consciousness is like the sea ~ every atom has wings     Fabulous Shadow   composing Hart Crane           

fragment = partial chapters from the unpublished last novel "Lost at sea"

Three suns in a row. Three calabrians, stocky and hard, black suits. Sauntering. Into my view, as if it was season for it. Calabrian hunt season. On the job. Them Calabrians sure know how to be present. Watch how they take possession of the area. All natural like, with utter confidence. No nonsense men, with cigarettes cradled 'tween rustic mouth corners. Gold chains. Brimmed hats pulled down for cover. Scars. Sunglasses. Just don't wanna mess with these guys, now do you, mate? I sure as hell don't. Three rock fortresses on the move. Down main street. Main street of no town, no place in particular, that is. Just Main street. Where it's happenin'.

d r e a m      lost at sea - a novel              

The Studebaker’s doors were wide open. The woods were lovely, dark and deep. And he had promises to keep. And miles to go before he could sleep. Miles to go, before he would sleep. From the opening of one of the doors to the car, the left side door, a body slumped. Hanging half outside the car, as if he had been stopped dead in his tracks, attempting to escape the vehicle. He was a very powerful man, which was why the body hadn’t fallen clear of the car and onto the mossy and tangled forest floor. It was being held up by its own massiveness. Several species of flying insects, had already latched on to his supply of blood, sweat and assorted microorganisms. His protests would have been futile, anyway it didn’t matter. The stupefied expression in his wide open eyes, narrated a tale of confounding surprise. The surprise of dying. He was dead, dead, dead. No longer breathing. Pretty difficult when you are dead.

He had a hole in his head. Right above his right ear. Liquid was pouring out of the hole. Which was not a good thing. The hole in his head, or rather two holes, since there was an exit-hole as well, but this hole was less flamboyant. The entry hole was definitely of recent origin and it had been created by some terrible force and at very close range. As a matter of fact, you couldn’t get any closer than this. The cavity, was the word of a powerful handgun, a revolver, firing a .480 caliber Ruger, which under normal circumstances, would blow the head clean off any unfortunate target. But the head and skull of this victim was so massive, the handgun had only been able to penetrate the skull and exit the same skull, approximately seven inches later. Which didn’t really matter, since the .480 Ruger bullet had fulfilled its objective, by purging the head and its body from exuding further evil. The man would no longer be a nuisance to society. A threat to ordinary, law-abiding citizens.

About ten yards away another, equally powerfully built man, was hovering on his knees, praying for his life or so it seemed. He was visibly shaken, wearing the look of those, who have just experienced sudden, explosive and inexplicable, out-of-the-blue events. Stunned, chocked, paralyzed by fear, but just as much by lack of comprehension concerning what had happened. Just gone down. Like traffic accident victims or plane crash survivors seem to exert. This man was so afraid, you could smell it. He had lost control of his intestines and frankly the odor was unpleasant, as was the lack of character seemingly displayed, in extension thereof. Sniveling, pleading, promises. From a man that size, it seemed almost blasphemous. Bizarre at best.

The final figure in this scene, one of the two alive out of three possible, was not crying. On the contrary he seemed very fit and his body language displayed superiority, carried in a relaxed air. He had a gun in his left hand and its ridiculously short barrel was pointing straight at the sniveling mans head. The diminutive hand-gun was officially a hunting and target practice piece of no-nonsense trickery, but it could also be used for other things. Other kinds of action. Such as threatening. Coercing. Exhibiting anger. Here was a textbook case of insignificant but lethal. The man brandishing the dwarf-sized handgun, was himself rather large. As a matter of fact he was as large as the dead man in the car door and the whimpering man on his knees. Larger even. At least taller.

That fact and the fact he had just killed one of the two other men, as easily as if he was taking candy from that trademark baby, somehow did exacerbate the seriousness of the kneeling mans misfortune, in a few minutes revolving full circle, from in-charge inquisitioner, one half of a fearless, successful, enforcer duo into defenseless patsy, Joe Doe. Big little man. And all because of the ill will, exerted by one man and his trivial looking snubnosed sidekick. Like a cobra, taunted into retaliation, the combined efforts of Eduardo and his favorite deputy, the Super Redhawk .480 Ruger Alaskan, had turned tables and Eduardo was demanding answers. Lots of answers. Gun barrel in your mouth kind of answers. Fast. There were no two ways of viewing that situation. He was angry and he wanted to know what was going on. Now, not in two minutes. NOW, or else……

       sister death

Those broad shoulders, that thick mane and frame oozing self-confidence. It could be no other. Suddenly her humiliating birthday celebration, her lying father and favorite but drunk mother, evaporated in a flash, with the anticipation of a chance meeting with her forty-something lover, late night Dogsville. Reopening in her chaotic late teenage life, like a calling. Like the angel of gawd, arriving in order to annunciate. She strolled happily down the length of the bar, hardly noticing a cheerful "hi" from the late night barman.

His voice fading in mellow disorientation, due to her faint reaction while floating past him like a hypnotized night bird, drawn to the stranger at the corner table, as if being tugged by an invisible fishing line, through sheer gravity. He followed her fawn-like vivacious curves, as she rounded the chair upholding his back, to face him. His attention sharply bent however, by noise fast reaching the front entrance, in the shape of at least a dozen loudmouthed lads and gals out on a spree, probably aiming to settle accounts at his bar. Why couldn't they have chosen The Happy Pig, just a few streets down? Why his joint? Why The Roadmaster? Hell. Bring the money over here. Make me smile, he sussed, lighting up his face in that cheerful smirk. Hi what can I do for you, addressing the vanguard of the party, jovial like.

She felt silly. Real silly. She had just let a hand touch in passing the cheek of an absolute stranger, thinking it was her big-note beau and now found herself gone all shy and bashful, stammering an apology, trying to regain her former composure, as the startled man seemed genuinely surprised, but not overly eager to let her descent from nowhere, escape his moment of opportunity. Hell, how often does a blossoming young woman, of such awesome proportionality, fall into the lap a middle-aged man on the road. Like clearing the house in Vegas. Something like that. Through his mind, racing in the moment, before this gorgeous creature so obviously mistook him for someone other, another man for whom she surely nourished sympathy, he was ecstatically feeding on a poem by his favorite haunt. Moment Fugue.

Descending into its total mystique and spellbinding simplicity, he had reached the spectacular body of words, where the monumental genius blew minds apart, with a line of such tenderness, so much bleeding beauty it made liquid produced by his own body, dress the space in front of him. In this case, she had arrived utterly out of nothing, as if the master hisself, had sent her to him, like some act of insightful love. Bridging time and its ethereal moment.

His eyes, like crutches hurtled against glass. Like crutches hurtled against glass. Like crutches hurtled against glass. Like crutches.......the line abruptly severed by her eyes...... hurtled against glass. Fall mute and sudden. Beyond the roses that no flesh can pass...... her eyes, abruptly changing expression. From exhilaration to bashful frustration. Inside a stigmatic stellar nova flash. Hart Crane. 1929.

Shifting from hysterical delirium to sorrow so fast, it sucked him dry. Her eyes, as awed as the eyes of a child staring at all and everything new, clouded with the dew of disappointment. Like crutches hurtled against glass. And for some reason, he was the unwitting protagonist of this transformation of the moment. Her moment. His moment. Their moment. Moment fugue. As far as he could recall, he had only seen that expression in women, with whom he shared a very special moment. A certain fragile, tender intimacy, broken. Whoever she had expected to see, he must have a special place in her souls hearth. Whatever it was and for whoever the feeling rightfully belonged to, made her eyes break and tremble with that awesome haunting expression, was one lucky man by all accounts.

Flash decision. He opted an attempt at acquaintance. Perhaps make her an offer. Perhaps she would flatly refuse. No matter. This was an all win situation. Since he had invested nothing in her. Therefore had precious little to lose, which couldn't be said for her.

he wanted to be filled
        with something
prior to departure
like jet airliners on certain fuel
                    the saturated void in his broken life
countered by them belly full

"Hi - what can I do for you?", he beamed at the two gents walking towards him from the back entrance leading to the parking facility, long trench coats and hats, pretty unusual for Dogtown. They were certainly official looking and most certainly not local. The night was sure turning weird on him, he thought. What's next? An encounter with aliens from another galaxy?

Through the back window of the car, the full moon was making its way diagonally toward the roof of the vehicle. Not in any hurry, mind you, but with the same tenacity as a broomed witch, unable to control its course, but held in line by hidden forces. She was still mad at her mother and angrier at her father, but taking her mother's fancy classic American for a spin and now getting her ass pummeled good by a hunky guy, who even promised her a hundred euros for an hours satisfaction. To compensate for her mistaking him for another and of course services rendered.  And, she wasn't half turned off either. He knew what to do, how and when, like it was his job. And paying for it too. Probably a porn stag or the likes. Maybe a pro male prostitute, looking for some natural flesh of his own choice, as his clientele mostly would be plain or plain ugly. Plain old. Rich men’s wives.

"OH LORD", she exclaimed, his rocket pounding her erogenous anal zone, creating havoc in her chemical plants. Gone were sweet sixteen. Hello bad seventeen. Her screams of ecstasy, at times mistakable for agony, were increasing in volume and intensity……………………..

”He is a very, very dangerous man”, said the guy. His voice a hoarse whisper, his blue eyes motionless, the ugly scar under one eye, made the resident bartender, under apparent interrogation, quite nervous and wondering whether the guy was describing hisself.

"Very, very, very evil" his partner joined in, letting two fingers, protruding from his good arm, slide across his throat, as if to accentuate the badness of this dude.

"He has killed many people……..and other things" the second guy continued, with a voice even more hoarse, than his compadre in arms. "Many, many people".

"Many, many, many people. Evil, evil, evil!" the first guy echoed, "do you understand?". Both men pausing, one biting his lip, the other revealing amply, how these kind of dramatic speeches, produced a nervous twitch in the eye above his horrendous scar.

……………………….. He was hurting her, that was for sure. Her handcuffed wrists made it impossible for her to move away from the situation. The stainless steel bracelets, so indispensable to law-enforcement business worldwide, as common as cutlery, television and chairs were to ordinary life, were digging deeper into her fat-free bones and frankly she wasn't digging it that much. He though, was obviously was enjoying hisself, his breathing and pelvis moving in sync, rising and falling, she hazarded a guess, it wouldn't be too long before her frail female, lacerated rectal entrance and connected colon system, would receive a great many million visitors, all looking to engage the grand egg, in order to commit suicide within its slimy walls.

he wanted to be filled
        with something        
prior to departure      
like jet airliners on certain fuel
                    the saturated void in his broken life         
countered by them belly full  

She didn’t ask questions, but spent her energy locally, abbreviated by his sporadic homecomings, once a month for a few days or perhaps bi-monthly, for a couple of weeks. He did stay around for four months straight on one occasion. Seven years ago now. That same early autumn, where her then best friend, a young man from Taormina, disappeared tragically. His death continued to be a mystery. Presumed death that is, since the case was shrouded in Sicilian mystery. He disappeared, while on his way to visit her. Made a phone-call from his 1954 Kaiser Darrin Convertible, a red fiberglass version, but never showed up. Gone missing, not fishing. Classic American vehicle and all. Initially, folks reasoned he had been kidnapped by mafia hoods, but no ransom was ever aired and nothing transpired.

The police finally gave up trying to figure out, whether he died from an accident, was kidnapped by aliens or just plain murdered, Sicilian style. The one where sleeping among the fishes is trademarked, which seemed out of the question. He had no enemies, not involved in criminal activity, was liked by everyone, especially women, but also by people in general. They had met at a party, realized they had several mutual interests, classic American cars for one and started to see each other on a regular basis, as friends. He had swiftly become an increasingly integral part of her “single” life. Her husband didn't seem to mind, mostly as he was convinced Francesco was gay. He openly professed his approval of the relationship and was not in the least bit worried. Which made matters even more tragic, she thought. How often does that happen?

In any event he was gone and that was what mattered now. Thank god her husband was around in those difficult months. He left after New Year, following their best Christmas together in years, when she had regained her bearings and business summoned him to San Francisco. She didn't see him again before Easter that year, but he called every few days, to make sure she was recovering from her loss. Then suddenly he was back again and everything seemed as fine as chitin. Normality returned, in the shape of their abnormal relationship.

As always, she would never know beforehand what he was up to and didn’t care. And why worry? Ask no questions and you get no answers. Besides, she never needed money, having access to unlimited funds or so it seemed, never once receiving overdraft statements from their bank. Money just wasn't an issue. He made lots of it, when away on his trips. He brokered big deals, internationally. Big sums, changing hands, advised through him. Best kept secret, too. That’s how it works. Details were beyond her. She never knew, she didn’t have to know. She trusted him. Implicitly. Knew too he had a permanent dwelling, somewhere between Sicily and Finland, a stretch of two and half thousand miles. But she was also sure, dead sure, he did not have another woman installed and was not entertaining other women. She knew that. Deep down where it mattered. Women know. Is what makes them women……..

In his mind, the world was a computer and he was at the helm, Captain on the bridge. Commander supreme. Manipulating, setting into motion and harvesting. Not a regular binary thing mind you, but a quantum Computer. Full of variables, apparent random input and potential pitfalls, but for him all this was utter logic. Sheer common sense. Which was why he rarely saw events slipping out of hand or worse felt inferior. What he deduced, who he met, what he did, was all part of the same quantum equation, in which he was an aquatic being negotiating water. Easy, natural, powerful. And he was a very dangerous, proficient and brilliantly competent being. Maybe because he quite simply was in love with life. Being itself. Knowing. Because he was in tune with it. Nothing seemed alien. He and life were one. Part of the same motion, the same moving molecular story. If problems came up, expected or otherwise, he dealt with them. One, two, three. Problem solved. Next.

The only thing which worried him, on a esoteric, philosophical, scientific and metaphysical plane, was the one little factor. He could not see life, and thereby himself, going anywhere in the end, but nowhere. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, seemed to him the most poignant, most real-time dilemma of all. As far as he could see, from the level on which he currently operated, life was meaningless. Brick wall pointless. Everything concerning the products from brain and otherwise, seemed to be heading straight back to mother earth. Mere blimps, if even that, in cosmic terminology.

It seemed to him, everything which was history, achievement, development, the whole range of what is mankind and the other organisms populating earth, were part of a canister being filled, destined to be either emptied or just plain undergo disintegration. Or was that just the binary version. Now it’s empty, now it’s not. Now it’s on, now it’s off. If anything could provide him with a means of transgressing this dilemma, it had to be the quantum solution. The quantum version of being. Everything and nothing is here sometimes, all the time, or not. Simultaneously. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Or both.

Where was the vehicle, the space shape Planet Earth heading, other than aimlessly revolving the sun, which in turn revolved a galactic central black hole. The endeavors of mankind in all probability ending in arms of Sisyphus. This great lack of rationale, regarding final destination and end product of this biological enterprise, known to us all as life. US. The great nothing. Death. From nothing to nothing. This was ever increasingly becoming the Achilles Heal of his happiness. The grand Icaros finale was chronically clouding his satisfaction, his otherwise content life. Even though he felt omnipotent, the lack of an irrefutable happy ending, concerning his conglomerate understanding of what was going on and his role in it, kept pestering him. Creating little annoying viruses, chattering on about meaningless, pointlessness and emptiness. Psssst, yo……bro……Wazzap?

lost at sea
wordmaker
stocky little man in black
takes out his notebook
arranges tidy the table
with espresso
casting glances bouncing
his paper is Italian
he has a solid air in his wake
the presence of others does not disturb him
neither the vacant bellow of music
from the speakers hanging
from time to time he scratches his cheeks
his eyes roam faces also present
he is alert
he is within himself
he is contemplating
he is aware
his ears scan the waves for movement
suddenly he leaves his chair
emotionally out of control
with no warning
the paper lies on the table still
among cups and glass

He was a controller. His very being craved it. And like the wave surfer, not controlling his surroundings meant, he would not be in them. He couldn't be in them. Therefore, through the years, his experience with incoming and how to deal with it, increasingly empowered him with the means, with which to make his surroundings dance to the tune, necessary for his well-being. Down through the poem of years, and its accompanying experience, he had crafted a specific method of interaction. With the world and its details. People and their expression. Through time, he had perfected his very own, personal brand of communication. His tools of trade, so to speak. It could be likened to hypnotism. A blend of action and inertia. The right dosage of fear, assurance and willpower. In this respect he was an artist. He was a master by any standard. Or, perhaps more specifically………..

                                    a monster

He checked his watch. Then let his sunglassed gaze survey the beach, from left to right and back. He was waiting for someone…………

There they were. A dual countenance, floating along the smile of the beach. One younger and slightly taller than the other. Slimmer too. Moving in synchronicity. He loved watching them move. It was always in the same bouncing fashion, so tightly controlled, as if their gravities held them together. Like some celestial system or planetary bodies, such as the Earth and its moon. Or perhaps more akin to the solar neighborhood double-system Pluto and Charon, sharing a gravitational center in blank space between them, spinning vertically, always with the same side facing each other! Trans-Plutonian Gateway. Yes, that's what they made him aware of. Could serve as a warning. A system incorporating these two, should be treated with the same respect, as were you for example handling a scorpion, with the sensitive end of your erect penis. Imagine receiving the killer sting, the moment you are projecting orgasm! Not a pretty thought! His mad mind made a mental note.

                                    beware of plutoCharon fallout

Also evident, he concluded as he saw their approaching bodies in unison, becoming increasingly distinguishable, was their unquestionable kinship. Even though, their facial features were only subtly alike, there was an unmistakable degree of corresponding contours in their demeanor. The way their movements swayed, in tune with one another’s gravitational center and attention. Their could be no doubt, their bodies were limbs protruding, from the same archaic blueprint. This was a packaged deal, amigos. The real deal. No vague connection here, not the remotest. And he already knew, from countless previous encounters, that this pair could only be separated and dealt with, by gaining the trust of one of its subjects, unidentified at this point, in order to be able to undermine the authority of the other and subsequently carry out pinpoint attacks from inside, ending inevitably in the extermination of their activities and permanent malfunction. Objectives:

                                     search, analyze, operate

Not knowing yet, who was the dominant force of the two and therefore the probable object of destabilization, he would have to conduct preliminary investigations, which in theory, could take anywhere between two minutes and two years. An intense study of the inter-relational standing and operational structure of the two subjects. If it was as plain as the rain in Spain, he could have things worked out and ignited within brunch-time. And reversibly, their common denominators could be dangerously interwoven, bound and chained in quicksand if you will, making the easy route impossible and trench warfare quagmire plausible. Consequently, one of the main objectives in the preliminary phase being. Develop a clear, unassailable exit strategy. Before, during and after hammering out the specifics of the operation.

Typically it would be a midway resolution, with elements from both extremes presenting themselves. Each case being different, he only knew he would prevail, come crux time. But what a solution would be, was always a mystery, even for him. They could end up in a love triangle, happy as birds come first light or pale Jane Doe's forever asleep, in some half-built cement building site, down by the endless sea.

In this case, being nestled in the land of myth and gods, so close to "Aphrodite's boot", he was hoping for the first option. A love triangle, where he could pit the range of his technique on a mother-daughter team, for that was the focus of his endeavor. The actual operation. Whether surgical or carpet bombing strategy. Whether pinpoint or broad brush. Whether through love or hate, evil or good, for better or worse. This was his work and he loved it. It made his day. When he was at work, levying his creative juice on ridiculously complicated and haphazard events, where failing literally was not an option, he felt so alive he screamed with joy.

So did some of his targets. Others less fortunate, were impaled within their silent, entangled screams. Unable, but to accept an indiscriminate fate. Soaked as they were, in tears of lightning incredulity, only realizing far too late, their story had been told and the final page read.
                  

                                                       Adagios of islands,
                                                                        oh my prodigal
                                                       complete the dark confessions
                                                                        her veins spell

..................As far as I was concerned, they weren't even worth the risk. When you do somebody, with all the potential trouble liable to come down on you, if you fuck up somewhere, the people you do it to, had better be worth the risk of life imprisonment or death row scenario. They had better be good clientele, not some freaking bum on dope or alcohol for that matter. I really hate it when I see people mess up their lives in that way. The people I do, at least have time to figure out, in most cases, that their last conscious moments on planet Earth, before their return to the dust from where biology originated half a billion years ago, that they were being raped and/or killed passionately, by a dedicated professional and not some two-bit amateur, unaware of how to perform, but just giving in to a weak urge, just messing up everything.

It's sad. Really sad. When you read about that kind of mess in the papers or watch on telly. People like that should be locked up good and the key thrown away somewhere hidden. Leave the job to us pro’s. Stay away from legit targets. The feeling amongst colleagues is this. If you do come across such a person, liable to ruin our good SK-rep, to just make sure he or she for that matter, don't do it again. Understand? Rule number four. Don’t take drugs...................

.........Of importance to be aware, is the lack of two-dimensional synchronicity with the same flat projection seen from above, of the actual pyramids in present-day Egypt. Likewise with three-dimensional projecting. In order to delineate true tyme location, the structural visual image should be applied four-dimensionally, on-face warping, twisting and turning, upside down if necessary the formation, thereby fitting like hand-in-glove the projection with the original and thereby thru applying appropriate occult software, drivers etc, so to speak, the vehicle designed for multiVersal tymeTravel, making certain individuals, in theory anybody with the right knowledge, as with pilots commandeering passenger airliners and what have you, capability of transportation by speeds, seven different velocities, up to 466 billion kilometers or 290 billion miles PER SECOND. That’s 1,550,673 times the speed of light, mama. One million, five hundred and fifty thousand, six hundred and seventy three times faster than lightSpeed, a speed supposedly impossible to transcend without disintegrating. According to conventional wisdom. In real life lightSpeed is the gateway to tymeTravel. The beginning of speed. First gear. Not certain death. On the contrary. Sitting here in Greece, where philosophy, science and politics were all born into western canon, this seems ironical to me in a big way. Goes to show, intelligence is a relative term. And anything is possible. When you believe.

In the old harbor lies an average sized cruise-boat called “Eros”, which takes tourists to surrounding beaches and islands. In the “Gizeh-visualization” context, this ship applies to the final factor not yet mentioned, namely The Sphinx. In this particular environment, The Sphinx releases a very special mental icon, hence referred to as a mentaIcon, into the equation. Known to tymenauts as “The Ghost Ship”, the very vehicle used for tymeTravel. The equivalent in Gizeh terminology is “Khufu’s boat”, custom built in order for the Pharaoh to safely undertake his final journey into eternity on July 3rd 2566 BC. And what a beautiful vessel it is. You always feel a sensational thrill when entering this vessel. You can go anywhere you like. Anywhere. Now!.........

.........................Between the two villages, both within the circle, both incorporating the word “Entremont”, there is another line. This line is the runway to multiVerse travel. It crosses through the border, dividing the northern and southern hemispheres of the entire blackHole zone. Like the division of the brain. In effect a bridge between the two. Les Claret, the hamlet of thirteen houses, lies just south of this border, Massa Ika, his fortressed den, well north. This runway is 5,107 yards, or 2,90 miles. Every particle and structure within the blackHole eventHorizon, is governed by the laws ruling tyme. This area, located on Planet Earth is directly connected, thru a quantumBridge, by its exact mirrored, counterpart blackHole presence in multiVerse.

For the permanent residents, notably for the larger native portion who are born, raised, live and die here, there is nothing unusual, since they have known nothing else and have always been part of the face of tyme. But for newcomers and tourists, and the area accommodates many, summer as well as winter, where alpine recreation is vibrant, unusual experiences of varying expression can follow. Just as experiences with altitude and high-speed travel, change in diet, customs, culture and abnormal situations in general, affects different people in different ways, perception of reality will or will not undergo major changes for people, temporarily exposed to the superficially ordinary being within tyme. In short, everybody reacts differently to tyme. But no one can avoid the effects of tyme, absolutely nobody can ignore tyme. The question is only, what the effects will be, during temporary residency and probably also after departure from the area, whether temporary or indefinitely.

What the implications are of all this? For a knowledgeable person, with true insight into the difference between regular time and space versus tyme, empowering of and knowledge in this field, may become unlimited. Knowing the difference for example, between a chalet, which is a cabin in the wild used by trekkers, though virtually identical, within the eventHorizon and a similar chalet outside this perimeter, is like knowing the difference between brackish water and a bottle of 1787 Chateau Lafite, valued at more than $160 thousand! And if this person has the ability to navigate tyme and thereby travel through multiVerse, becoming a so-called tymeNaut, the potential approaches virtual omnipotence. Evolving into another species if you will. In other novels I have written, known to readers as freeSpirits. Fortunately these individuals are still accountable before superGod, just like the rest of us.

Get the picture? A Neanderthal maybe wouldn’t notice the difference between stale water and classy wine, but any twenty-first century Home Sapiens Sapiens, with taste buds intact, would. Not knowing the diff, would denote being either deprived of a certain sense or being member of a primitive species. In many ways, the knowledge and navigation of tyme, can be likened with being in possession of an additional sensory apparatus. An extrasensory sixth sense. And the insight into tyme and its consequences applied, compared to having evolved into a new species. Transmutation. Emancipation. Wow. Talk about getting a wakeup call. Wake up!.........................

..............A couple of dozen yards from the main building, was a smaller building also structured in stone and wood, the retreat, with a guest room at one end and a tool shed at other. Next to this building, stood a semi open twin-garage. Inside the dark garage easily discernible, was a car gleaming. Clearly not a modern car. This was his only four-wheeled vessel. His cream-colored, pure fiberglass, six cylinder 1954 Kaiser Darrin Convertible. One of just 435 vehicles ever to leave the production line. A classic vehicle, two-seater sports car, with sliding doors and slender enough, as to be able to cruise the roads of these mountains, problem free. The other half of the twin garage was occupied by another classic, a two-wheeler. His vintage 1953 Roadmaster Chief, literally standing on a pedestal, undergoing thorough inspection combined with repair. Needing tender loving care, following its extensive Autumn through to spring agenda.

Two-wheelers. Related to Libra the sign and plutoCharon, synchronously spinning vertically. If Pluto and Charon were beyond Neptune’s orbit, bicycles were in focus, or motorcycles cruising with motors off. Or two-wheelers powered by natural energy, solar for example. Inside Neptune’s (fossil fuel) two-wheelers with motors on was the focus. Four-wheelers are ruled by Uranus, always within plutoCharons orbit. Alternative eco-friendly energy is transPlutonian, regardless of wheels. True progress is always transPlutonian.

All of this very interesting I’m sure, but why would a motorcycle, cruising with its motor off, or a bicycle, such as a deep blue, seven speed Raleigh Carlton for example, be of any interest to anybody enjoying a sound body and sane constitution. Because, for the initiated, traveling on two-, or in non-pollutant four-wheelers for that matter, knowing whether plutoCharon is closer or further away than Neptune absolutely crucial, because this is a must when breaking into one of seven speeds feasible for traversing multiVerse. The slowest, that is first gear being lightSpeed, 185 thousand miles per second. The second fastest, which is sixth gear is khufuSpeed, 124 billion miles per second or 1024 lightYears per day. That’s fast dude, that’s like……fast…….dude. To do this, travel at these modes of velocity, you have to know what buttons to press and where they are located. Sorry. Too busy right now. Later. Ask an extra-terrestrial if you meet one................

...........Not even the frenzied resonance of loud heterosexual, as well as homosexual, fornication in unison emanating from the large flatscreen and its JBL speakers, was able to distract him from those pleasurable words, painfully dripping from his fat fountain pen, discovering structures within which to exist, music frozen and stored away, to be pulled out any time and set alight, dancing across the stage in delight. He was writing a poem, or rather a fragment of an epic, thematic symphony of poems, feasting his mental capacity on a certain phrase, worded wing unchained, mulling over it, stabbing at its concrete heart, frantically looking for an angle to kindle, when he stopped, leaving the air around the sentence mute, petrified, frozen within its mummified delirium.

He knew straight away why. Why something had interrupted, impossibly intruded and rude too, his most fabulous vocation. He put down the stationary and ball point, in one slightly anxious movement, picked up the remote and turned his full attention to the giant screen, where two couples sprawling opposite sexual tendencies, exhausted and smoking, had gone into that final phase, which could be termed after-sex reflection, for lack of better. The resolution phase, following orgasm. The girl was lying on her back. Staring transfixed upward, maybe at the ceiling. Once in a while guiding a live cigarette to her lips. Such beautiful lips. Full, wide and alluring. Her white skin was calm, no blemishes. Her brunette mane toppling and out of control, all over. The nostrils of her vaguely crooked, aquiline nose quivering slightly. The boy whom she had just satisfied, through the generosity of her perfected body, already exhausted and almost asleep, yet she was wide awake. Thinking. Thinking hard.

He looked into her eyes. As near and as intimate, as if he was right there with her, in that Rembrandt image, petroleum lamp-lit cabin space. They might just as well have made love, moments preceding. He could fathom and distinguish every syllable in her expression, every fiber of her naked countenance breathing turmoil. Those eyes, that isolated expression, drowning in chasms of volatile complexity. He recognized them, he recognized it. A line burst through his head in a flicker. A line from the poem he was trying to animate, kick start into combustion, into the responsibility of maintaining a life of its own. His own creation. Taking off. Velocity’s shadowed mind………worded wing unchained……..suddenly, without prior intent, no warning, another line broke free, bursting into awareness, this time from the frayed chapbook of the master hisself …………her eyes, like crutches hurtled against glass…………….

...................“Can I help you” I said, stopping the girl dead in her tracks, just about to round the house and reach the road. Safety. Well not this time, girl. God, she was beautiful. Still no more than nineteen, max, from this viewpoint, in the flesh. She looked a mess, with tiny rivers of drying blood and long red streams of ripped skin running her thighs and ankles. Her hair was in a ponytail, to minimize further casualty. Sleeping rough and being deprived of makeup. Looking like you needed medical attention followed by a hot tub, sauna, cold shower and plenty of tender loving care. Along with what made many women, particularly snooty urban women, accustomed  to being pampered from day one, strangely irresistible within their helpless, vacuumed space. So terrifyingly erotic, that I had to muster every sentence of willpower in the masters book, in order to hold back the vicious dragon. Now threatening to bring down the castle from within, from the deepest dungeon it called home................

.............. You like him yes, but you don't know anything about him. He could be a rapist, excruciatingly boring old fart after a few days, dying from cancer, destined to fall in love with somebody else, not interested in you or, maybe he's a serial killer. For all you know, he could be a serial killer! You just don’t know nothing. Period.      

“No that's not a problem. Why should it be? Should it be?" I said to him, honestly. Wink-wink. Nudge-nudge.

In the Kaiser, top down, settled in the creamy white interior, taking the long route to her door, along the road leading from Entremont to St. Pierre. Three miles of beauty. One long scenic valley bed. A giant vagina. A gash regurgitating meadows, skeletal mountains, trees, cows wearing large bells, stone cottages, hamlets, the river, ruins, flowers in abundance, deep blue sky, warm breeze through your hair, the elusive sensation of happiness, while singing duet, little red corvette, bay bee you’re much too fast, along with Prince, crossing the occult border about a mile from St. Pierre, drinking coke from one of those old-fashioned chubby glass bottles, her gaiety offset absurdly by her plaster-bandaged legs, arms and face.

Her vivacious silence, the way her lucid, tight, soft skin corresponds with the seat of the Kaiser-Darrin, closing in on St. Pierre. Her trademark beauty spot, launching a landscape within the landscape we were driving through. As if that spot held together the entrance to her body, a seal covering the space, where Aphrodite blew life into one of her daughters. Reaching for whatever was at hand in order to punctuate her work, grabbing a black tiger-lily from the garden of almighty Zeus. I stop at the bakery, one of two in the village, picked up coffee-to-go and some pastry.

We cruise towards the waterfall two n’ a half miles further, exactly situated on the eventHorizon, following the river which also separates the village, from itself within itself, passing the church, one of two churches. Continue past the emblematic tower ruin still standing, as it has for centuries, in stoic spite, swamped in wild flowers. A garden of impressionistic delight. As with the entire three mile road, leading to the waterfall. A serpent leading to paradise, through Eden, Eve by your side, purring with anticipation. Scheming.........................

..................5,336,470 miles and counting downwards roughly 21 miles per second, from the face of the planet called Earth, a meteoric bolide is on its way. It has orbited the sun now for three billion years. It is no larger than a grapefruit, nevertheless it will survive the heat created from penetrating the earths atmosphere doing 74 thousand miles an hour. In theory impossible, in reality, that’s what happens. Sorry. Reaching the uppermost layer of the atmosphere, known as the ionosphere, it will continue while turning into a fiery tennis ball ignited by friction, diminishing in size yet not disintegrating. It is made of solid cosmic iron. Reaching the surface area of the planet, from first entry 235 miles up, in the same time it takes a perfect athlete like Francis Obikvelu, one of the worlds fastest men, to cover one hundred meters on a specially built athletic track. It will reach its final destination no larger than a big marble. Or a .480 Ruger bullet. It will kill a man traveling southward from Chambéry in a classic English sports vehicle, doing fifty-two miles an hour.

It will hit him straight between the eyes and blow his head clean off, splattering several cars behind his sportscar, a sun-red 1967 Austin Healy. His driverless Healey will continue a hundred and ten yards, before swerving across the opposing lane and down into a grass meadow, much to the dismay of a group of bell-hung, French highland cows, just in the process of doing whatever it is they do best, before being so rudely interrupted. The bravest among them, known to her sisters as Calamity Jane, will actually be the first mammal to reach the unhappy vehicle, rooted hood-first and covered in earth, grass and flowers. The headless body of the unluckiest man on the planet formerly alive, hangs spiked on a fence post, twenty-eight yards from his former pride n’ joy.

He could at least have avoided being impaled, had he worn his seat-belt, but he just didn’t have time to fasten it, did he. Had he done so, the six second delay would have caused the meteor to miss his forehead by a huge margin and he would now be admiring the crater inflicted on a road leading from Chambéry passing The Chartreuse to Grenoble, just after the boot-shaped lake, with fellow motorists. But that was not to be. Tough luck bro. And what have we learnt from this real-life episode folks? Meanwhile, Calamity Jane, the cow, not the musical starlet, when finding nothing edible of interest, returns to her flock of sisters, while muttering to herself how miserable the state of the world is, compared to when she was a calf, two years earlier.

The headless man, whose last thought was “what’s that whistling sound, jeeeez, look at that fireball, I wonder whe………”, has to be the unluckiest man to ever have lived, seeing as the odds of him being hit by a meteorite straight between the eyes, was larger than the number of grains of sand, on every beach and desert on the planet. Being hit like that, would be just as unlikely, as the universe not harboring any other life, than that on planet earth. Ridiculous notion as it is, those were his odds. Had he put one dollar on these odds, then his widow would be richer than every person making money on planet Earth, combined! Making William Gates Jr. look like the pied pauper in comparison.

For some reason, and this is a completely different story, his wife, when informed of the hideous, astronomically unlikely accident, neither cried, broke down or retreated into the realm of hysteria. She did however sit upright in her mothers kitchen chair for several hours, wearing a very strange smile indeed and subsequently administered a healthy sedative by a local doctor. A woman. The crooked grin, puzzled everyone around her, since she rarely smiled and since it seemed slightly inappropriate. But it could be put down to a psychiatric condition known as “about to go absolutely off my rocker and sink into supreme madness as long as it takes, alright with you, eh?- syndrome”, which everybody reconciled themselves with. She was taken to the nearest nuthouse for observation, still sporting that smile nobody seemed to able to put into any specific context or explain, but everybody was sure they had seen before somewhere, but nobody could quite place where. Many additional theories eventually started sprouting in all directions. Some hardly related, such as the Kennedy murder, Roswell, The George Bush Junior mystery, The Soccer World Cup 2006 debacle, The Pyramids and so on. They are still debating the issue. Hotly.

She was cut loose four months later, completely changed, even her appearance altered, having been recruited to one of those “Total Makeover” documentaries. Nobody was able to recognize her. She literally looked twenty years younger, than what her actual birth certificate indicated, stating her year of birth as 1960, revealing her to be forty-seven. She dressed like a runway model, consisted of seven percent artificial material, mostly bi-products of rocket-science development and soon married a twenty-three year old rap star, whom she met in another docu-soap program called “Surreal Life”. They were divorced 43 days after the wedding kiss, a bitter settlement in court, providing her a few million dollars richer for it. Then, as if the dream just wouldn’t end, she fell head over heals into love with a professional, self-employed, Greek milkman. They moved to Japan and live happily to this day, according to media. She has, with the aid of yet more science, given birth to three children, all relatively normal. Now back to our main story. The all important one....................

.............Eduardo Grazziano was perched on a corner, one leg up behind him, 50’s gangsta movie style, attempting to render the impression he was reading a newspaper. The European Zone. He didn’t have a clue what it was on about, he was just using it as a cover. Once in a while he lowered the paper, in order to peer over the top, so he could make sure his man was still seated at the café table, a hundred yards away, next to a fire hydrant, which is irrelevant, maybe. A sign directly above his head read Rua Garret, which indicated he was loitering about in the Chiado district of Lisboa, capital of Portugal. Frankly Eduardo didn’t care. He didn’t care much for the Portuguese and he didn’t care much where he was. He was always in some city, somewhere, stalking somebody or something worse, for a handsome fee, mind. Expenses paid too. Airline tickets, hotel expenses, cab fare, restaurants. Everything, ‘cept clothes and tools of the trade. His weaponry was his personal equipment. And he was paisano proud to finance his personal armory at his own expense. No rich dude, even unable to carry out his own dirty work, was gonna payroll his gear, his arsenal. A classic case of principle for Eduardoa nd you better believe it. He was a man of honor. He was from Sicily. Don’t mess with a Sicilian. Period.

The sign above the finely carved green and gold colored entrance to the café read “A BRASILEIRA”, which he knew to mean “The Brazilian woman”. Mounted here upon, was a relief image of a mans upper torso with head, looking happy he thought, with a bag in his hand, probably coffee beans. The connection between Portugal and Brazil and coffee not hard to grasp, but who was that strange looking shiny guy, wearing a panama-hat, seated, with one foot settled on the other legs knee, his left arm on the table and motionless staring ahead of him, his right arm raised, as if beckoning a waiter or chiding street children. Looked like a pretty uncomfortable way to be sitting. And hot! And he had not moved a muscle, in the twenty minutes Eduardo had been perched on the corner. Following the apparent sudden urge of his subject of surveillance or SOS, to sit down and relax a few yards from the frozen, shiny guy and next to the fire hydrant. It dawned on Eduardo what was going on.

The shiny guy must be one of those street performers, covered in gold- or silver-painted regalia, who don’t move for hours, hoping tourists take photographs so they can overcharge them something ridiculous. Yeah, that must be it. He had seen them all over the world, but never looking like this. Pretty weird way too make a living. Get a job you lazy bum, Eduardo muttered to himself, do something productive, instead of conning moron tourists. This coming from Eduardo Grazziano, Sicilian Jack-of-all-trades relating to stalking, maiming, murdering, kidnapping, extortion, torture and other assorted areas of expertise. All somehow connected to the realities of capricious underworld edict, of which he had been an integrated element of since 1977. Since his thirteenth birthday. The day he whacked his sisters boyfriend and had to escape from the little village where he was born and raised, just outside Syracuse, fleeing retribution and justice, finding temporary sanctuary, with relatives in Naples possessing a likewise problematic style and a life perpetually on the run, had begun its fateful course..................

..................Eduardo Grazziano, was not so much only a contract killer and enforcer for hire, as he was a garbage-man slash magician slash survivor. In underworld lingo, he was known only as “El Ogro". Meaning “The Monster”, which flattered him in some ways, conversely hurting a certain contingent of his somewhat lacerated feelings. In his own opinion he was a nice, stand tall kind’a guy, who had been sidelined by fate at too early an age and therefore, was fundamentally innocent. He had affinity for the catholic faith, not least the sacred Virgin and what he had done so far, he had done with the mind of a committed professional. In his own way, prone to compassionate behavior. He even enjoyed opera. Was crazy about Jose Cura and Pavarotti. Not some devious two-bit criminal, only deserving reproach. Hell no, not Eduardo Grazziano.

He was just doing his job. Period. And his horribly interrupted adolescence, with all it entailed, lay at the crux of his destiny and the way life had dealt him those bloody cards. A shrink he had come across a few years ago, had told him so and the soft portions between his skull had started seeing the connections, the justification in that. He was working on it. Trying to fix his disintegrating life. He was saving money, accepting only contracts which looked least knotty and less likely to involve indiscriminate slaying and what have you. “El Ogro” wanted to reform hisself and was making retirement plans. God willing, this time next year he would have enough money, still be alive, not be in the hole, able to buy the ranch in Spain he had always dreamt of, since he could remember remembering. If Gawd willing, this time next year, he would be riding a horse, checking up on his cattle, surveying the land, entertaining tourists. And a pretty missus on the porch, proudly watching him strut, drink in her hand, wearing a fine calico dress…………........

................It was impossible to see it, utterly impossible. The square yard of floor sliding away, revealing an underground chamber. The chamber below illuminated by yet a command, though not on the same level of security as the previous one. And a third voice command, just as lax, had a titanium ladder sliding up to the gap in the floor. He started descending, until only his head stuck up through the cavity. He made absolutely sure the library was calm and everything was normal, then lowered himself to the floor of the secret chamber. A fourth vocal key sealed shut the chamber and the ladder disappeared again. The chamber where he now stood was absolutely empty, illuminated and shining. It resembled most of all a blank space, locked in time void. With nothing on the walls, no furniture, no extremities hanging out, not a bump. Everything was smooth and looking like some Space Odyssey science fiction toilet, where you expect things to appear out of nowhere, just through thought process. In fact the room was waiting, and would only wait two minutes altogether, before alarms would start reverberating through the neural network, if not switched off beforehand by him. The room was awaiting another line to be voiced, at a perfect angle and with an equally faultless voice.

How many dawns chill from his rippling rest, he said mustering his focus, though repeating it would have been his pleasure. This time however, one end of the whole room slid vertically downward into the floor, the entrance to his cave exposed. Reverberating with earthly delights, priceless works of art by ancient masters, rare antiques, jewelry, manuscripts, books, furniture, statues and various other artifacts, delivered on demand, or attained through underworld peddlers. Needless to say, this chamber was rather huge, exactly 15 x 9 yards, with the ceiling height precisely four yards one foot and five inches. The exact height of his favorite Caravaggio painting, exhibited in Syracuse, Sicily. State of the art and bleeding scientific edge, down to the last detail, design. Many of the objects, requiring needle-precision environmental conditions, which they had been promptly granted.

From the ceiling, priceless antique chandeliers dangled in many variations. Not necessary for illumination, but the ceiling functioning as storage space as well. He didn't fall into one of the iconic sofas or chairs, he didn’t stop to admire the general spectacle of all this splendor. No, he headed straight for a shelved glass encasement, also precisely micro-acclimatized for maximum benefit to his rare, often frail books, some of them with millennia in their molecules. Just to the right, hung a massive Caravaggio, the world had not seen in thirty-nine years. To the left of the book climaterium, hung three smaller pictures, roughly similar in size, but very different in style, one above the other. A Vermeer, a Gauguin and a Rembrandt. The four most cherished members of his precious collection. Rivaled now, by the priceless Greek Icon, he had ordered and received only days ago. But that’s another story.

Them and a couple of titles from his book collection. One of these books he had brought with him to Amsterdam, a move he now regretted ever even nursing. In order to have it slightly repaired to the back cover and generally examined for possible decay, by the top honcho in that department. And have it evaluated again, by the same man. These things fluctuate. The other book, gently being lifted from its glass lifesaver, was an original signed version of Hart Cranes second and last book “The Bridge”. First edition. Soft Cover. Published by Paris Black Sun Press in 1930. The year Pluto was discovered. One of 50 copies printed on Japanese Vellum. Thick, long-fibered and cream-colored paper, so esthetic and almost tasty. And signed by Harold Hart Crane hisself. The master. With three photographs by Walker Evans.

2006 Market Value: 25 thousand euros. Emotional value: Priceless. He sank down into an Arne Jacobsen couch. Gently sifting through the book. Each poem coming alive in flashes, knowing every single one by heart, letting its scent of originality register by his caring nose, passing the delicate paper across his lips and breathing Harold Hart Crane from its fathomless content. The vintage it gave off, this product of a decade spawning plutonian masterpieces by Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Faulkner and Hemingway among others. The trembling, humbling wonder he felt, in his own contemporary being, was truly shattering. Holding this first ever edition, one of fifty copies, signed by Crane. This was the closest he could get something, actually passing through the masters life, his very hands...............................

........A dude ranch. Hmmm. Perhaps not a bad idea, Eduardo was reflecting, just as the slick, white and maroon colored, 1955 Studebaker President State Sedan, resembling a shark slid through the tremble of posh Alto de Santo Amaro evening, streamline and mean. With edgy young couples and more boisterous families promenading, throwing glances at the low-humming cruiser, looking like it was about to devour that sold looking gent, dressed in black suit, hat pulled down, hanging at a lamppost. Sweating.

“Get in”, a voice from the drivers seat commanded. Reaching Eduardos ear, wrapped in an accent he couldn’t place right away, but knew he had had heard before. And not a tone of voice anyone was likely to question either. Eduardo intended doing as he was told. He had to hand it to his boss.

First the sex part and now this. What a flashy vehicle. Eduardo was impressed. Real impressed.

“Where should I sit” he asked, noticing there were two available seats, one up front and one in back, holding the door, waiting for the reply.

“Get in” the guy in the back echoed, just as brusquely as the driver had, and in the same recognizable accent he just couldn’t place. And Eduardo was impressed. The way they spoke to him. El Ogro, underworld notoriety, serious enforcer, made it clear this was the cream of all villainousness represented. Anyone else from the nether plane, would’ve appended most sentences addressed in his direction with Sir. Deciding not to ride his luck and repeat the query, he got in the back, partly because that option made him feel better. Less prone to accidents, less exposed than the front seat. Explanations unnecessary, huh?

He got in the back seat and the car drove away, this time more in tune with its character, pushing the speed limits along the avenue instantly. Eduardo wondered where they were headed and why they were leaving the vicinity of the imperious yellow hotel. Then he realized they were heading for the airport. Shortly thereafter he had to accept his job was most likely over. Maybe cut short, maybe something had happened and the boss had had a change of heart. None of these two gents, both in their mid-thirties, looked like they were about to share, either their thoughts or enlighten his curiosity. They just stared straight ahead, not even bothering to look at him.

The problem, or rather one of them was, he couldn’t place their origin, which was strange, since Eduardo had been to every shade on the planet. He was usually able to correctly place ethnicity, within ten seconds at the most. If only these dudes would say something in their native tongue and he would in all probability have them pegged. And most likely immediately recognize, if he was in a fix or not. But the dudes were silent as graves. Dead silent. Nothing, no hint. Eduardo felt his adrenaline pumping like crazy. His mind was firing all cylinders. In all directions.

He was prepared for anything. Worst case scenario. Friendly fire? Getting done for being an accomplice, to something Eduardo had no idea, in his rather square-shaped head, what was all about. But he came to the conclusion, being a seasoned killer hisself, these guys were just escorting him to the airport. Killers about to whack someone, especially other killers, smell differently. They release a remarkable odor. Fear, nervous energy, madness, lust. All kinds of aromatic distinctiveness and these gents were just stone cold voids. Might as well be made of marble and live in a museum. Still, he clenched his fists and mentally went through the spinal routine, of what to do, how to reach his knife sheathed inside his shirt and better still his hand-gun strapped to his ankle, should things get messy. With him as clear underdog, for once. Very precarious situation indeed for our Eduardo. Eduardo Grazziano. Jack of all trades. El Ogro. Maybe it was all in his head...............

..................Her objective was to track down and mate a specific male donor with the right genetic blueprint, meaning borderline-next-species material. Ripe and ready for transmutation. As with the egg cell, there were several male donors in contention. She had a shortlist. Finding them would be simple. Coaxing them into mating would be the hard part. Maybe. She knew this species was exceptionally horny, tapping into their reptilian brain, would in all probability be like turning a light switch on. But their libido varied enormously, she would just have to play it by ear. See what happens, make split-second decisions. That was the fun part. As soon as there had been confirmed successful impregnation, her egg cell would be lodged in a human female. Any female would do, but a woman with affinity for the male donor, was naturally preferable. All this happens without their knowledge. They operate within their own timeSpace confinement. Their little container of compressed life and its various, naive garland.

This process, this vital event in the evolutionary timeline, takes place in what is generally known as tyme. Which is one reason why the blackHole, just waiting and ready for her arrival, was a necessary parameter in the equation. Which again is why she has to go trough the motions and have real sex, in realTime. Else the continuum would become imbalanced. One has to follow the rules of physics, applying to whatever canister of timeSpace, happens to be the target of speciesJump. Which is why some jobs are even worse than this assignment, practicing unspeakable mating ritual, not to mention the act itself, to her mind, coming from the elevated level she does. At least mating on earth looked fast, easy and clinical, in comparison with fornication on some other planets.

Take for instance mating on tell-aNanke, a quite similar system to this one but seventy three million lightYears from here. Where doing the naughty implies spooning for three hours, lying through your teeth, drooling endlessly about love and commitment, wet kissing, a hand-gun for excitement, a dirty old man named Ken watching through a window and yourself hanging upside down until impregnation is confirmed. Take that for debauchery. The sister who lost that draw, still has psychological problems and she doesn’t want to talk about the incident either. Sometimes, usually at times of utmost nuisance, she has memories which catapult her into a state, where she laughs hysterically, high-pitched and mechanic, as if an embarrassing joke necessitated it, until someone slaps her hard or punches her between the eyes, whichever seems appropriate. Pure tragedy. Stuff of lore.

Two minutes and sixteen seconds away. The face of the earth, about eleven thousand miles below, now larger and more beautiful than ever. The earth was divided into halves. One side dark, the other daylight illuminated. The black hole was dead center on this border. Sunrise. Another necessary parameter for injection into blackHole and tyme. Sunrise or sunset. Held together within plutoCharon synchronicity. Not only a crucial link, but fundamental. Without the plutoCharon mentaIconic bridge, entry would be impossible. This nakid-eye unimpressive double planet, only recently penetrated the consciousness of this species, though much larger than any black hole, is at least equal in importance and truly embodies the term, small but essential. Little big double planet. The eye of the storm......................

...................Eduardo was getting more worried by the minute. He had a 2½ inch snub-nosed with crowned barrel, satin-stainless finish, Ruger revolver with Hogue/Tamer monogrip, Sorbothane insert to help cushion recoil, harboring six .480 Ruger caliber ammo, nestled inside a black Alaskan nylon holster manufactured by Michael’s of Oregon. Strapped to his left ankle and that was side where the other guy was seated, meaning he couldn’t even put his hand anywhere near his gun, thereby risking tipping him off. He also had eighteen extra bullets in a magazine carrier strapped to a Ruger Leather Black Sport Belt. This gave him options, but it was crucial, should his paranoia pay off and he had to fend for his life, that he gain some distance between him and his could-be-assassins, at least two to three yards and preferably behind some kind of cover. He also had a deadly Ruger lightweight hunter knife, with red rubberized handle. Good, solid, no-nonsense grip. 10 inch overall with 5 inches of swept skinner blade, a reception gift from an Afghan warlord, whom he was hired by to take out a certain dangerous individual, incognito max stuff, which he did, using the dagger, before using the silenced Redhawk. Though not too fond of the associated, harrowing narrow-escape memories.

The surprisingly slim, yet robust dagger, was securely lodged in a shouldered nylon sheath. All made in good ole USA. He could get at it with either hand. It was point blank lethal, due to its blade curvature and it was his only option, lest reaching his revolver was blocked and should the bad deed unfold inside the vehicle, now traveling at eighty miles an hour, north-bound. The airport had long since been discarded as possible destination. They could be in Porto soon at this rate. Somewhat unlikely. Putting himself in their position, ruining the interior of this beastly fine car, seemed far fetched. They knew he was a pro killer, he was probably the most notorious contract killer still performing. So it was more probable, any kind of bumping off at his expense, would mean exiting the vehicle and that is where he would go for his double-action Redhawk and start barking, while unloading the magazine from his Ruger belt simultaneously, as he pounced for nearest cover.

“Don’t worry”, the dude up front driving suddenly said, looking at him through the rear-view mirror, “we’re not gonna axe you”. His pal behind him and next to Eduardo, turned his head and smiled at him reassuringly. “There has been a change of plans, that’s all”, the second dude, now smiling and looking friendly, continued. “So you don’t have to make self-defense plans either, we know you have an ankle-gun and shoulder–knife too”. Eduardo had to admit, he was taken aback and with the two honcho’s breaking into guffawing, marveling at their own wit and perception, at Eduardos expense, it was difficult to suppress his annoyance. But he did. Instead he started asking questions.

Like “When can I get back to my hotel. All my heavy stuff is there, not a joke if they are found by the police?”

“Your stuff is in the trunk. We took the liberty of checking you and your luggage out of the hotel. They know us. And we did remember your toothbrush”. More guffawing, which didn’t help improve Eduardo's mood, but at least they had his stuff in the car.

Next question, “”Where are we headed?”.

“North, that’s all we can say. Not far from a city called Coimbra, a village outside, probably thirty miles or so. The name is irrelevant. But anyway, it’s called Simontorta, weird name, huh? We still have at least sixty to seventy miles left, so snuggle in, feel free to ask, we’ll see if we can answer, not to private okay. We really don’t care about each others personal lives, do we…..haw-haw……”. Both of them seemed to relish that one.

“When can we stop, so I can pay a visit to the head?”, Eduardo was so free as to inquire.

“We’ll stop half-way, grab a coff, hit the john, bum a fag, down some grub, fondle a dirty magazine. Whatever. Can you hold it till then?”, the backseat guy asked.

 “Sure thing”, Eduardo said, knowing it would give him ample time to think his situation through. Heading for central Portugal, Sima-something. His plans all fucked up. And were these guys legit? Who said they weren’t just trying to make him relax, so it would be easier for them to off him somewhere? Why should the name of the village they were headed, be irrelevant? Could be a slip from their side? Did that mean he wouldn’t be able to care anyway, what it was called? Everywhere he looked he saw secluded spots. Hills, mountains, gullies, forests, vast ranges, rivers. This place was paradise for killers looking to stash a freeze. Eduardo shuddered, his body still tense. Ready for worst-case-scenario type action. Better not be too cushy about this. If they actually did stop at a café somewhere, that would change things, meaning they probably were just taking him to the boss. The Jewish guy who had hired him for surveillance. Until then, half an hour or so, it was about not relaxing one bit. Not even one bit!.........................

.............With the six year anniversary of nine-eleven looming a little more than a month ahead, Eduardo was reminiscing the day he was momentarily stuck on the 37th floor of the North Tower. He was there on a job. Nothing easier than doing what he did best, fulfilling a contract, with thousands of people milling about, everyone mostly strangers to each other. As easy, as if he been alone with his prey and the vicinity vacuumed of witnesses for miles around. Later, while pouring over the pictures of the three thousand victims, he realized that  his contracted target was among those officially deceased, which left him with half his pay, twenty-five thousand dollars, solely because of the force majeure aspect. And the fact Eduardo had succeeded in convincing the bad guys who hired him, he had actually snuffed the target, only ten minutes before the plane struck and arguing that most on the 37th floor survived the event.

He could not prove his m