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*****
Leonard and Millie Spedly Jackson moved to Sarasota in 1966, after his live bait shack on Lake Wawasee, near Rochester, IN, folded. Dogged by bad weather and bad advice, Leonard took his bride of just two years, pulled up stakes, and got the hell out of the Hoosier state. It was a difficult parting- Millie’s brother, Billy was devastated. At a young age, the two had lost their parents in a freak accident; one involving a dachshund and a sizzling plate of fajitas. Having no one to turn to, they lived alone, relying on their cunning, the strength of their relationship, and the kindness of neighbors to get by. The move signaled an end to the ultra-close sibling kinship they felt.
"Looks like Len’s gonna move, and take ol’ Millie to Florida," was the most commonly uttered phrase at the local "Grab it Here" market.
"Yep, wonder what Billy’s a gonna do?" was the frequent reply.
They moved to a small cottage, not too near the ocean, and Leonard got work as a "greaser" in a wheel bearing plant. Gaston was born in the Summer of Love, 1967, and was the pride and joy of his beaming parents. Leonard spent most of his time at work, where he excelled, and soon the family was able to move to a small, light blue ranch style home, in what was at the time a very nice part of town. But just as the Jackson family seemed to realize the American dream, tragedy struck.
Every third weekend the wheel bearing plant sponsored a "take a little work home" contest. It seemed the employee who could produce the greatest volume in a single weekend, off the clock, and using his/her own tools, would qualify for a chance to win a prize. This particular quarter the prize was a charcoal grill with built in electric rotisserie. Leonard Jackson wanted that grill.
Len knew he was up against stiff competition. Tommy Balin, the plant manager, had five sons ranging from 7-15 years old who helped him win the last seven contests. Technically, this was against the rules, but being plant manager meant control over scheduling. So, Len decided to recruit a little "help" of his own.
Bubba "Black Squid" Damballah lived out in the middle of a snake and gator infested swamp, but Len was one of the few people who knew the way to the one room shack where Black Squid held court. For three dogs, three chickens, one goat and a bottle of vodka, Black Squid was willing to call the "Petros" to aid Len in his quest. Black Squid began working on the shrine and told Len to bring the animals, housed in bamboo cages, no later than 9pm.
Cold sweat poured down Len's cheeks as he purchased the chickens. He phoned Millie and mumbled in a vaguely perturbed voice, "Tommy scheduled me on back to backs... won't be in until late... no, don't wait up." Click. "Six o'clock, gotta find bamboo quick... well, get goin" Len realized he was talking out loud by the looks he was getting and sweat even more profusely than before.
His watch read 8:34pm as he hauled the last cage up to the shrine. Black Squid squealed, hummed and shreiked as he put the finishing touches on the shrine to Baba Damballah, his namesake and most powerful Petros. Len unconsciously crossed himself and handed the bottle of vodka to Black Squid. Black Squid seated Len at the base of the shrine and handed him a small cup of vodka. Suddenly, initiates poured in from the swamp and the drumming, dancing and humming began. Len felt ill, but somehow willed himself upright during the ensuing six hour ritual. Once all the animals had been sacrificed and, alone with the others, Len had sipped their blood, the ceremony ended as abruptly as it had begun. Black Squid hissed three words of warning into Len's ear before sending him home, "Touch no snakes!"
Len became stronger and more focussed with every step. He worked from 4am Saturday morning until 5am Monday, one hour before his shift began. Len knew he would win the grill. Just as he saw himself triumphantly lifting the lid of the grill he heard Millie scream. Running to the bedroom, he grabbed the snake and smacked it against the wall, just before its fangs struck baby Gaston.
The snake’s head smacked the wall and exploded, the percussive force of which threw Leonard to the floor and sent Millie reeling down the hall. The sound was deafening, and there was a brilliant flash that sent yellow and blue tentacles of lightening zigzagging about the room. They flew with a ‘shu-ching’ that sounded very much like a tape measure recoiling. The Baba’s voice reverberated in a demonic echo, "touch no snakes." The daggers of light bounced from wall to wall, as the demonic voice repeated the three words like a chant. The shards coalesced and mutated into a pulsating ball of gray-green. The sphere bore down on Gaston’s midsection, and suddenly the chanting was intermingled with the sound of the boy screaming as he writhed in agony; the air stank with the reek of burning flesh.
A father’s wails joined those of his son, as the orb slowly dissipated and move away from him. In the eerie light of the ball, Leonard could make out the shape of a snake in Gaston’s blackened and blistering flesh. With inhuman speed, the orb regained intensity, attacking Len’s eye’s. As they melted under the heat, he swore the chanting began to change, and soon the only recognizable words were, "instant breakfast drink."
He heard Gaston whimpering in the corner and ran to him. The searing pain where his eyes once were was almost overpowering, but he had to make sure his boy would survive. In a moment the boy quieted and apparently passed out; he was still breathing. He heard Millie whimpering in the hallway and knew that it was over. He had played with evil, and had, quite literally, gotten burnt. With these thoughts lingering in his head, he slid to the ground and lay in a heap, sobbing.
*****
Gaston was never able to talk to anyone about the events of that hellish night. He simply bottled it all up, and chose to push it down. To explain his rather unique scar, he made up a story, involving a martial arts coming of age ritual, he had seen once on his favorite TV program. He began to insist that people call him Snake Boy, and worked hard to maintain the image of a loner. He wanted no friends, because friends ask questions, and he simply did not want to remember.
It was years later, while Gaston was contemplating life after high school, that he experienced the second most significant event of his short life. He was on his way between school and his job, addressing envelopes for a small local newspaper, when he noticed something odd. He had learned to walk with his head perpetually down, avoiding all eye contact. As he watched the cracks in the sidewalk go by, he noticed, peripherally, that something had changed. The grass by the road was different. He could not place just how- perhaps the color was off, or it may have been just the wrong thickness but it was different. This anomaly prompted him to look up. He was startled to find himself face to face with a large grain silo where the Handy Andy ought to have been.
Without a rational thought in his head, he moved, zombie-like, toward the errant silo. "Crreeeeaak," said the silo door as it swung invitingly open. "Eeak," croaked Snake Boy in response as he crossed the threshold. A sundial in the center of the silo was illuminated from above by a weak shaft of light. The door quietly closed behind the Snake Boy as he plodded forward, uncertain as to whether he could really hear voices whispering to him or not. The shaft of light intensified and the shadow it cast began gyrating wildly, clockwise. His eyes widened involuntarily. "I AM hearing voices...," his voice trailed off as a jumble of scenes, some still, some moving, covered the inner surface of the silo; his own personal IMAX theater. Spontaneously realizing the voices and scenes existed in his future, he desperately attempted to commit every miniscule detail to his C minus memory. The beam suddenly stopped gyrating, the voices turned into a fax-like trill and a counterrevolutionary tornado of light sucked the sundial through the top of the silo. In its place sat a small machine with one large M&M-shaped red button and one large M&M-shaped green button.
"'Is is mo' like it," he huffed hoarsely as he plopped down in front of the machine and began collecting fistfuls of M&Ms. "Nuthin' like peanut M&Ms," he mused, concentrating on the green button, "especially with movies." "WoWoWWHHHOOOOOOOOSSSSSHHHHHH," said the silo. "AAaarrrr," yelled Snake Boy, ejecting partially masticated M&Ms this way and that as he groped for the M&M machine. When he finally caught hold of the trailing electrical cord, he realized he was nearly 200 feet in the air and rising rapidly. "BYEEeeeeee," said the silo as it sauntered off toward its next venue, revealing the Handy Andy in its usual spot.
*****
It’s been one hell of a long journey today, thought Raymond to himself as he slunk back in his seat. The corralled mass of atmosphere gained density within it’s electronically generated field to support his weight and provide maximum comfort. Silently he laid his bald head back, closed his eyes and began to perform spleen-centered relaxation exercises. He felt good for the first time in a long time. But the reverie was short lived.
A sudden announcement from the Center Head was thoughtcast urgently into his mind. With a start he sprung from his airchair, which dissipated in response. The silo ruse had failed. The one they attempted to induce had actually clung to the apparatus, and had been brought onto the ship. In all the time since the beginning of the Great Try, never had they been so invasive, or been in such danger of ruination.
*****
The Great Try was possibly the grandest of all experiments. The work began more than a millennia before, when the inhabitants of the planet Home first explored the fundamental concepts of psychology. The Homers are very scientific, the planetary cultural mindset is based on the stern belief that all phenomena can be explained using mathematical formulas, from the simple formation of basic crystals, to the most spontaneous of sentient emotions- there was an underlying mathematics.
Early psychologists debated about whether to base their new science on genetic factors or experience, until it was decided that both factors were quantifiable, and when integrated comprised the whole of a beings intellect. It was the collective dream of the profession to quantify both, and therefore hold the key to perfect control, thus began the Great Try.
The first phase of the Great Try was to quantify genetic factors in the cognitive make-up. This was fairly simple to set up, but the real difficulty came in eliciting volunteers. To determine these formulae, the scientists needed very controlled circumstances, and they also needed subjects from the moment of birth, if not before. Laws prohibited such experiments without the consent of the subject, difficult to obtain from one so young. But then along came galactic space travel, and the discovery of the planet Earth.
*****
Raymond knew he had no time to lose. "All these years, all the intellectual expenditures..., and the biggest screw-up just had to occur during my watch," he mumbled as he fumbled through the drawer for the storage pod. "Ahh! Here it is," he hissed as he plugged the pod into the console. "Alter Raymond 180G-J925QX, destination Earth-Centered Composite Alien 2P-C3B, download inductee's memory banks and organize psych-report, transport 2P-C3B to main receiving bay D6...Activate commands now," he authoritatively pointed toward the computer's visual sensor and magically became what humans would most readily recognize as an alien
. In the receiving bay, the Snake Boy vainly sought an electrical outlet. He was desperately trying to ignore the nagging thought that maybe, he just might be in an alien spacecraft. When the thought did creep into his head, he logically told himself that the silo did not show him any alien kidnapping scenes, so, "All I need to do is plug this in and things'll be back to normal." At that very moment, Raymond 2P-C3B appeared in the receiving bay about 10 feet from Snake Boy. Raymond's physical appearance was not greatly altered; he was shorter, now had only one eye rather than five, three fingers on the end of seven arms rather than seven fingers on the end of three arms and a greenish tinge in his otherwise purplish-brown skin. "Hello Gaston-Earthling," Raymond 2P-C3B hummed in a voice not unlike someone speaking through a kazoo. The Snake Boy's memory banks and computer-organized psych-report could not have prepared Raymond 2P-C3B for the reaction this greeting elicited. Snake Boy barfed. And barfed. Then barfed some more. Raymond 2P-C3B became uncomfortably embarrassed, then rifled through Snake Boy's memory banks trying to find some reason for the observed eruption. Finding no explanation, Raymond pushed onward, "I am Zarcon, Supreme Director of Inter- and Intra-Galactic Research. Are you finished displaying this disgusting behavior, Gaston?"
As the Snake Boy spewed the last of his Slim Jim and Yoohoo brunch, his mind reeled, it seemed the universe was expanding in concentric circles of light radiating from his dizzy mind. He spat fiercely, and as he finally caught his breath he managed to bark out, "Don’t fucking call me that!" Then he looked up.
"Jesus Christ, what the hell are you?!?!?"
"My name is Raymond 2P-C3B, but you can call me Ray- but you doesn’t have to call me Johnson."
"What?" The Snake Boy’s brain had pretty much seized up.
"A small attempt at humor, you must know we have studied your culture. My name is Ray, and I am here to erase your mind."
"I thought you said your name was Zarcon."
Shit, thought the alien, I am such an idiot. I can’t even keep a simple thing like that straight. "Shut up and prepare for the procedure."
"Look, you don’t need to do this, I’m not going to say anything. I just need to get to work, so if you don’t mind putting me back….."
"Silence! You will kneel and prepare for the procedure!" Ray bellowed. As the prisoner did as he instructed, his captor felt a surge of pride and power. His assertiveness training was finally paying off.
"You could at least tell me what the hell is going on. Even if I don’t remember afterward, I have a right to now why you have taken me, and who the hell you really are, and why me, and is this really a silo, and well, everything!" He was stalling, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do.
"Silence!" screamed Ray peevishly, "You will clean up the mess you made while I answer your questions - then I will instigate erasure!" Ray ordered the central computer to deliver cleaning supplies, then noticing the combined look of fear, awe and submission on Snake Boy's face, Ray made what he thought was a scary alien roar. "You and a female Earthling were selected by our research directors as the perfect subjects to produce the offspring we need. Earthling-Clarinda is currently on her way to Florida to find you. With the help of the "silo" as you call it, subliminal suggestions were being implanted into your mind." Ray hesitated, believing he had already explained enough, then buzzed very loudly, "WORK FASTER, EARTHLING!"
"But, why her? Is she cute? She must have something wrong with her if you have to make her subliminally attractive. Why OUR baby?" Snake Boy's mind was racing as he mopped up the slightly fizzy mess. The smell was making him gag, and Ray looked at him very sternly, in an alien sort of way.
"Shut up. You have cleaned enough." Actually, Ray thought Snake Boy was about to barf again. "You will not recall this experience. Prepare for erasure." Ray pulled a small box from his pocket and began manipulating little knobs with his remaining hands. Snake Boy closed his eyes very tightly, stuck both of his thumbs in his ears and began chanting very loudly, "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah", hoping that this might protect him and possibly some of his memories.
*****
Snake Boy felt a chill run up his spine as he entered the Handy Andy. Pushing open the doors, he was struck by the sudden realization that he had no idea why he was there. He had been going somewhere, -then nothing. He tried hard to think, wandering up and down the aisles, the clerk staring at him, nervously, from behind the counter. Afraid to loiter for fear of being suspected of shoplifting, he pulled a Mountain Dew out of the cooler, and a "Big Grab" bag of sour cream and onion chips off the rack. The clerk mumbled a thank you as he grabbed the change and hurried out the door. He felt a slap of cold air, too cold for Sarasota, and huddled down into his jacket. He glanced at his watch, and realized he was late for work.
"Ah, Work! Shit!" he exclaimed, and broke into a run across the street. A screech of squealing tires was followed by a loud thump, and the Snake Boy found himself sprawled across the hood of a Chevy Impala, the same impossible green as his uncle’s Skylark. Stunned, the Snake Boy shook his head as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Behind the dirt streaked windscreen was a man unlike any he had seen before. His lips were smeared a grotesque crimson, like the gaping orifice of a demon, fresh from a vampiric feast. He screamed so loudly he felt the pressure would surely pop his eyes from their sockets as he flung himself from the hood of the car.
He scrambled to the gutter, desperate to seek shelter from the terror behind the wheel. He felt a sharp pain as his ankle wrenched off in some crazy direction. Exhausted , frightened, confused; the Snake Boy could take no more. He lay, pathetically in the gutter, holding his ankle- his body began to shake, as if this bizarre St. Vitas dance could ward off the creature that would surely emerge from the vehicle. He heard the door open, and could only hug closer into himself to ward off the thing.
"Oh my god- I hit someone, I hit someone, oh my God," Philly freaked as he brought the car to a dead stop. Leaping from the driver's seat and nearly being hit by the Geo whizzing by, Philly screamed, "Are you alright? Oh my god, speak! Are You Alright?!?" The Snake Boy nodded, but then to Philly's dismay, passed out cold. "Thud," said Snake Boy's head as it hit the curb - a sound that Philly would hear echoing through his head for the next three days. Whimpering slightly, Philly grabbed the flaccid lump of a man and drug him, as carefully as he could under the circumstances, to the car. Panting, sweating and panicking in general, Philly huffed and heaved Snake Boy into the back seat of the Impala. Pedestrians were beginning to coalesce near the car. Philly's nerves screamed for action, causing his hand to turn the Chevy's ignition and eliciting a horrible, grating, screeching from the starter; the car was still running. Philly jammed the vehicle into gear and peeled out. "Don't die! Just fuckin' don't die!," he yelled to the comatose blob in the back.
Having been in Sarasota for less than 72 hours, Philly had no idea where to go, let alone what to do with the victim of this morning's collision. "Hospital's out," he mumbled, "they'd arrest me sure as shit." Then the idea struck, "Zowie! Maybe I can find Zowie!" Philly aimed the Impala toward the Electric Pencil Sharpener. "We hung together durin' da rave," he explained to Snake Boy while glancing at him in the rearview mirror, "maybe he can help..."
MORE TO COME!
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