recalled him saying that the only way to bring her back is to solve the equation. But he was too old now to do it and needed to find his younger self, who is living in the future trapped in the building he did his experiment in. They assumed he lost his mind due to severe depression combined with an excess of ethanol consumption, which ultimately ruined his career.
The former students went on in some more detail, recalling him say that he claims he had discovered the secret behind the numbers 3, 6, and 9. The numbers Nikola Tesla famously claimed are “The secret to the universe.”
If you only knew the magnificence of the 3, 6, and 9, then you would have the key to the universe.
July 10th, 1856 – January 7th, 1943
Mr. Tesla had been seen around the city early in the 1930s. He was not associated with the campus, and it was thought that he was just visiting. Still, rumors spread that he had been secretly living in the high-rise building on West Washington, now called ‘Metro Place – Phase I.’
The former students, who wish to remain anonymous, are bow reconsidering Dr. Quasars drunken gibberish as protentional ground shattering truths. I.e., considering the recent breakthroughs in quantum mechanics and relativity.
The students that brought forth these rumors had great details about the work the Professor and Tesla were doing together. It had not been released to the public when found due to the alcohol-driven nature of conversations that took place thirty-some years ago.
The Metro-Place Phase I and Phase II are now available for business and rental properties even though Tower I had been completed some 20-years before tower 2.
The atmosphere within the two identical buildings is anything but identical. Tower II feels like being in the Plaza Hotel of New York City when it first opened on October 1st, 1907. The interior design choices remain a mystery. We think the lack of funding led to purchasing out-of-date décor. Nevertheless, a home in PHASE II accompanied with an evening at the Tornado room is a euphoric blast from the past. Perfect for anyone seeking refuge in the history of America.
WISCONSIN STATE JOURNAL
1970 – December 30th
Christmas tragedy Massacre
It has been just over ten years since the bizarre light show on Mifflin Street. One week ago, on the same day as the light show, another inexplicable event occurred. On Monday morning, located in the downtown metro place condominiums an employee, opened the door to the clubhouse to find the room filled with slaughtered bodies. The entire ballroom was littered with bodies of which had been hacked to pieces. The body parts laid overnight half-submerged in a thin pool of blood accumulated on the wooden dancefloor barricaded by steps. Police officers counted twenty dead bodies in total. Detectives are baffled because there was no evidence of anyone being there to perform the acts. All of the deaths took place on the dance floor in the center of the room, which is about a foot lower than the surrounding floor creating the perfect liquid container. The forensic team can find no lead as there were no footprints anywhere to be located outside of the blood pond. They also found no weapons or signs of resistance from the body pieces they examined. It is almost as if the group took voluntary part in a simultaneous mass murder. Furthermore, none of the people found in the room were listed as tenants of the building. The host of the party was found to be a Dr. Tripper, but there does not seem to be any Dr. Tripper’s that live in the building. The management and other tenants say it was as if the corpses just fell into the room out of thin air. Then they murdered each other, and anyone left offed themselves. They had no knowledge that a party was to be thrown there at all. The tenants are supposed to go through a signup sheet and get approval from the board before scheduling the party. After that, they have to coordinate with the staff so that the staff is there to unlock the room and activate all of the equipment. The police interviewed hundreds of residents, but none of them came off suspicious or knew what happened.
A man was found sleeping in the trash area on an old mattress. He claims to have no recollection of what happened or showed any signs of being involved with the tragedy other than an ax being tucked up under his arms while he slept. The ax does not have traces of blood on it but is further being investigated. They assume the man stole the ax while intoxicated from an emergency firebox. So far, he is the detective’s only potential suspect, but not likely based on the absence of blood leaving the center of the room.
February 8th, 2008
Wisconsin State Journal
DEFAULT CLAIMS FILED ON CONDOS TWO BANKS ARE SEEKING FORECLOSURE ON METROPOLITAN PLACE II.
ED TRELEVEN and DEAN MOSIMAN Wisconsin State Journal Feb 6, 2008
The second phase of Downtown Madison’s most extensive private housing project is in default to the tune of more than $26 million. Its lenders said in court documents that seek foreclosure of its three mortgages.
The fate of the newly completed Metropolitan Place II, a 164-unit condominium tower facing West Mifflin Street, could indicate that national housing trends are reaching Madison, thought by some to be more immune than most places twists and turns in the U.S. economy.
“This shows that the national foreclosure crisis has hit Downtown Madison for the first time in any meaningful way,” said Ald. Mike Verveer, whose 4th District contains Metropolitan Place II.
But while the foreclosure action against developer Jeff Fisher and his company comes as market conditions have delayed changes to other major housing projects throughout the city, others are not so certain the condo market is to blame. Spokesmen for the city declined to speculate on exactly what caused Fisher’s struggles at Metro Place Condos or if they’re a sign of things to come.
Continued- After the strange massacre in 1970, the building had been converted into a mental hospital. Over the years, “Metro Place Sanitarium” lost funding for their program. It was mostly due to modern medications and prisons for the mentally insane. However, there were rumors of misconduct and complaints about the head Doctor, Dr. Tripper.
Dr. Tripper was in charge of the staffing and patients. He comes to our attention from reviewing old articles on the building and location. It turns out, Dr. Tripper was the same name as the coordinator of the mysterious guest list from the “Metro-Mass Murder” in 1970. Coincidence or evidence of a time-traveling murderer? The man is nowhere to be found, and no records exist of him ever being there.
Since the closing of the insane asylum, sometimes at the turn of the century, a group of investors took over the property and had planned to turn it back into a luxury high rise condominium. Still, the economy seems to have other plans for the building. In an odd twist, the local banks have again taken over the building. They will continue on with Jeff Fisher’s plans, and again, remodel the building. They have already begun short-selling the units for future move in. Unfortunately for Jeff Fisher, he will not profit from any sales and has lost all of his investment. He was able to hold on to an old hotel wedged between Tower I and Tower II. He had planned to demolish and convert into a modern version of the towers, Tower 3 of the project 100-years after the original construction began. The task for Phase 3 was scrapped, and Jeff Fisher refuses to sell the building to the bank. He takes up residence in the old hotel, only three stories tall, eclipsed by the massive towers he once owned.
Siri- search Dr. James Francis Quasar
Dr. James Francis Quasar
Biography of James F. Quasar
Professor and founder of Hypothetical Physics
December 13th, 1884 – September 6th, 1930 (presumed)
Before Professor Quasar’s 1930 disappearance, he lived with his wife, Ella, in a small cabin on the isthmus of Madison, WI. They had married on June 4th, 1910, on a warm summer day. Dr. Quasar was twenty-five at the time, and Ella was fifteen. He was noted as saying, “Ten-years younger and ten-times smarter.”, after she helped him win the Nobel Prize in physics for the discovery of the Transient Nano Quantum Particles or “Tranoquarts” as he dubbed them. They had met during a conference at the University of Wisconsin—Madison campus. A colloquium featuring Ernest Rutherford – Discovery of the atomic nucleus. It was a small gathering of no more than ten people—mostly local professors.
After 10-years of studying, James graduated and gained a professorship working for UW—Madison. He hadn’t been much of a student his whole life. Around the age of twenty-four, he had an epiphany and learned something unique about himself; he had learned that he has an exceptional ability to problem-solve. His discovery led him to pursue advanced degrees in mathematics and physics. This newfound life gave him a sense of hope. Leading up to this time in his life, he had been mostly lost due to a series of family events that altered his personality. It wasn’t until he met Ella and began the physics studies that he finally found peace. He and Ella lived in a small house together near campus while they both studied physics together. At the time, it wasn’t easy or even possible in some cases for a woman to get into a doctorate program, so James would go to school. At the same time, Ella stayed home and managed their small estate. He would return in the evenings and reiterate the lectures to her.
(‘This has to be some sort of a prank. I need a drink.’ ‘I as well.’)
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October 22nd, 1909 – Journal: Today, I traveled to Madison to attend a physics colloquium and inquire about studies. With good news, I am accepted into the graduate program. It was easier than I thought. I suppose not too many people are anxious to spend the better half of their life studying theoretical physics and advanced mathematics topics. I am thrilled to begin the program. While I was there, I also acquired a small plot of land right on the isthmus. It was a stroke of luck, I suppose. A man had recently built a small cabin on the ground and then unexpectedly passed away. I was able to purchase it for a very reasonable price from his brother. I travel back to Milton tonight to gather my belongings and will be returning to the cabin shortly.
I feel that I have found my purpose in life here in Madison. I had an unexpected encounter at the seminar. A beautiful young woman was also attending it. I dare say: It was love at first sight—at least for me, it was. I’ll have to wait and see what her thoughts are. When I first got a glimpse of her eyes, my soul was knocked clean out of my chest. I felt weightless, like time had frozen. It was as if the universe shut down for a moment, and we were the only two left. Without hesitancy, she came to me and began conversing, opening me right up. She knew all the right words to say to get me to feel comfortable. Not a shy bone in her body. This is good because I would have lollygagged about her for days before conjuring up the courage to approach her. She insisted that we meet to discuss electromagnetic topics over dinner when I return. I dare say she may be the future Mrs. Quasar? I hope so. Outside of my desire to master the mathematical arts, she has become the only thing I can concentrate on. If I am not to be with her, I will suffer for a length of unknown time that will last longer than a few fortnights. We are to meet for picnic on my new plot of land. The weather is still well enough to sit outside. If it takes a turn for the cold, we’ll have my cabin’s fireplace to take up residence next to. I return the following Friday. We are to meet at Main Hall and walk to my cabin from there.
October 31st, 1909 – Journal: It is Hallows’ Eve, and the weekend was anything but scary. I met with young Ella Friday morning at Main hall, and we then walked the campus for a few hours before making it to the cabin for dinner. She is so bright. I am shocked by her vast knowledge of physics—amongst other topics. I dare say she is smarter than I? She wishes to attend university for physics as well, but her being female dampers her plan. She seeks to be an assistant to a professor so she may sit in on lectures and learn regardless of her gender and social status. I told her she could learn along with me as I attend class over the years. This excited her. She spent the past two nights with me in the cabin. I have never felt such a bond with another person. It is as if we are connected spiritually through space and time. I dare say: I am in love, and she is in love with me also. I am to ask her today to live with me here at the cabin. She has been staying with a lovely family outside of town, earning a place to sleep by helping with chores. I believe it would please her to break free from labor to live and study with me for the years to come. If she agrees, I don’t think it will be days before I ask for her hand.
November 11th, 1909 – Journal: I have been so caught up with my dear Ella that I have not had a moment to think nor study. I should study as I begin the graduate program in spring. I need to prepare for the lectures to come. Ella seems to take to study without resistance. She has read through most of my books within a week. She will do great things. I am so happy to have met her. She did accept my offer to live with me. The past days have been the best of my life.
November 30th, 1909 – Journal: I am to ask Ella to marry me this evening. We have spent the past month intertwined in one another’s arms, accomplishing next to nothing. She has not been reluctant to express how she feels towards me. I have no qualms about her answering yes. I don’t have any currency to acquire a ring for her at this time. It will not concern her; she is not of the materialistic type, or at least she is willing to wait for such a trinket. The cabin has been warm and comforting for us. The builder did a phenomenal job on the cellar; not a drop of water makes it through the structure. We have nested up nicely in it. Ella has done such a wonderful job making the cabin feel like a home, whereas I am satisfied with just the mattress and a rocking chair in the cellar. I doubt it will be long before she puts her touch on that as well. She also planted some cherry seeds outback. She had found some sour cherries over the summer while foraging and kept their pits. I love sour cherries. She says she cannot wait for me to make a pie with them. It will be five to ten years before that happens. It should mature just around the time I graduate.
February 13th, 1910 – Journal: The semester has begun. The professors are just as odd as the material we go over. Some are fun and humorous, and others are as serious as a judge in court—sentencing a man to death row. Ella is more excited about the work I bring home than I am. She understands it so quickly. She won’t tell me much about her past, just that she was adopted and had run away to escape something terrible.
February 14th, 1910 – Journal: Ella said yes to my proposal before I could even finish asking. She lit up like fireworks on the fourth of July! We are to be married in June. It will be a small wedding as neither of us has any family around or can find for that matter. The future looks terrific for her and me. We are both working hard at study. I have tried to find a way to get her into lecture. The professors are anything but thrilled to allow a woman into the classroom. So, we continue working together outside of class. She may be able to get a job working on campus doing some clerical work, but I advised her against it. Her time is better spent focusing on studies, and we can use my name to publish any findings and share the profits as man and wife. Something about her, though. She does not get discouraged about such things. It’s as if she knows something others do not. Almost as if she has precognitive abilities.
June 30th, 2010 – Ella and I are married! I took the summer off from study to spend with her. We have been so happy together. We haven’t enough money to vacation, so we stayed home. Not a bad place to be with the lakes surrounding us. Madison is such a beautiful place to be in the summer. The birds chirping. Subtle waves rushing in. It’s all just incredible, and Ella is the icing on the cake. I cannot express how lucky I am to have found such a wonderful woman. She wants to have a baby but not until I graduate. Probably a good thing. The studies are involved enough to be three full-time jobs anyhow.
January 12th, 1914 – Journal: It has been some time since I have made an entry. I have been so caught up with study that I have not had a moment free. I am astonished by Ella’s understanding of the material. I had an idea of displacing time, and I theorized a particle simultaneously alternates between a subatomic state and the atomic state. This fluctuation between fabrics could be used to intersect different waves of time, permitting one to jump across them. Within hours she had derived a set of equations explaining the phenomenon. I couldn’t believe it. I hate that I may have to publish this in my name and not give her credit for the findings. It is a team effort, but she is the muscle behind the operations. I plan to make a secret note for future generations in the hope that they are not so dismissive of the female gender to learn of her talents.
(letter tucked in the pages)
June 3rd, 1915
I have spent the past month going over your theorem on time wave displacement separation, and I find it most fascinating. I believe that you have found something unique here, but there is an issue with your formulas. They come together nicely; however, when the final calculations are made for intersecting points, a discrepancy becomes clear. Work to finalize this discrepancy, and I believe you will have proved your theory. However, I am no mathematician, so the derivations are a bit beyond my mathematical abilities.
I look forward to meeting you in person.
August 14th, 1915 – Journal: I am eager to meet Mr. Tesla. I have studied his blueprints in-depth and believe I can persuade some local wealth to invest in the project. His structure entails a large tower which can dually be a residence. The plot of land I own is the perfect location—as he said, and it is large enough to support such a structure. Ella and I have begun measuring the cellar for a pre-experiment to see if we can prove our theory on a fundamentally small scale compared to the end resulting experiment.
December 13th, 1916 – Journal: Today is my birthday. I am 32 years of age now. Time goes by so quickly. Ella and I have been together for 7-years, living in the cabin. Each day is still as new and wonderful as the first day we met. I have been working diligently on my dissertation. The bulk of the coursework is complete, and now I must provide an original piece of work to gain my doctorate. The board was not thrilled about my timewave displacement theory and recommended I choose another path. So, I am working on what Ella has told me to refer to as ‘transient nano quantum particles,’ or, for short, tranoquarticles. The particle simultaneously fluctuates between the fabric of space that makes our reality and the quantum realm, which allows for it to make some funny things happen. It is the foundation of the time displacement theory, but the board doesn’t have to know this.
June 15th, 1918 – Journal: I am to receive my doctorate this coming spring. It is such an unfair situation that Ella does not receive hers as well, and even a degree for that matter. I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish a fraction of what I have if it wasn’t for her help. She is so optimistic, though. She seems happy not to have a degree. She says all that jargon would have sucked the joy out of learning. I can understand this. She didn’t have to take all the useless non-physics courses I did. She just focused on the good stuff for the past years. I suppose that may be why she always had a leg up on me—still brilliant and much smarter than I. We will be married 9-years shortly after I receive my diploma. She is eager to start a family. I as well. I have been given a full professorship at the university to begin the fall of 1919, and our plan has been for Ella to be with child after I graduate and before I start work. The summer will be filled with endless lovemaking. I cannot wait.
May 5th, 1919 – Journal: Over the past ten years, Ella and I studied physics spasmodically amid lovemaking. Ella has learned everything I have learned and then some. We devised a theory between sessions of copulating, which Ella titles “Autonomous Separations of Time.” She used methods from my hypothetical physics course. I am not surprised that she extracted something from my techniques—that is, something with real physics applications. The class was just something fun for me, but of course, my special lady had to one-up me. I love her even more for that.
(letters tucked in the pages)
June 3rd, 1916
I have envisioned an apparatus that you can input your equations into. It is a simple concept but requires vast amounts of electromagnetic energy to power it. The general design is that of a cage made of superconducting metals. You should be able to make a series of these cages and define each cell as a location for time-wave intersections. Then, once you figure out the discrepancy I mentioned in the last letter, you can access each meeting based on the structure you are in. To generate energy for the device, I believe your home is coincidently in the perfect location. Within your cellar on the isthmus, you can use the surrounding walls to conduct energy when the lakes freeze over. The two enormous ice sheets will create static friction, and the soil surrounding the cellar can absorb the vibrations emitted by the sheets of ice when they crack. The best time to perform the experiment would be during a heavy snowfall. The constant flow of snowflakes over the ice will help generate and keep the electricity flowing into and around the frozen water. The combination of the vibrations sent through the soil and friction in the air will generate enough electrical output to power the apparatus. We will need to construct a large tower with conducting layers to capture all of the different energy levels.
I have included blueprints for a basic model. I would love to assist with this, but I have other obligations to attend to at present times. I will be visiting Madison toward the end of the year. I will write to you shortly before my arrival.
August 1st, 1916
I will be visiting Wisconsin this coming November. I will only be passing through Madison for a day. If you are able to break free from lecture on November 4th at noon for lunch, please do. I will plan to be on campus at this time. I will plan to see you at Main hall.
August 24th, 1918 – Journal: Nikola paid another visit to Madison. He spent a week here doing some research or something. He was not very open about the purpose of his trip. He still shows great interest in assisting Ella and me with the construct of our device. We have almost perfected the equations, and Nikola has fine-tuned the machine for us. He helped me build a small prototype and says he would gladly relocate to the Madison area to help with the full development if we are to receive proper funding. He says we can use the device to power the underground cage structure he described. My office and the cabin’s cellar are indeed perfect for the experiment. We have lined them floor to ceiling with metal wiring to make what I call a Tesla Cage.
July 4th, 1919 – Journal: Ella is with child! Oh my, it didn’t take long for us. I have graduated as well. So much, yet so little has happened over the year. This summer has been the best of all the summers of my life. Our cherry tree finally matured and is producing more than we can eat on our own. Ella loves the cherry pies I make. I think she likes them more than she likes me. Jealous of a pie—how disappointing. I begin my professorship this coming September. I am eager to start as I will gain unrestricted access to all the laboratories on campus. My experiment is just about ready to be tested. Nikola has warned me that such experiments rarely have the outcome one is looking for. I am not sure if he meant that it may fail or if the opposite of what I expect to happen may happen. Interesting character he is.
September 6th, 1919 – Journal: I have begun my class on Hypothetical Physics. There are only a few students in it, but it is entertaining none the less. One of the students is an odd one. Trapper—I think his name is. He has a way about him that is not of the others. A particular talk of slang I am unfamiliar with. He must be from the west coast, I think. He is quite interested in my work as well. He wants to be my assistant, but I am not sure he is qualified.
September 7th, 1919 – Journal: Ella is 4 to 5 months pregnant, we think. She is giving me a hard time for being at work so much. She wants me around more, but all she does is sleep. I have been frustrated as of late. As the population grows, so does the city. Our quaint little cabin is no longer resting in a peaceful meadow. Each day a new residence is being put up. All I hear all day long is hammering amongst other random construction noises. I cannot escape it even when on campus. The university is also raising more buildings from the ground to host the growing student body. The noise has gotten out of control. The only place I can find that is quiet is in the basement of Science Hall. I have requested that my office be relocated there. It is a bit cold and drafty but quiet, and that is a priceless thing these days.
October 1st, 1919 – Journal: My new office may just be the perfect location to test the experiment. It is constructed similarly to my cabin’s cellar. I wouldn’t doubt that the late owner of my place was also responsible for this room. The masonry work is identical. As tesla had said, we shall require separate enclosers to test the experiment. I will have to line this room with metal somehow.
October 10th, 1919 – Journal: Ella grows ever more frustrated with me for not being home all day with her. I have to say, I have been avoiding home, not because of her but because of the endless pollution of sound generated by the continuous erecting of new structures. This town has gone to shit. I heard someone say that Madison now has two seasons: Winter and construction. That being said, I pray for snow every day so that I can have some quiet at home with Ella and our coming child.
October 11th, 1919 – Journal: My office is getting colder each day but peaceful still. I slept here last night, falling asleep after drinking some rum—the alcohol kept me warm. I have been drinking more as of late. I need the intoxication to sleep soundly at home. It is the only thing that keeps me from being distracted by the city noises. I feel refreshed this morning. My office is quiet—cold, but quiet. Ella will be distraught when I get home. I fear that this situation is putting a hinder on our relationship. I told her I want to move. She insists we stay, and the disturbances will eventually dissipate. I don’t think the city noises will stop or abate. She is usually right, though, and I am usually wrong, but I think the disturbances only worsen as the population grows and technology advances. I can only get any work done here in my office as well as sleep. I moved my old mattress here into the corner of the office to take naps on between lectures. Ella thinks I am trying to distance myself from her; that is anything but true.
November 1st, 1919 – Journal: Last night, I went to a tavern, and I don’t remember much afterward. I worked on the formulas, and then I woke up this morning in my office surrounded by empty bottles. I couldn’t have drunk so much in one night. There are many bottles as if I had been drinking for weeks. The student’s papers on my desk are also dated December 1920. It must be some sort of a joke.
November 1st, 1919 (or December 20th, 1920) – Journal: I don’t know where Ella is. I don’t know where I am. I must be losing my mind. The date appears to be the 20th of December, 1920, but it was just Halloween—1919 yesterday. I cannot find Ella anywhere. Our cabin does not look the same either. I don’t know what to do. The only thing I can think is that I must have performed the experiment while heavily intoxicated, and it must have gone wrong. Ella would have had to have been in the cellar at the same time I was in my office, and I must have figured out the correct equation and activated the device. Nikola did warn me that these experiments rarely have the expected outcome. I fear something terrible has happened. I must find my Ella.
December 13th, 1920 – Journal: All my attempts to try and correct whatever I must have done have failed. Not a soul in town even knows of Ella or our baby. No one anywhere has heard of her or recalls her and I living with one another for the past 10-years. I have reached out to Nikola for his help. Perhaps he can help me fix whatever it is that I have done. The only conclusion I have come to is that I am no longer on the wave of time I am from, and Ella still is. It is odd, though, because everything and everyone is identical here except that Ella does not exist. I reached out to the family she used to stay with, and they also have no memory of her. How could everything be the same except her?
December 13th, 1929 – Journal: It has been 9-years to the day since my last entry. I have not had the courage to pick up the pen after Ella’s disappearance and my unexplained jump into the future. We—Nikola and I have finished the general infrastructure for the timewave displacement experiment in Tower II on Mifflin Street. He believes he can help me get back to wherever Ella is. It took some convincing to get him to help me since he also has no memory of Ella. It was only after I showed him this notebook with our theory on Autonomous Time Separation that he began to believe in me. I also showed him the letters he sent me over the years—letters he had no memory of sending. For some reason, the only thing other than myself that wasn’t left behind was this journal. The writings within were enough for Nikola to drop everything he is working on to help me. The entire university now thinks of me as a joke. I lost my professorship back in 1922 for drinking on the job, amongst other things. However, they have let me continue my research and allow me to sleep in my office, or at least no one says anything since no one wants the office or to even be in the basement of Science hall, for that matter. Nikola and I will be beginning our work shortly. We wait for a fresh snowfall over frozen lakes before we do.
December 14th, 1929 – Journal: This notebook is the only piece of evidence I have of my past. I have not looked at this book for a very long time leading up to yesterday. After writing in it yesterday, I noticed it has much more words in it than I input, and they have strange dates from far into the future.
“The physical body is nothing more than a provisional prison for the eternal soul.” JDT
December, 1st 2018
Journal- The urge to kill is overwhelming. I fear that I may find myself in trouble. The woman that was always on the treadmill is dead. I followed her for weeks in the halls documenting her schedule. It seemed to align perfectly with what I was hearing, and she lives on the floor just above me. Not directly above, but within close proximity. I feel I am responsible for her death. After a fresh snowfall, I went for a walk around the block and saw her running. She didn’t notice me following her after she slowed down, coming around the corner to the front of the building. I was trying to keep track of the times she ran outside vs. inside so I could measure the time it takes for her to get back into her condo. Sometimes the pounding happens so quickly between me leaving and coming back, I cannot tell, for sure, if she is in her unit or not. When I was behind her, I was hoping and fantasizing she slip and break her neck. I don’t know if I am clairvoyant or I willed what happed into existence—she did slip, she slipped and fell right on her back, and as she laid there, the man driving the snow brusher rolled the bristles right over her face, sending scraps of skin and blood flying through the air all over the snow and side of the building. I saw the man look directly at her and turn to drive over her head purposely. I hear later he claims that he didn’t see her, but I saw it, and he intentionally did it. I know for a fact he did because he gave me a thumbs up just after he finished driving over her and her head body stopped trembling.
December 2nd, 2018
Journal- My luck is not so good. After the running skeleton’s death, the sound stopped but only for a short time; it then picked up and picked up worse than before. I am on edge, becoming unhinged. I fear I will lose my mind and kill everyone in this building. How could someone get away with a design like this, an apartment that conducts and amplifies sound? I don’t know if these neighbors are purposely trying to annoy me or are oblivious to their actions. For weeks now, I have documented excessive noise taking place every 1 to 3 minutes all day long, lasting for upwards to an hour each time it starts. It appears there is nothing I can do about it. I even moved to a new place, renting an apartment and putting this place up for sale. Fucked thing was that the apartment had the exact same design behind the drywall as this place, and the noise was actually worse, so I just moved back to the Metropolitan. It’s like this building sucked me back in. I tried to get out, and it brought me back. I guess it’s a good thing my condo did not sell while I was gone; else, I may be homeless. Homelessness may be better, though—at least I could venture out into the middle of nowhere and get some peace.
Journal Entry 05/15/18 – I have just spent my first night here at the metro place. I like it. The drive from Texas wasn’t all that bad. The Mercedes held up well and was comfortable throughout the trip. I enjoyed the scenery too. I think someday I might go road-tripping across the country. I have been feeling a bit unsettled in my stomach: that girl, Pansie from Oklahoma. I feel like I may have made a mistake not giving her a chance. I’d like to go back and see if she is still there someday. Right now, I am just happy to be finished with school and not have to worry so much about bills and studying. I can focus all my energy on my research.
I have made a recent discovery, which I call the ‘God Function.’ I think it may be the key to locating timewaves. I will be focusing a lot of energy on this. Hopefully, there is someone that will understand it on the level I do at campus. Most of the professors I’ve met here are just like religious people, and I don’t get much respect since I didn’t finish grad school. They don’t believe anything that wasn’t written in a book. Even though pretty much everything thought to be accurate in science is eventually shown not to be valid in its entirety. I would think that since the odds of something not being correct down the road are high, that people—especially scientists—would not hold things to such account. But I always say, “Some of the stupidest people I have ever met hold Ph.D.’s in Math and or Physics.”.
I don’t care much for this view out the windows of my new place. I just see a sea of bricks. The brick forest, if you will. The place is small and doesn’t even have a patio. I am tucked up right next to the window, and the design of the building seems to prevent any fresh air from flowing into the unit.
10/14/16 – Journal Entry: Ah yes, just like clockwork- the moment I take some time to relax or work, the pounding begins. I swear this building is possessed, or some asshole neighbors put a camera in here. I mean, it is really amazing, I will hear nothing all day, and the moment I pick up this pen or put my fingers to the keyboard, it begins. And, if it isn’t, the neighbors moving about like mentally retarded rabbits on cocaine. Enough is enough. Apparently, common courtesy and friendly neighbor is something of the past. One of the few things from the bible I actually think should be abided by. I have made acquaintances with a man here, a peculiar man, to say the least. I am fed up with this noise – I am going to have to do something about it. I know it must be coming from a few different units but which ones. I am 100% sure of one of them but cannot be sure if that is where all the noise is coming from. Some psycho that exercises all day. Can I kill these people somehow? No, I cannot do such an act, but maybe my new friend can. They do deserve death. Anyone that can put someone through such torture without regard for their wellbeing doesn’t deserve a high place in life or life at all, for that matter.
Hypothetical Physics (draft)
a course on deriving unknown theories from unknown universes
What is a hypothesis? What is a theory? What is a law? Most people incorrectly use the word theory—in conversation—in place of hypothesis—for example, “Theoretically speaking, we are living in The Matrix.”, but this would be appropriately stated as “Hypothetically, we are living in The Matrix.” Because one would hypothesize that we are in The Matrix—that is, it would only be a theory if it were proven to be correct to the best of our knowledge. A law means it is valid in all aspects, such as The Law of Gravity. Think about the title of a famous paper, ‘The Theory of Relativity.’ It is not ‘The Hypothesis of Relativity’ nor is it ‘The Law of Relativity.’ It is given the title theory because it is valid to the extent that it cannot be disproven; however, it is not a Law because other theories contradict it, and it is not valid in all aspects of physics, such as quantum mechanics. This brings us to entanglement; entanglement is a direct contradiction of relativity. In laymen’s terms: Every particle has a twin particle, and its twin reacts instantaneously to any actions brought on to one or the other particle. This means that information is being sent faster than the speed of light—for example, make a phone call to mars and send morse code using an entangled particle on Earth with its twin on mars. When you tap the entangled particle, the twin feels it on mars instantaneously, but the phone call will take approximately 187 seconds (if traveling at the speed of light) to reach Mars. That contradicts relativity but doesn’t disprove it; hence they are both theories because they are both right but simultaneously contradict one another.
Journal Entry – August 5th, 2016
I don’t know what the hell is going on here. I am either losing my mind, or something has taken possession of this building. Every time I attempt to do any work, the pounding resumes. I also keep dreaming about some mysterious girl but it’s more than just a dream; it is as if I know this woman and have known her forever. Something is very wrong here. I know I have been in this building now for months, but my phone says I just got in yesterday. I must have been here longer because my journal has a plethora of entries in it that would have taken months to figure out, but I don’t remember writing any of it, nor do I remember getting here yesterday. I just know that I have been here.
It is more than just neighbors. I thought I knew who it was making the noise—I was positive, but then I saw Dr. Tripper murder half the building at the Christmas party, and the pounding only got worse. I just cannot believe it. I just don’t understand why this is happening to me.
I sit here in my chair listening to it tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap. Again – tap tap tap tap tap tap. I have spent days trying to find the origin of this noise with no success. It is as if someone lives in the four-inch gap of space between the bricks of the building and the drywall in my unit. They live there with a little hammer they wrapped up with a thick cloth and stretched rubber band about the neck to hold it. They then tap it on the wall, but they only do it when I intend on working. When I need to work on work that requires intense concentration, it is as if they wait there just waiting for me to begin my work and then tap tap tap tap tap tap tap.
Journal Entry Dissertation Draft: James Francis Quasar
Time Waves and Time Displacement
Abstract When the “Big Bang” occurred, the creation of a three-dimensional coordinate system was also born. Along with this system, time and space were conceived. The unification of the cartesian coordinate system fused with spacetime, providing a 3 plus 1 coordinate system—that is, x(left/right), y(right/left), z(up/down), and t(time).
It has previously been theorized that time can only move in one direction. However, since we are the measurers and are simultaneously stationed on the moving timeline, we cannot be sure if time is moving forward or backward. E.g., imagine sitting on a moving airplane that is not accelerating. You did not experience the acceleration to get the plane to the stable speed so that you will not feel any force indicating direction. Then, imagine having your eyes closed while the aircraft is moving at a constant velocity, and someone spins you around until you no longer know what direction you are facing. Once you lose the sense of direction, you no longer see if you are moving forward or backward. This is where we stand in the present time—that is, we don’t know if our back is facing the front of the airplane or the end of the aircraft—metaphorical use of time.
I theorize that the timewave(s) we reside on the move in constant time-velocity. We are born within the continual speed, just as if someone were placed on the airplane mid-flight. This inhibits our ability to determine whether we are moving forwards or backward in time.
The Big Bang was similar to the plane taking off. Still, billions of years later, we are now moving with little or no acceleration—a constant time-speed. Suppose there is a residue of time-acceleration lingering. In that case, it is astronomically small and cannot be detected or is merely negligible.
The Big Bang’s origin is contained within a five-dimensional structure. This means, when time started, it was shot in all directions, fourth dimensionally. Imagine a pebble causing ripples in a lake but as a sphere sending three-dimensional waves in all directions originating from the center of the globe. The crust and center of the sphere are the fifth-dimension(s), and the ripples are space-time. Now consider the ripples’ movements, like a pebble dropped in the center of a fishbowl shooting waves to the glass, and then they bounce back to the center of the bowl. When the ripples move back to the center, time moves in reverse, but whoever is riding the wave still perceives it as moving forward. We see that time-waves do not act as a particle but instead as a basis for all other measurements and directions of waves’ motions. This doesn’t imply a different point in time but the same point moving in a different direction. In laymen’s terms, we can measure how old the universe is by showing that time is actually moving backward even though we perceive it moving forward or vice versa.
When the waves bounce back, they intersect the forward-moving waves. When the timewaves cross, we can sneak a peek into the past or the future or even jump out of the current wave we reside on and into the intersecting wave. It is the points-of-intersection of the timewaves that are of interest. Particularly the points in time where the timewaves resonate and amplify time. I conclude that we are simultaneously moving forward-backward in time in space-time. When timewaves resonate, space-time can be isolated, and one may move about freely along the timewaves. The first breakthrough in this theory is the discovery of the “God Function.” A particular function that outputs itself for any value inputted—a constant process that is not constant and is built as a single-variable function f(x).
1930 (December 2018) Journal: I have been stuck in the year 1930 with Nikola Tesla, if you can believe it.
Sub-Journal (1): James Quasar
After moving back into my condo.
I am writing this journal to document what is happening to me. I am not sure if I am losing my mind or if I am simply cursed. I had finally broken free from this awful building on Mifflin Street, only to find myself in another building with the same issues. It was uncanny. The odds are astronomical. Upon removing some walls in my condo during the remodel to prep it for sale, I learned that the ones responsible for the architecture never insulated the walls and behind the walls is even stranger. There are metal bars and wires galore going every which way inside them. Then, the new unit I ended up in in the new building over in Hilldale was designed the exact same way, and to my dismay, I learned that the same architects and construction team were responsible for both buildings. This poised me to do some research to try and figure out what the hell is happening to me. I don’t even remember moving back here, but here I am – stuck in this time-warped building. I have to figure out what is going on.
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[16 | Riddles of the Pounding] Download or Read PDF
When James gets home, he doesn’t hear anything. He sighs in relief and says, “Thank you, Jesus!”. He then maneuvers down his little hallway that stretches more than half the length of his tiny five hundred square foot apartment into the kitchen.
He opens up the cabinet, takes out a bottle of Tanqueray Gin, and pours a few ounces into a Collins glass over a golf ball-sized sphere of ice. He then grabs his notebook and ballpoint pen and retires to his rocking chair. Before sitting, he angles the chair next to the window for maximum exposure to the city.
He sips on the Gin for a few minutes, thinking, (Life is good. The universe will give you what you need if you ask for it, and what I need is some quiet time. The time-wave equations are almost complete. I just need to make the one last connection for them to be finalized. Once I find this connection, I can model them to show that my findings are what is needed for time-displacement to be feasible in our lifetime.)
Once he finished the Gin, he gets up and pours another few ounces over the shrinking sphere of ice. He returns to the rocking chair and takes his notebook off the windowsill. He opens it, and the moment the pen hits the paper, eight rapid thumps radiate from the half-broken ceiling.
Frustrated, James slams his notebook on the windowsill and stands erect from the rocking chair, leaving it swaying back-and-forth. He grabs Watson and exits his condo heading down the hall to the elevator. He waits at the elevators holding the ax with both hands staring at the butt. He imagines what someone’s skin wrapped skull would look like as it drives deep into the back of the cranium. (I bet the skin will fold inward, staying intact, and the hair will look like a fresh sheet of sod rolled out over a sunken hole.)
James lives on the sixth floor, so he thinks it would make sense that the pounding in his ceiling is coming from the 7th floor. He gets in the elevator and shoots up a layer. He arrives a few seconds later and begins walking up and down the hall pressing his ear up against every unit’s door—listening for the poundings—but he hears nothing more than televisions and conversations between people. Flustered and confused about the situation, he returns to his unit for another drink.
When he opens the door, he finds that the place is in pieces. The walls and ceiling had been smashed to bits. The floor is littered with jagged chunks of sheetrock. He walks into the condo feeling his feet crunch on pieces of drywall laying atop other pieces. The mess doesn’t register to him. He just makes his way back to the rocking chair, only stopping to fill a glass with more Gin.
After an unknown amount of time passes, James drunkenly swings his head around to look for the ax, but it isn’t where he left it when he came in. He starts to panic, thinking he may have left it somewhere in the building and someone may find it. He quickly gets up out of the chair and moves to the door. He walks through his condo like he is on ice, sliding his feet through the dust and pieces of wall, leaving what looks like a trail in a fresh snowfall.
Once out of the condo and in the halls, he makes his way to the elevators. When he arrives, he forgets why he is at the elevators and decides that it would be best to go to the lobby to see if there might be anyone to converse with. When the elevator reaches the lobby, and he exits it, he sees a few people dressed up. Some are standing, and others are sitting in the Victorian chairs. They are all holding holiday cocktails and have essences of Christmas tied to their outfits.
James hears music coming from the entertainment room. He stands near the elevator watching the people, and becomes angry for not receiving an invite to the party. The moment he takes a step towards the lobby area out of the elevator area, the sitting people stand up. When he takes another step, they all start walking towards the entertainment room. By the time his foot hits the line that divides the lobby and elevator area, the people had vanished into the party, leaving the lobby vacant.
A feeling of sadness devastates James. He feels unwanted, as if the people were purposely trying to get away from him.
He continues into the lobby. The music gets louder as he turns the corner and walks closer to the party. Right as he gets to the door, the music stops. He looks through the glass window cutout and sees a large group of people standing in the center of a dugout dance floor with steps that circumference it.
When the music starts back up, James cannot believe his eyes. He sees Jack materialize out of thin air right in the center of the dance floor, and he is gripping Watson with both hands.
James notices Jack is dressed in a long coat, winter boots, and a trapper hat with the flaps down. “I don’t remember him wearing that.”
Right as Jack’s body finished coming into existence, “We Wish You the Merriest” by Frank Sinatra, and Bing Crosby comes on the speakers.
James watches his eyes come into focus, turning solid black. He cannot quite make it out, but he thinks he lipread Jack saying, “Perfect timing.” Just as he heard the first chorus of the song begin to play. “We wish you the merriest, the merriest, the merriest, the merrieeeeeessssst yuuuuullllleeee yeearrrrrr!”
James continues observing him, anticipating his next move. He watches Jack’s eyes grow large and his grin wide, raising his dimples nearly to his forehead. It is eerily reminiscent of Dr. Suess’s Grinch. Jack’s hands then grip and twist around the belly of the ax tighter and tighter. “Oh God, what is he about to do?”
We wish you the merriest, the merriest, the merriest, yes, the merriest.
We wish you the merriest, the merriest, the merriest yule cheer.
We wish you the happiest, the happiest, the happiest, yeaass the happiest
We wish you the happiest, the happiest, the happiest new year.
As Frank and Bing sing on, so does Jack’s ax.
Not a single person was aware that a tall, dark man was standing in the center of them bearing the ax from the fire safety box until blood whipped and splattered across their faces. Jack began twirling and whirling the ax around, swooping it down on the necks and limbs of the people mingling and dancing. The bit comes down with such force it cuts the head clean off. Jack then decapitates five more people before the end of the first chorus.
Half the people are oblivious to what is happening, and the others are too intoxicated to notice. Not a single scream is heard while he continues hacking through everyone, axing them down in sync with the song’s repetitive lyrics.
As Frank and Bing belt ouch each lyric, Jack uses the ax’s heel to split into the skull of a drunk dancing woman.
He spins around methodically, dancing to the music as if the ax is his partner and he is the lead. Then, Watson swoops down, just grazing the floor, and takes a leg off just under the kneecap. It then comes back around lodging deep into the belly of a young man. Jack yanks it out, pulling his intestines with it, sending them into the face of his dancing partner. Before the man knew what happened, the ax’s flat side was driven into his chin cheek-to-cheek. He pulls the ax out, and the man’s face and his jawbone falls to the ground leaving strings of flesh dangling about his tongue.
Jack worked his way through all but a few people in a matter of minutes.
He walks towards the last couple standing frozen in a state of shock, surrounded by bleeding corpses, and in sync with the lyrics, he drives his ax into one and then the other just as the trombone belts out. He then plants the ax’s heel into the skull of one and jabs the ax’s toe into the other’s chest plate. He continues whaling the ax down on them as they fall to the ground.
We wish you the happiest – the happiest, WHACK the happiest CRACK, yes, the happiest THUNK!
We wish you the merriest – the merriest, WHACK the merriest, THUNK yes, the merriest CRACK.
At the end of the slaughtering, he stops to sing along with Frank and Bing as he dances and slides through the blood.
“May your tree be filled with happiness—happiness and friendliness for all. May your heart be filled with cheerfulness—happiness and cheerfulness for all. …”
Just as Jack thinks he is finished, he notices that a girl is getting up off the ground. “I missed one. We can’t have that, now can we? It is a Christmas party, after all. Everyone gets a present.”
He walks up to her and tilts his head, looking deep into her eyes as if he can see her soul. Without notice, Watson lands right in the middle of her bicep, slicing the arm clean off. The severed flesh sticks to the cheek of the ax for a fraction of a second then falls limp and lifeless to the ground. The girl begins to faint, and as her knees buckle—while she falls to the ground—Jack brings Watson up over his head, gripping the shaft tight with both hands, and thrusts it forward, jamming the eye of the ax right into her temple. She lays on the ground with the ax sticking straight out of her head. Jack puts his foot on her neck and jerks it out of her skull, sending fragments of bone scattering throughout the air like coconut flakes.
James watches the whole death rally in disbelief. “I must be dreaming.”
Jack walks back to the center of the dance floor and sees James standing at the door looking through the window. He waves one hand to James, smiles, and yells out to him, “It’s a numbers game.” as he points the thumb of his other hand to the dismembered bodies scattered about. He then disappears, dematerializing from sight.
“Goofy fella ain’t he?”
James turns around to see JIM is sitting in one of the Victorian chairs.
“How long have you been there for?” “An eternity, my friend. Did you give Tripper the notebook? Guess you must have, seeing as he is in there doing what he is doing.”
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[15 | The Noise] Download or Read PDF
“The noise. It has to stop. Please, God, make it stop. I cannot live like this. I need it to stop. Why. Why do these people have to keep moving like this? They won’t stop moving. It is driving me crazy. I am going to have to kill them. I tried to leave this place, but I cannot seem to break free. It is like some sort of sick twisted joke being played on me. Apparently, no one else in this building has had any issues with the sounds I am hearing. I have to have quiet for my work. It requires deep concentration without interruptions, and all I hear all fucking day long is these psychos and their nonstop activities. I swear to God, I won’t lose a wink of sleep if someone murders the shit out of them. I pray that they die. Just die. Dear God, please take them out.”
“Fuck! It won’t stop.”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Gaaaaaawwwwwwwddddd!!! Christ! Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck – that’s it! Someone’s going to die. If I have to warp space and time to find these pricks—these fuckers are going to die.”
On his way back from the lobby, the ax was again resting by his door. He had instinctively brought it in and set it on his counter. He grabs the ax off the counter and takes a shot of Jack Daniels, and then another. He swings the ax up and rests it on his shoulders, holding its knob in the palm of his left hand. He uses his other hand to grip the neck of the whiskey bottle. He says to himself, “Heeeeeeere’s Jimmmmy.” Pretending that he is Jack Torrance from The Shining.
“Yep. They are going to die. Tonight’s the night.”
He puts the ax back down, resting it on the countertop. He then twists off the cap of the whiskey bottle, takes a hefty slug, filling his mouth full of the burning liquid. He swallows it down, trying not to activate his gag reflex. Once it is in his stomach, lining the walls with warmth, he walks over to the mirror on the wall and examines himself.
“Are you ready?” “Indeed, sir. We’ve been ready for some time now.” “Do you think we can follow through?” “Without question. We must, for we cannot reside in such an environment for a night more. It must be done.” “Who do you think is the one that makes the noise?” “It is unclear. There are hundreds of units within this building that could be the source. They are all connected by metal and wire. The origin could be from anywhere. Clearly, it wasn’t the running skeleton above you, so we must search elsewhere.” “I shall begin with the ones I’ve seen exercising daily.” “Are you sure you should be so open about your solution? We will surely be found out.”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! Goddddddddd! Damnnnnnnnn! Ittttt! Yes. We must end it tonight. I cannot tolerate it one night more. I don’t care if I have to spend the rest of my life in a cell—at least I’ll be able to get some sleep knowing I am surrounded by cement bricks and not this fucked sound conducting speaker system of a condo.”
The whiskey courses through his veins, now bubbling his brain with ethanol. He goes back to the counter and grabs the throat and belly of the ax. He has every intention of breaking down all his neighbors’ doors until he finds the one that won’t stop moving around all day.
His anger takes over, and without thinking, the ax swings into the wall. He pulls it back, ripping it from the drywall, and swings again and again. Chunks of sheetrock break apart, falling to the ground. He continues ramming the blade into the wall over and over again. He swings it like a golf club up into the ceiling, hitting the light fixture. Glass shards rain down over him. He then takes another upward swing, and half of the frame holding the drywall falls to the ground while still connected to the ceiling. He then swings the ax like a baseball bat into an unscathed wall, repeating until none of the living room walls are fully intact.
BANG-BANG-BOOM-BOOM-bang – BANG-BANG-BOOM-BOOM
BANG-BANG-BOOM-BOOM-bang – BANG-BANG-BOOM-BOOM
He continues hearing the pounding and thumping, which only fuels his anger more. He holds the knob and throat of the ax with both hands holding it over his head and turns to take another plunge into the wall when he sees himself in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot, and his hair is twisted up and greasy as if he hasn’t bathed in months. He is wearing all white—a two-piece outfit—with sandals. His lips are scrunched up, and his face crinkled. He does not recognize himself. He is possessed with hatred and frustration. The ax comes down over his head, smashing into the reflection of his face breaking the mirror into a thousand pieces. “I guess that’ll be another seven years of good luck for me. Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha”
He stops and calms down after the mirror decorated the floor with bits and pieces of broken glass. He swings the ax’s shoulder over his shoulder and grabs the whiskey bottle by the neck. The cap is already removed, so he takes a sip while still gripping the throat of the ax. He then slams the bottle back on the counter and says, “We are ready. Let’s do this. Time to die little feet in my ceiling. Time to die. I am coming for you. All your running won’t help you now. I am coming for you. If only you knew your passive behaviors would lead to your death, maybe you would have changed your selfish ways—time to die, little ones. I’m coming for you. I’m coming, and I am coming now.”
He walks down the narrow hall of his condo to the door, still holding the ax and whiskey. He pushes the handle down with the base of the bottle and pulls it open using one finger. When he opens the door, Jack Tripper is standing at it. He says to James, “There’s Watson. I must have left him here after our last meeting.” “Meeting?” “Don’t worry about it. Here, give that to me before you do something stupid.”
“You hear that man?” “Yea. Sounds like someone working a punching bag or running real hard on a treadmill.” “Yea. Jesus fuck, man. I am going to kill these fucks. I cannot fucking take it anymore. Do you have any idea what it is like to be awoken every hour on the hour twenty-four seven for months on end?” “I imagine it’s like having children.” “Yes! Goddamnit, exactly like having children, except you can strangle the child. I don’t know who or where this is coming from. I thought it was that running skeleton bitch, but she is dead, and I still hear the pounding just as much as ever.” “Relax, man, you gotta lay off the brown liquor. Especially Jack Daniels.” “Shit. I know. I was watching The Shining earlier, and I kind of got carried away. Fuck man, I feel like I am being driven nuts just like the dude in the movie. The building is fucking possessed, man. I swear to God it is. I have been trying to study for months, and every fucking time I touch the pen to the fucking paper or try and do any critical thinking, the pounding begins. Then, when I think I have a break from it, it disrupts my sleep and wakes me up. I am on fucking edge, man.” “Maybe I can help.” “How’s that?” “How about you don’t worry about it, and I’ll fix the issue with the noise?” “Dude. You fix the noise, and I won’t worry about a thing.” “Alright then. I will, but I’ll need you to do something for me.” “What’s that?” “I need you to get that notebook of yours and let me have it.” “My notebook?” “Yes. I will give it back, but I need it now.” “Why would you need my notebook?” “Don’t worry about that.” “Alright, but how are you going to stop the pounding?” “It’s just a numbers game, my friend; a simple numbers game. Just give me your notebook, and I will fix your noise issue.”
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[14 | Xanadu] Download or Read PDF
“Good morning, my darling.”
James wakes up – and to his disbelief – he doesn’t feel any effects from the night before. A soft light seeps in through his eyelids, and everything comes into focus. He then sees a girl sitting at his side, on the bed. She is gently filtering his hair through her slender fingers while gazing into his eyes. She has a look a teenager has when falling in love for the first time. He can immediately sense the passion she has for him, but he isn’t quite alert as of yet. As his brain renders consciousness, he realizes he recognizes her. (It’s Ella. Oh, my sweet Ella.)
Her soft and sweet voice drifts through the air and into his ears, saying, “Happy Birthday, James. How does it feel to be an old man?” with a slightly sarcastic tone. James pushes himself up and rests his back against the headboard. “Old man?” He then, without thinking, instinctively looks into a vanity mirror positioned across from the bed and notices that he looks younger. “Yea, silly. The big two-five. You are twenty-five today! I fixed you some breakfast in bed. Lookie here: Italian Espresso, Cream Cheese Danish, and some freshly picked cherries from the tree out front. They just turned red and ripened overnight. I suppose you’ll be spending the afternoon harvesting them, won’t ya.” James replies with an agreeable smile, reacting again without hesitation.
“You know me and foraging. We have the fresh butter we just churned in the icebox, right? It needs to be cold to make the pie crust best.” “Of course, sweety. You know I have your back when it comes to cooking. Been waiting for your cherry pie all year!” She then leans forward and presses her lips against his.
The moment their lips touched, nothing in the world seemed to matter anymore. Wherever or whenever James had been the night before faded from his mind as if it never happened. He begins to feel something he thought he would never feel again. A sensation of purpose and belonging flows through him like an electrical current.
He embraces Ella, firmly positioning his left arm around her shoulders, and maneuvers his right hand to cusp her bottom. He lifts her up and swings her around, laying her back on the middle of the bed.
She is wearing nothing but a thin nightgown that loosely covers her body. James can feel her moisture on him. His heart beats as if time is frozen.
He pulls the strap of her nightgown down off her shoulder and then the other, exposing the swell of her breasts. He then pushes the gown down so that it scrunches up around her stomach. He gently grips the garment and moves it up her torso. She intuitively arches her back so he can pull it out from under her. She then puts her arms up in the air so he can completely remove it and expose her naked body.
The two of them spend the morning making endless love. Eventually, neither of them can conjure up any more bodily fluids, so they kiss one peck at a time until they fall back asleep.
About an hour after napping, James wakes up and gets out of bed. He moves slowly to not disturb Ella. He then takes a moment to appreciate her body. She is lying on her side with white sheets draped partially over her legs and halfway up her chest. He observes the flawless curvature of her back and impeccably formed physique. He thinks to himself that he must have won an interstellar lottery ticket to find himself with her.
James looks around the room he is in and inspects it. It is a cellar of a small house. There are a few storm windows with step ladders under them. The bed Ella is laying on is an old feather stuffed mattress with buttons sown into it. The buttons make indents every square foot or so, and the bed it rests on is made with a metal frame. The headboard looks like an arch cutout of a jail cell. On the nightstand are a nonelectric phonograph and a notebook. The other nightstand holds Ella’s jewelry box and a small book titled A Treatise on Electricity and Magnetism by James Clerk Maxwell.
While he stands at the edge of the bed, he tries to make sense of where he is and how he knew the girl’s name, but he cannot quite recollect anything. The overpowering bliss of true love clouds his intellect.
Ella wakes up and turns around to look at James. She is smiling, and the look of satisfaction highlights her. She says to him, with a warm smile as she puts her hand on her belly, “I think we are gonna have a little one knocking at our door soon.” “You think?” “I think you may have knocked me up five times this week. Remember, I don’t have the nanobot birth control in me anymore. Or at least they cannot function here.” (Nanobots?)
James sits at the edge of the bed and puts his hand to her head.
“That is great. I cannot wait to start our family. I love you so much.” “I love you too, James.”
Ella leans off to her side of the bed and puts the needle from the phonograph down to play one of her favorite records, Sunshine and Shadows by Al Bowlly
(music) Sunshine and shadows. I’m happy and blue. Honey, when you are near me. When you are away. Loving you sincerely more and more each day. Forever and ever …
James sits on the bed, looking at Ella while they listen to the record.
(music) forever and forever. To you, dear, I’ll be true. Through sunshine and shadows, I’ll always always …
James holds Ella’s hand until the song ends, and they hear “click – scraping – click – scraping – click scraping …”
“Guess we should maybe accomplish something today.” Said James as he pulls the needle back to stop the phonograph. Ella looks up at him, pats her belly, and says, “I’m pretty sure we did.”
James gets up off the bed and puts his pants on, and says, “You can stay and nap. I am gonna go pick the cherries and get dinner ready.” “I cannot wait for dinner. I am starved!” Says Ella as she nestles back up under the blankets, smelling what remains of James on the pillows.
James walks to the end of the cellar studio to a wooden staircase and heads up them. He exits out the storm doors entering a blue-sky sunny day. He feels grass tickle up around his feet as he stretches his arms out and yawns while looking out into meadows. The meadows stretch all the way to the lake just near the campus.
Growing confident in the center of the plot of land surrounding the small cabin is a matured cherry tree. It has deep forest green leaves with a waxy gloss. They glimmer in the sun and are surrounded by what looks like shiny red marbles. James sees a metal pot under the tree clearly meant for the cherries to be put in, and at waist height, he sees a yellow ribbon tied around it. The ribbon gives him a feeling of déjà vu he cannot quite put his finger on.
He spends a few hours picking enough cherries to fill the pot to the brim. He then sits on the deck of the cabin in a rocking chair and pits them. After an hour or so, Ella comes out with a glass of iced tea for James. She sets it on a little table next to a growing bowl of cherry pits and kisses him on the cheek. She then takes a seat in another rocking chair aside him. She had put on The Very Thought of You (with the Ray Noble Orchestra) on the phonograph. Neither of them says a word; they just enjoy the minutes until the song ends.
Ella smiles at James and says, “It is such a beautiful day. I wish we could be locked on this timewave forever.” “Timewave?” James smiles back and watches her pop one of the cherries into her mouth. She had snuck one from him when she was kissing him on the cheek. She knows it bugs him whenever she nibbles on any food before dinner. She gives him a sly look and then leans back with the book that was sitting on her nightstand.
James knows the book. He had studied it extensively over the years. It triggered a flash of memory about the equation he had been working on. He stops for a moment feeling a strange sense he cannot quite recall and then goes back to pitting the cherries.
After some more time passes, one bucket empties and the other fills with mushy pit-less cherries.
He pours the seeds out onto a towel and lays them in the sun to dry. He plans to plant them around the city during his walks.
Now that the cherries are pitted, he retreats to the kitchen and spends the rest of the afternoon preparing dinner.
The first thing he does is make the pie so that it will be cooled down by the time the two of them finish eating. He then collects a chicken from the yard. They roam freely, eating bugs and worms from the soil. Ella hates knowing that they have to kill a chicken, so she leaves and goes for a walk while James takes care of it and cleans it.
Before James takes the chicken’s life, he caresses it and holds it in his arms, letting it know that he deeply cares for it and that everything is going to be alright. He says softly to the chicken, “It is the only way we can survive. I will make sure your bloodline lives on through your chicks’ lives.” He then pets the chicken gently on its head and closes his eyes. His hand slides down the back of the neck; he grips it firmly and quickly snaps the neck to a 90-degree angle separating the vertebra. When he hears the crack, his eyes well up. He keeps his hand over the chicken’s head so he doesn’t have to see its lifeless eyes. He picks up a hatchet and brings it down, severing the head from the neck. He then places the head in a bag while he looks off to the side.
After James cleaned the chicken up, he separated it into 9 pieces. Two wings, two legs, two thighs, two breasts, and a carcass. He puts the carcass in a pot with onions, celery, carrots, parsley, thyme, garlic, black pepper, bay leaves, and a leak. He covers it with water and lets it simmer while he prepares the rest of the meal.
Ella returns from her walk and enters into the kitchen, asking, “What is on your birthday menu tonight, hun?” James responds with a sort of southern accent, “Well ah, we gotts heer suammm fried chickens, cahllud greens, cawnbread, and yer favorite: mac ah row knee and cheese.”
She walks up to him and presses her body against his hugging him from behind. Her hands find their way down his stomach and into his pants. She grips him and feels his girth. He stops what he is doing and sets down the bunch of greens he was about to chop. He turns around and sees Ella wearing a sundress with nothing under it.
James grabs her by her thin waist, swings her around, and props her up on the counter, putting her bare bottom on the pile of greens. She pushes herself up slightly and pulls them out from under her, and James says, “They will taste better now.”
They kiss passionately, and he maneuvers in-between her legs. She puts her hands back in his pants, pulls him out, and slips him inside her. He feels himself plunge deep into her. Juices flow out and pool on the butcher’s block countertop as they make love. It only lasts about thirty seconds before they both climax. They then embrace each other while panting heavily.
James stands at the counter with Ella’s arms wrapped around him until he calms down. He slowly pulls out of her feeling a tickle, and she moans.
Ella grabs a towel from the cupboard above her head and uses it to wipe herself off. James picks her up off the counter and sets her feet first on the ground, watching her dress flail about her thighs as it falls down.
Ella goes over and sits at the kitchen table, and continues reading. At the same time, James finishes preparing dinner for the two of them.
By the time dinner was ready, Ella had set the table, decanted some wine, and lit candles. The sun is setting and shining light through the windows of their small shack. The only thing they can hear is birds chirping and wind rasping through the trees.
James sets down a plate for her filled with greens and macaroni and cheese. She grabs a cornbread slice and butters it up, and sets it on the table next to her plate. “Don’t you think I should have cooked since it is your birthday?” “What, and take away all the fun?” “I can’t believe you love to cook so much that you would spend half your birthday in the kitchen.” “The best part of my birthday is cooking for you.” “You are such a sweetheart. I love you.” “How is the mac N cheese?” “Delicious! These greens are amazing too. What did you put in them?” “Ah, my secret recipe: Green apples, dates, hickory nuts, bacon, red wine vinegar, and shaved Grana Padano. I also used a three-cheese blend for the mac. A little different than usual.” “Everything is so good. I am so lucky to have you as my husband.”
When James heard her say husband, he got kicked back in his head, distorted, thinking, (Husband. We are married?)
“I have a present for you.” “You do?” “Yep! Remember when we went on the trip up north to Prairie Du Sac and had that Petite Syrah? You know, the one you said would be the perfect complement to our sour cherry tree?” James tries to recall but cannot. Ella continues, “Well, I had them sell me a bottle when you weren’t paying attention. I snuck it home with me to have when the cherry tree came to.”
Ella sets a small ramekin filled with little red cherries next to his plate and pours him a glass of the thick red wine from an oblong-shaped decanter. James takes a cherry and muddles it in his mouth, then spits the seed out back into the dish. He takes a sip of the wine, swishing it and mixing it up with the cherry in his mouth. He feels bliss amidst the sensations it delivers to his brain. “Oh my. This is fantastic. The peppery tones blend so well with the tartness of the cherry. You must try it.” Ella follows him and tastes the mixture in her mouth. Her eyes roll back a little while she moans with pleasure.
They eat up their food and polish off the wine and then retire to the deck to sit on a swinging bench together and watch the sunset.
Ella brought with her, to the deck, two pieces of cherry pie and a bottle of aged rum. While they rock back-and-forth eating the pie, Ella pours James a few ounces of rum into a tin mug and hands it to him, and says, “Happy birthday Hun.” She takes the last bite of her pie, sets the plate down on the ground, and falls asleep a few minutes later with her head resting on James’s shoulder.
James watches the sunset while he sips his rum. He ponders how he got here and why he would be so lucky to have Ella in his life.
By the time the sun settled, he had polished off over half the bottle of rum.
James decides to pick Ella up and carry her down the cellar and put her in bed.
After he gets her in bed, he goes back upstairs to continue drinking. He sits in a rocking chair sipping on the rum until about two in the morning while day-dreaming about Ella.
After he poured the last bit of rum into the tin mug. He sets it on the arm of the rocking chair, leans his head back, and falls asleep.
[14.1 | Rude Awakening]
“Gun. Gun. I need the Gun.
Please, God, get me the Gun.
I need it—I need the Gun, for if I have the Gun, it will be fun.
I will take the Gun, put it next to my head, pull the trigger, and I’ll be dead.
Yes—that is what I said.
I require the Gun.
Perhaps a pistol will do, but only if the bullets come with two.
A Gun, my son, oh please, God, can I have the Gun?
I need it. I need the gun.
This is no longer fun.
Please, Jesus, give me the gun.”
James opens his eyes to find himself in a pitch-black room – wrapped in sheets – sweating profusely. His brain chants endlessly about a gun.
“Where am I?” He wonders. He feels so sick he cannot move or get up. He just keeps fantasizing about putting a gun to his head, pulling the trigger, and making himself dead.
He falls back asleep and then wakes back up in the club chair in the lobby staring across the room at JIM.
J.F. jumps out of the chair and says, “What the fuck is going on? Who are you?” JIM replies to J.F. in a calm voice, “James, my dear boy. You never left the tornado room before the plows came, did you?” “Huh? What?” “The Tornado Room?” JIM stands up and walks towards J.F. leaving his dogs sitting by the chair. “Here, you left this at the bar. I picked it up for you.” He hands James a blank notebook.
James holds it in his hand, and everything that has transpired fades from his mind as if it never happened. Lina comes out of her office, walks over to James, and says, “Here are your keys and the paperwork. We also got your mattress, bed, and chair put up there for you. “Welcome to the building, Dr. Quasar. Did you want me to give you a tour of the building?” “No.” Said James abruptly. “Sorry. I mean, no, thank you. I just wanna get upstairs and take a nap.” Lina hands the keys off to James and says, “let me know if you need anything. I am here nine to five Monday through Friday.”
The eeriest sense of déjà vu came over James, but he brushes it off and heads to the elevators as if nothing had happened. He doesn’t know why; he feels saddened like he has lost something or someone special but cannot quite put his finger on it. He pulls out his phone and sees that the date is May 14th, 2018.
He examines a photo tucked in the news slot on his elevator ride up. It is an image of a raccoon popping its head out of a sewer. “Cute.” He thinks. He then looks above the picture into the mirror and says to himself, with a professional and stern-sounding voice, “Well, Dr. Q., are you up for what’s due? The time has cometh, and the days are through, the next thing they are after is you.” And then says, “So true, and how do you do?” DING “6th Floor”. The elevator opens, and he heads down the hall to his new home – instinctively – as if he has been there before.
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[13 | Tripper] Download or Read PDF
“Gaawwwwwddddd!!! That fucking noise. Why won’t it stop? I just want to sleep! PLEASE, for the love of God, LET ME SLEEP!”
(a few seconds pass)
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM – BANG
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM – BANG
“What the hell happened last night? I feel like I was pummeled with a sack of potatoes. At least I am still at home. I hate waking up in strange places. I think it’s time for me to get my shit together. Maybe even start hitting the gym. I’d like to learn more about that woman anyway—see if she may be the upstairs neighbor making all the racket.”
James had been rudely awoken, and the continuous thuds prevent him from falling back asleep. He is too exhausted to do anything about it, so he lays in the bed and endures the irritating noise.
The sound continues for close to an hour before he can fall back asleep.
Just as his eyes close and he slips back into a slumber, CRACK! A loud crashing sound reminiscent of someone dropping a heavy weight on the floor snaps him right out of it. The sound does not continue, so he is unaware that it had woken him. He falls back asleep.
Thump-thump thump-thump. Thump-thump thump-thump. Piddle-piddle-thump-thump, piddle-piddle-thump-thump.
A series of what sounds like repetitive light thwacks and wallops radiates from the ceiling, waking James yet again. The patterned racket continues endlessly. He lays on the bed staring at the ceiling. He fantasizes about sliding a long carving knife deep into the heart of whoever is responsible for the sound. (I’d like to watch the life leave their fucking eyes as I plunge a freshly sharpened twelve-inch blade through their chest plate, puncturing the heart. I wouldn’t want to hit an artery; I want it to be slow so they can suffer for hours the way they are making me suffer. It sounds like someone sprinting back-and-forth. What is wrong with this person or people or whoever the fuck they are.)
He becomes overly frustrated trying to make sense of the situation, wondering what he did in his past to deserve such karma. The pattern reminds him of a plyometric cardio exercise routine.
About 2-hours later
James wants to get up, and hullabaloo to the management but is too exhausted. He cannot even muster up enough strength to use the bathroom. It’s as if he is strapped to the bed and unable to leave it.
The exercise routine had gone on for an hour, and then another one started – lasting about the same amount of time. After it stopped, he fell back asleep and quickly entered into a deep dream state.
He is dreaming about teaching a physics class and the research he has been working on. He fantasizes about a beautiful girl falling in love with him while he lectures. Perhaps one of his students, a petite young one.
The girl he manifests comes to his office after class and begins flirting with him. She slides her chair up close to his while he explains her homework problems to her. She intentionally presses her leg against his leg, and then she looks for movement under the fabric of his pants. She is happy to see a developing lump. She then nonchalantly moves her hand up his thigh while they both examine the homework. He feels her begin to massage his crotch. Then she unzips him and slips her hand in. The feeling of her cold hand gripping him excites him further. He looks at the top of her thighs popping out from a crimped pink skirt and cannot resist himself. He turns her chair towards his, puts his hands on each of her kneecaps, and spreads her legs. The separation forces her skirt to pull back to the hips, and the disengagement exposes light pink panties that match her dress. There is a single white rose printed on the center of them. The image rests on the fabric like printing on a pillow cushioned by the pressed hairs beneath. He slides his hands along her thighs and props her up, cupping her derriere with the palms of his hands. She is so petite that she fits perfectly in them. He pulls her towards him and then sits her upon his lap while repositioning her knees, so her shins are resting on the sides of his thighs. She then grabs him and feels him throb as she firmly grips his shaft. She pulls the rose to the side and presses him to her moisture. The instant he feels her warmth, he is shot awake.
James is pulled from his fantasy. The rapid sequence of poundings is so intense, the lights in his ceiling rattle, sending dust sprinkling into the air.
At this point, he can no longer focus on sleep. He grows frustrated with the noise and decides to do something to try and take his mind off of it, but it just cannot be ignored. He moves to his rocking chair and listens to the excessive movement in his ceiling. (Who the hell moves this much? I mean seriously. This is ridiculous. How can someone move around their home all day long like this? Don’t they own a TV or have a job or something?)
[13.1 | Over the weeks]
Since he finished the semester, J.F. has been awoken every morning like clockwork to what sounds like excessive exercise. He has also been disturbed all throughout the day. He keeps track of the sound schedule and takes tabs on a few of his neighbor’s activities. He becomes confident that the sound’s primary source is coming from someone exercising and makes plans to prove it or end it.
When he again reaches out to the building’s management, he gets nothing more than a circumventing response. The first time he mentions it to Lena, she says, “I don’t think so. No one works out that much in a day. It is likely something else.”
J.F. is one to agree with someone, even if he thinks they are wrong, so he decides to take matters into his own hands and investigate the building and tenants. He has been trying to work and rest, but every time he lays down or picks up a pencil, the pounding begins. This consistent distraction is too much to bear. He concludes the only options are to move or fix the situation.
J.F. finds it uncanny that he could be sitting in his rocking chair doing nothing for hours, and the instant he starts to work, the pounding also starts. It isn’t just coincidental. It’s an enigma. He even began changing the times he would attempt to work on his research or when he napped. Didn’t matter if he grabbed a pencil at 1:00 pm, 1:05 pm or 9:13 am. It just didn’t matter; the pounding would start within minutes of beginning his work.
One day, he became so frustrated by the sounds, he jumped around his tiny condo-like an upset child throwing a temper tantrum. He then began smashing the walls with his fists and screaming at the top of his lungs, “For the love of God, would you please stop moving. Jesus! Who the fuck moves this much. STOP FUCKING MOVING, YOU FUCKING PSYCHOS!!! Just stop!!! Give me a moment of peace!”
After exploding and putting holes in the walls, J.F. became unhinged. He has had countless days of sleepless nights and made no accomplishments with his research. He grows ever more frustrated with the staff and condo board. He has numerous emails documenting the sounds and has reached out by letter to potential neighbors that could be the source but with no response. The management’s only solution was and is to keep insisting that he records the sounds.
He recalls one of his conversations with Lena: “Look, Lena, someone is exercising in this building non-stop, and it is like their unit is connected to mine like two tin cans and a string.” “Well, I just don’t see how you could hear the people above you, and I talked to them, and they are hardly ever home.” “I am not talking about the people above me. How am I going to hear them through a foot of solid concrete? I am talking about some sort of connection between the pipes or walls or something. It just has to stop. I am going insane.” “Oh. Well, that is why I have a house. I would never live in a place like this, sharing walls.” (Great. How the fuck does that help me – knowing that you wouldn’t live here.)
One would think that the sound comes from the neighbor upstairs, but the building is constructed out of solid concrete, so someone could drop a bowling ball on their floor, and the person below them wouldn’t hear it. Because of this, the staff and the condo board doesn’t take J.F.’s complaints seriously. He got the impression that they thought of his case as, “If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, did it make a noise?” The lack of respect he received frustrated him since he is a doctorate in physics. That doesn’t seem to matter to them. For some reason, they think of J.F. as a less than worthy tenant.
12/20/16 Journal- There is something off about the people that live in this building. It is like they are children playing the “I know you are but what am I.” game. Or they are incapable of seeing any point-of-view other than the one they already know. I don’t get it.
One-night, J.F. lost his temper, and in a physically belligerent rage, he began ripping the walls down. He put his hands into the holes he punched in a few weeks earlier and tore the drywall from the screws. He then tossed fragments of sheetrock across his condo, slamming into the other walls. His logic is that if he removes the median the sound travels through, it will have nothing to emit from—like removing the drum’s batter head.
After tearing down about twenty percent of the wall, he learns that the sheetrock had been bolted to a metal cage that encompasses his unit.
(This is the same design as a Faraday cage. Why would anyone want to build a home in a metal cage? I mean, this is like a prison cell lined with the luxury of sheetrock. I am surrounded by metal and concrete. Well, that explains how the sound is traveling. These cages must be interconnected throughout the building. How bizarre.)
After J.F. learns of the infrastructure, he returns to explain this to the staff, but they still keep telling him to record the sound. He recalls another conversation: “How is recording the sound going to get these people to stop exercising?” “Let’s just start by recording it just to be sure that is what you are hearing.” “I don’t understand why you need a recording. I cannot stay another day in that place if these people are going to continue. Do you understand that I have not slept more than two hours straight in weeks? I am being tortured.” “Well, get a recording, and then we will see what we can do.”
December 27th, 2016
A few days go by, and J.F. hasn’t heard any pounding. He wakes up on his mattress, finally feeling refreshed. He is expected on campus soon and needs to prepare for the spring semester. He makes himself some coffee and sits in his rocking chair. (Finally, I can get some work done. I hope my complaints made it to the neighbors, and they will stop exercising. I think I know who it is now.)
12/27/16 Journal- Dr. James Francis Quasar. I am still getting used to my new title. I wonder who my assistants and coworkers will be for spring. Also, how many students will be in my class. I think that this will be an exciting year for me.
I am contemplating a relationship, but the mere thought of having to be held responsible for someone else’s needs sends me running. Besides, I don’t think I have ever met someone that I truly click with or can tolerate or who can tolerate me, for that matter. I don’t know. I will just let the universe decide that for me. Just happy to be finished with school and not have to worry so much about bills and studying. Now I can focus all my energy on my research. I have made a recent discovery, which I call ‘The God Function.’ I think it may be the key to unifying relativity and quantum mechanics. I will be focusing a lot of time and energy on this. Hopefully, there is someone that will understand it on the level I do at the campus.
Most of the professors I meet are just like religious people. They don’t believe anything that wasn’t written in a book. I swear some of the stupidest people I have ever met hold Ph.D.’s in Math or Physics.
I don’t care much for the view out the window of my condo. I just see a sea of bricks—the brick forest, if you will. Nothing but ugly buildings lined with bricks. The place is small and doesn’t have a patio. I am tucked up right next to the window with it open. The design of the building seems to prevent any airflow into the unit. It was all I could afford. Well, I am off to work.
James sets his notebook on the windowsill and pushes himself up and out of the rocking chair to head out. He walks down the unnecessarily long hallway, a part of his condo that takes up over twenty percent of the square footage. It begins to irritate him. (Why did they slice up 500 square feet into a bedroom, living room, hallway, bathroom, and what appears to be the world’s smallest dining room fit for a single barstool. Idiots designed this building. Why did I move here again? ‘I don’t know.’)
(Jesus fucking Christ! These mother fucking pieces of fucking shit mother fucking cock sucking bitches. I just want them to fucking die. Just fucking die DIE DIE DIE. Why does this keep happening to me? Why the fuck do I have to be the one to constantly be exposed to this animalistically endowed humanoid piece of fucking shit garbage. I swear I wouldn’t lose an ounce of sleep if I saw whoever’s making these noises heads smashed under a steamroller. Goddam fucking cunts.)
“One second.” Said James with the politest mannerism. He lost track of his hateful thoughts towards the neighbors. The ones he thinks are making all the racket in his ceiling. He walks to the door and skips looking through the peephole due to his distracted state-of-mind. He finds an ax sitting against the hallway wall across from the doorway when he opens it, but no one is there. Under the ax is a note addressed to J.F.
J.F. picks up the ax and envelope and brings them into his condo. When he opens the envelope, he finds a small torn off piece of a newspaper article.
UW Journal of the Prestige
December 27, 1930 – Madison, WI
Dr. James Francis Quasar had been selected to work at the local university—the University of Wisconsin-Madison—as an assistant professor of physics teaching Hypothetical Physics. A subject that he founded during his graduate dissertation. The topic led to groundbreaking discoveries in time-displacement.
During his professorship from 1910-1929, he accomplished more than most could dream of.
(What is this? Some kind of a joke?)
J.F. decides to throw in the towel and give up his attempts at accomplishing any work from home. Instead, he walks the halls to escape the endless parade of footsteps in his ceiling. While walking, he makes sure to pass the exercise room. He theorizes that the people making the noise must also frequent the gym. His plan is to cross-check the people’s schedules in the gym and when he hears sounds in his unit.
One night he glances into the workout room from a mirror across the hall. The reflection he sees startles him. He thinks he must be half asleep when the mirror reflects the image of a skeleton draped in yoga pants and a hoody sweatshirt. J.F. gets a look at her face through another reflection. It is almost all bone as if the flesh had been scraped from it, but when he looks in through the door window, he sees nothing more than an anorexic young woman addicted to running.
(I have seen this girl before. She is on that treadmill for hours. Could she also be exercising in her unit? Maybe she does the workout videos at home and then comes here for the treadmills?)
J.F. goes home and sits in his place for a little while, not hearing any noise. After an hour of silence, he hears sounds in the ceiling. It sounds like someone pacing across their floor – back-and-forth – walking non-stop. He quickly leaves to go and see if the woman is still in the workout room, and she is not.
(This person could be the one making the noise. Let’s check tomorrow and log the times we see her in the gym.)
[13.2 | Jack]
J.F.’s whole routine has changed based on the pounding. He has to make sure he falls asleep by 11:00 pm and wakes refreshed by 7:00 am to avoid the neighbor’s OCD activities. He was initially upset about this, but it has helped him regulate his schedule, which will be helpful when he returns to work. He made the decision to put his research aside until he can get back to campus. He was unable to find a suitable place to study, and every time he tries in his condo, the pounding begins, so he decides to take up exercising to look further into the neighbor’s routines.
J.F.’s life has become orientated around learning everything about his neighbor’s daily activities. He is determined to locate the one that never stops moving. He starts his day by walking up-and-down the floor where the gym is located. He takes mental notes of who goes in and out and what time they do. He then goes back to his unit to see if he hears anything when they are there and not. He eventually narrows it down to the girl that excessively runs on the treadmill. He then begins exercising himself to investigate further.
The boney one is always there – like clockwork – every day. She spends hours bouncing between the elliptical and treadmill. J.F. feels there is something off about her. He remembers the skeletal structure of her backend from the reflections in the mirror. She becomes known as “The running skeleton.”
Another man, around J.F.’s age, also goes to the gym every day. He is a local therapist by the name of Dr. Tripper, who J.F. immediately refers to as Jack even though that is not his name. He had pinned Jack as one of those guys who keeps everything about themselves a secret. He imagines he is either doing strange things in his free time or simply just insecure.
Over the weeks, Jack and J.F. became acquainted, sharing many conversations. It has been a long time since J.F. has had someone he can call a friend. Most people avoid him, and he avoids most people. However, there is some underlying connection between him and Jack, as if they knew one another in another life. He finds it peculiar that Jack practices therapy. It turns out that Jack has a background in engineering and mathematics. Probably why he and J.F. hit it off. Later in life, Jack became a medical doctor and simultaneously trained in psychology. But he really struck J.F. as a businessman.
It becomes a daily routine for them to meet at the Gym and converse. A common topic of theirs was the issue with the noise in J.F.’s walls. Dr. Tripper has been living in the building for over a decade, and he has never heard anyone complain about such noises. This makes him question what J.F.’s real motives are. J.F. could sense this, so he invites Dr. Tripper to come over and spend some time at his place to witness. Unfortunately, the two of them cannot find an agreeable time. Whatever time J.F. suggests always seems to conflict with Dr. Tripper’s schedule. (Dr. Tripper. Dr. Jack Tripper. Dr. Jack T. Ripper. I bet he is out slaying women on the streets of Madison every night.)
J.F. learns a lot about Dr. Tripper’s personality. The man is an expert on social interactions and human relations, but he doesn’t have the sixth sense about people J.F. has.
Throughout J.F.’s life, he had become overly honest, which led him to see the truth about everyone else’s dishonesty. Dr. Tripper wasn’t so much a liar as he was an information withholder. A tactic to keep the upper hand in relationships. A move commonly used in trade.
J.F. doesn’t really care so much. He had met many people like this throughout his years. They eventually start coming clean about their lives, or they just alienate everyone. Even still, J.F. wants to know more about the man. He thinks Dr. Tripper may help him with his noise issue, especially now that J.F. has jokingly coined him: ‘Doctor Jack T. Ripper.’
A horrible night to remember
After weeks of trying to hunt down the neighbors responsible for the noise, J.F. breaks down and returns to the bottle. He figures the semester is starting up soon, so he might as well have some fun since he cannot get any work done.
Like magic, just as he wants to drink, he finds a bottle of Tanqueray gin tucked under the sink. (I must have stuck this here for emergencies. Well, this seems like one if no other.) He twists and cracks the seal and pours himself a couple ounces straight up in a glass tumbler. He doesn’t recall anything else after. About ten hours later, he is awoken from a blackout sleep.
POLICE – OPEN UP!
James Quasar. Open Up!
J.F. flew out of bed, thinking the building is on fire. He looks through the peephole and sees three police officers—two male and one female – all of which look to be ten or more years younger than him. J.F. has only a pair of boxer shorts on when he opens the door and asks, “What’s going on, officers?” Without warning, the two male officers grab his arm and rip him out of the condo. They then proceed to handcuff him, locking his wrists together behind his back. One officer stays in the hall, securing J.F. while the others ransacked his apartment.
After finding nothing in his home, the police begin patting him down. J.F. is confused as to why they would pat down a flimsy pair of underwear. He asks with a confused tone-of-voice, “What the hell is going on?” and then one of the male officers asks, “Where are the weapons and drugs? Do you have any on you? Knives – needles?” “Dude – I am in my fucking underwear; what do you think? Now, what the hell are you people doing here?” The officers ignore him.
J.F. is distraught and distressed by the rude awakening and still very drunk. After they finished searching his place, they shut his door.
J.F. asks, “Now, can you please tell me what you are doing?”, and one of the male officers responds, “We received a call that you are drunk and planning to commit suicide.” J.F. laughs and says, “Well, that is ridiculous; I was sleeping officer as you can clearly see.” “Have you been drinking this evening?” “Yes, I had some drinks earlier, and then I went to bed.” The moment J.F. said he had drinks, the officers began hauling him down the hall. They would no longer speak to him other they are placing him in protective custody for his own safety.
“Excuse me. You cannot just handcuff me, enter my home, and then lock me up; I have rights.” The female officer then says, “If someone says you are suicidal, and you have had a drink, you have no rights.” “Wait a second. So, if I have a drink and someone calls the police and tells them they think I am suicidal regardless of whether I am or not, you can do this?” “That is correct. The law in Wisconsin states verbatim: ‘Whether or not the individual is suicidal—that is, if someone claims the person in question is suicidal, and said person has alcohol in their system, we are then required to detain them until the alcohol leaves their system. They must also receive a psychiatric evaluation at their expense.”
J.F. responds, “That is the most fucked up shit I have ever heard. This sounds like a lawsuit to me.”, and then doesn’t say another word. Being the accepting and relaxed guy J.F. is, he didn’t fight and just went with the police officers. He figures at least he can get some sleep away from the pounding for the night.
J.F. is escorted half-naked through the lobby right past JIM. While being hauled off, he looks and examines the female officer and tells her she has a nice body, and asks, “Didn’t I see you on Tinder?” She instantly blushes and turns her head away. The two male officers give each other an odd look implying, “I wonder if she is looking to hook up? Maybe after we drop this guy off, we could use his cuffs and tag team her.”
J.F. can see the power control hungry spirit within the two males. He can also tell that the female officer knows there is something wrong with what they are doing. He just goes along with them, knowing that fighting with an officer is not smart, and his best bet for a safe return home is to just go along with whatever they plan.
After forcefully escorting J.F. through the lobby, the officers open the doors to the vestibule and push him outside, landing his bare feet in the untouched snow.