Snake Boy- The Rave King - Part Three

*

We turn the clock back to find Philly entering the Electric Pencil Sharpener..........

The rave exploded on Philly's senses as he pushed his way into the gray-green light of the room. Sound pulsed through his head- the thudding tribal beat of the bass and drums rendering the high end of the music indecipherable. The illumination was shot through with red, blue and yellow laser beams, and stray flashes of white light bounced around from seemingly nowhere. It was impossible to tell the size of the room, it was packed with writhing youth, lost to the beat, the atmosphere, and whatever else may be possessing them.

At first Philben was disoriented, but after a few minutes his mind seemed to adjust. He was able to discern the melody the band was playing- and found that this music, the likes of which he had never before heard, was quite moving. It was like a combination of rap beat with the melodic structure of pop, with generous doses of R & B and industrial angst. This was really cool, and soon Philly found himself gyrating in imitation of the people around him.

His frenzied dance began to attract the attention of some of his fellow revelers. Several of the young men at the rave found him attractive, and he found himself explaining over and over again, "sorry, I'm straight." But other advances were harder to refuse. He was offered dope and acid, something he had never done before called ecstasy, and a lot of other stuff. The people in this room were certainly not afraid of the law, and since he saw no evidence of anybody getting hassled, he decided he liked it. But he wanted to approach his first night at this bizarre festival- in a strange town- completely sober.

After about an hour of fun, a powerful thirst overcame Philly, and he pushed his way through the melee to try to find a drink. He pushed until he found a wall and decided to follow that wherever it might lead. He took just three steps sideways, and started in happy surprise. "M&Ms, cool!"

Seating himself in front of the dispenser, he vaguely wondered why nobody else wanted any of the delicious red and green treats. The music seemed quieter, less angst-ridden and slightly more melodic, "Perhaps the next band is on," murmured Philly between M&Ms. He felt completely safe and happy, almost child-like. In fact, his hands now appeared smaller and daintier as they brought the chocolate morsels to his mouth. He pushed back his curly brown locks (thinking momentarily that he had not had long hair as a boy) but remaining unconcerned about the apparent discrepancies his brain was producing.

Pleasant childhood memories flitted through his mind. Philly did notice that the parents he was interacting (so happily) with were not the parents HE remembered, yet everything felt so PERFECT. He even felt right at home in the cute little dress his mom was putting on him...

As if awaking from a pleasant reverie, Philly shook his head and began walking away from the M&M machine, licking his candy-coated fingers as he went. "I really wish that WAS my childhood," whispered Philly when a booming voice brought him fully back to the rave.

"Whooa, DUde! You're a Chocolate MESS!" Zowie, a six foot four inch raver, with two mohawks, one electric green and one electric orange, loomed over Philben.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the space-time continuum... **************************

Raymond, stressed out in all 73 dimensions he usually inhabits, frantically realizes that he has completely lost any control he had imagined he weilded over his portion of the Great Try. He immediately thoughtcast the highest level alert within his authorization and awaited the conference of Superiors.

Suddenly, the thoughts appeared in Raymond's head, "We are here to help you, Raymond. What has happened worthy of this conference?"

Grabbing the timeline pod for Snake Boy, Raymond recreated the botched induction-attempt for the Superiors. An exasperated thought-sigh was emitted by the Superiors. Raymond went on to thought-explain that the other Earthlings were induced without a hitch. Earthling Philben was actually anxious to become the offspring required for the Great Try. But, because Earthling-Gaston had taken a little space detour, he had managed to keep Earthling-Philben from being involved in the lethal car crash meant to free Philben's non-physical form for reentry on Earth as the willing subject of the Great Try.

"Well, it seems perfectly obvious to us," thought the Conference in the slow measured tones that told Raymond they thought he was a retard," you must eradicate this blotch. Our advise is to simply destroy the affected natives, and begin again. No problem, really."

"But I have invested so much time," he countered, "surely you can see the intricacies......."

"Enough!" barked the council, mentally, and in unison, "This prattle is becoming tiresome. You must do what is best for the species. The Great Try must proceed without incident. Go, and don't bother us again unless you really need help."

He could feel a momentary emptiness when the Superiors left his cognitive habitat- and then the unmistakable feel of a psi-block being installed. He was really on his own, and those pricks that called themselves superior didn't care that he had put everything into his work , everything. All of it had been so carefully orchestrated, the subtle nuances he had explored- the fun it would have been to bring together these souls. They were such weird humans!

No, he thought- just to himself now, there has to be a way. He nestled back in his air chair, looking at the display of lights from his con-panel. He blurred his eyes, just a bit, so that the lights became indistinct, just random patches of colored illumination. That's when it hit him.

Quickly he punched the con-panel, knowing that he couldn't thoughtcast for at least a little while. "Neitzche," he called into the machine, "this is Raymond. I need your help, and your gonna need a disguise. I've been working on this cool abduction/refamiliation scenario, the most intense one so far, and it's gettin' all screwed up. Can you help?"

*

It took some real string pulling to get everything in order. The Homers had just the one ship capable of hyper-light travel, and it was really expensive to run. Placing Neitzche back just the two weeks necessary to facilitate Raymond's plan would have cost two years pay, but one of the techs on board was Raymond's sisters boyfriend, so he was able to smuggle the agent on board with none of the usual red tape, or mortgage refinancing. He had to admit, Neitzche looked wild in that two colored, double wedge shaped hair, but that would cause no raised eyebrows (or dorsal fins) on this planet.

Everything was in place, as soon as he returned to his con-panel he should know if it worked. He said a quick goodbye to his old friend, and took the transmat-lift back to his cubicle. As he reached his work place, Raymond was indeed surprised to find his cubicle ceased to exist.

Zowie shuffled to the music bleating rhythmically from his Panasonic hifi and waited for the precise moment to step outside to meet Philly. "Hummmm la ta da Hummmm," he crooned and began hopping in a way that made his mohawks massage his head. "I think I'll keep these geometric hairpieces when this is all said and done. Well, better move my butt downstairs for the meeting."

Zowie hit the sidewalk just as Philly screeched around the corner and flung open the Impala's door. "Oh my god, Zowie, you gotta help me," Philly pleaded, falling to his knees and pawing Zowie's leather coat, "I don know anybuddy else!" Zowie pulled his arm away from Philly with a sneer, "Dude! You are slobbering uncontrollably! Stand up and tell Zowie, quietly, what the fuck is going on." Philly fell toward the car and pointed frantically to the back seat, "I hit him," he stammered.

The denizens of this neighborhood were nosey enough to know what was happening, but apathetic enough to suit the Homer's needs. "Calm down, dude," barked Zowie, "park your fucking Imapala and we'll get him inside." They strapped the Snake Boy's hefty, unconscious mass onto the hand truck that Zowie had purchased specifically for this occasion and thumpety-bumped him, tongue lolling and eyes rolled back, into Zowie's apartment. They parked the Snake Boy, still strapped to the hand truck, in the corner near the bathroom, then Zowie went to the fridge for some beers. Before Zowie could pop the tops, Philly started freaking, "Oh man, if he dies, dey gonna fry us! Buzzzzzzzzzzz!" and he started flopping around as though being electrocuted, "Dats what dey do in dis state! Oh fuck!!!" Zowie turned on the Panasonic and plugged in a tape. The music seemed to help Philly's mood, at least he stopped convulsing and drank some beer. "You're all alone. Far from home, lookin' lost and sexy," went the lyrics, "where can you turn? Got time to burn, lookin' lost and sexy..." Zowie began digging in a drawer and pulled out some rope, some duct tape and a plastic water bottle. First he filled up the water bottle, opened the top, taped it to a length of rope, then taped the rope to the bathroom ceiling almost directly over the toilet. Next he wheeled the hand truck in front of the toilet and positioned the door behind the truck so it could not fall over backwards, then tied the truck to the doorknobs with the remaining rope. He adjusted the water bottle height so that the Snake Boy could grab it with his teeth and get a little drink, if he woke up and wanted one. Finally, he made a little sign that said, "We'll be back. Don't freak out." and taped it over the toilet. "There," said Zowie, turning to the slack-jawed Philly, "let's get some grub, dude." Philly's face went white, whiter than when he first slammed into Snake Boy, "We can't leave 'im like that!! What if he dies?!" Zowie slowly shook his head, making his mohawks wobble in a very pleasant way, "What you wanna do, stay and hold his hand? If he dies, he's gonna do it whether we get grub or not. Let's go." As they closed the door, the tape began to automatically rewind.The tension slowly tilted the bottle, and in a matter of moments, the bottle had upended, pouring it’s contents over the Snake Boy’s head, and he came to, sputtering and coughing.

The flood of light burst onto his eyes and burned through his synapses, he blinked, and strained his eyes, trying desperately to comprehend where he was, and why he could not move. Gradually he began to calm, and as he did so, his immediate circumstances became more apparent. Far from bright, as he had thought upon first recovering his scattered senses, the room was dingy, downright grubby. And he was face to face with a mirror that was speckled with matter about which he did not care to speculate, directly beneath that was a toilet. The note attached did nothing to calm his nerves, rather it convinced him that he was being held for ransom, or as someone’s sex slave, or for god knows what. He knew what he had to do, the only thing he could do- he screamed.

"HELP! HELLLLLLLP!", his frantic howling was stopped short when the bathroom door slammed shut and in the mirror wavered a face that seemed familiar and at the same time horrifyingly alien. It was Raymond, and he was laughing- hysterically.

******************

The Cattle’s Loft felt familiar and inviting as Zowie and Philly stepped across it’s threshold. It’s orange and white geodesic styled spherical lights reminded the customer that it had once been a Burger Chef, but that is where the similarity stopped. The interior was bizarrely styled like the milk bar from the film "A Clockwork Orange", except that the statue above each booth was fashioned into a cow, each with a different artistic theme. One was an impressionist cow, all scribbly lines, with muted features and colors. The Cubist cow had udders attached to the top of it’s head, giving one the impression of a sort of bovine rooster. And there was even a Toulouse-Lautrec sporting a bowler hat and peering past an inexplicable thumb. They were seated quickly, and Zowie took the liberty of ordering for the both of them.

"Two Mammoth Cheese Fries, please, and extra ranch dressing, on the side. And two diets." Zowie seemed radiant as the waitress took their menus and walked away. "God I love cheese fries. There ain’t no problem that a good dose of liquidy processed cheese food cannot cure"

" Look, I don’t care about the damned cheese fries, " Philly started," What are we going to do about………………." At this moment, Philben’s mouth dropped uselessly to his chin, his eyes became saucers, and a tiny drop of saliva slipped over the corner of his mouth. Zowie turned, wondering what could possibly fascinate this human so, and saw her. The simple knee length skirt and gossamer white head cover told him the girl was from one of the stricter religious sects. His companions expression told him he was in love. Or hemorrhaging

She sat down in the Dali-booth, the cow above it sagging, almost melting, off the hoola-hoop which supported it. Philly stared, mesmerized. "Stop that!" commanded Zowie as he cuffed Philly's forehead roughly. "But she's... she's... she's perfect, man," stammered Philly. Zowie shook his head vigorously and took off his sunglasses for emphasis, "What do you know about women, let alone perfect ones?" As he said this, their order arrived. The cheese fries poked out of baskets shaped like a cows with their legs in the air, and decorated with little Xs where the eyes should have been. Philly absently grabbed a fry, "Man, just lookin at her makes me feel safe and loved," cheese oozed off the fry onto the table, "I hafta find out who she is." Zowie kicked Philly hard, making him fling the no-so-cheesy fry into the booth across the aisle, "I AM TRYING TO HELP YOU, DUDE. Think about it. You find out who she is, and you ask her out with money you ain't got, and you take her to where you live, which is no where, and then you get picked up by the cops and put in jail because somebody YOU ran over, died! That's a hell of a way to treat a perfect woman on your first date. Eat your god damned fries and forget her. We got shit to take care of later." Philly, massaging his shin, pulled his eyes away from her and sighed. Zowie frantically thought-cast to Raymond that Philly was falling in love with the woman who was supposed to be his mother.

"Yeah I guess you are right," he mumbled, but thought he caught an odd look on his coconspirator’s face as he chased gooey yellow stuff around the wax paper lined basket. Suddenly he wondered what Zowie hoped to get from all this, why he had so quickly and so totally befriended him, and why he wanted to tie up the victim of the recent, horrible hit and run. Philly’s head was beginning to clear, paradoxically becoming clouded with more questions and doubts.

"Read anything good lately?" Zowie’s question surprised Philben, but he quickly realized that he wanted to change the subject, or stall for time. It seemed prudent to play along.

"Yeah, I found a copy of "First Cavity" in a dumpster by the Y," he said flatly.

"Gorbachev?"

"Yeah."

"Any good?"

"Yeah, real good. I like dogs, though."

"Me too."

"You read anything?"

"No."

"Pick up any tunes?"

"Yeah, an old one from the Albino Slugs- Toilet Voodoo Power."

"That one is a classic- whatever happened top those guys?"

"Probably ended up nowhere- like in a Long John Silver’s"

Philly went on, giggling while imitating the harsh, muffled sounds of a voice over an intercom, "Would you care for tartar sauce with your order?"

Zowie laughed, happy that he had succeeded in dissuading his comrade from going after his future mom. He breathed a sight of relief, chortled again, and wondered how things were going back at his APT. The Psycho-chrono receiver/transponder system they had set up in the home time-and-place was working flawlessly, and these humans were the easiest to persuade, telepathically, of all the species he had previously encountered. It was disturbing to learn that Ray had lost his desk, but such anomalies were not uncommon when people jerked around with the space time continuum.

He sat back and smiled as he realized the right now the one they called Snake Boy must be, to use the colorful Earth phrase, shitting his pants.

"Dude, let's get some chow-to-go for YOUR VICTIM," loudly enough to make Philly wince, "pick up some beer and head back."

"Alright, but first I gotta go to da can. Get 'im somthin big, he's probly pissed."

With this, Philly slid from the booth and made a bee-line to the bathroom, glancing back long enough to see Zowie head toward the counter. Philly quickly adjusted his trajectory, aiming for the Dali booth and the object of his desire.

"Hiya... I'm new in town, but, if ya get a chance, I'll see ya at the rave." He tossed the EPS matchbook onto her table and ducked into the bathroom right before Zowie turned to see why he was taking so long. Philly noisily reemerged, physically unrelieved, and met Zowie at the door. Clarinda watched them go.

*

Once Raymond's maniacal visage faded from the mirror, the Snake Boy calmed down a bit, only to find one of the neighbors beating on the wall and yelling, as best he could make out, "shut fucking up". Snake Boy's overtaxed brain found this amusing, and he began giggling, forming little spit bubbles at the corners of his mouth. His helpless giggling gave way to uncontrolled weeping as the pain of his enormously swollen ankle broke through the miasma of sensory inputs making up his day.

As his spasm slowly subsided, his mind began to take in his surroundings. He was in a filthy, disgusting bathroom- strapped to a hand truck and drenched. His ankle ached, and he had no idea why. He had no idea why he was exactly where he was, and he did not like it. Not one bit. To his left he saw a sign, apparently hastily scribbled in marker. He couldn’t make out the first part, the dousing he experienced had also affected the sign- the last part read, “Don’t Freak Out.” Too late he thought, as he opened his mouth and tried another massive scream.

“Help- Help! Will somebody please HELP ME!” he screamed, but the only response was somebody pounding on the wall and the muffled, “shut the fuck up!”

As he drew in his breath for another round of hollering, the door opened, and Snake Boy was freaked, once again, to see Zowie- the most twisted frequenter the Electric Pencil Sharpener had ever seen. He did not like Zowie, and was not now comforted by his presence. Accompanying him was someone wearing a huge smudge of bright red lipstick, and carrying a take out bag from the Cattle’s Loft- at least they knew where to get good cheesy fries.

“Zowie! Jesus Christ. Let me the fuck out of this chair!” he screamed- and his exasperated expression grew a new dimension- somehow he grew even more confused. Somehow his voice came out sounding like a bad imitation of Alec Guiness. What the hell was that? But now each of his apparent captors wore confusion on his brow, and each for an entirely different reason.

Philly was first to regain enough cognitive inertia to speak. “You know him?” he flabbergasted, “You fuckin’ KNOW ‘im?!?! What da hell was all dat shit about ‘my victim’? Who da fuck is he?! Why da fuck didn’t you tell me who he was?!?!?”

Zowie new quick thinking was called for, and didn’t know what the fuck he was going to say. Damn that Raymond. Zowie assumed that he had done his homework, that he had all the info he needed. At no time had he ever mentioned that Zowie and Snakey knew each other. Not once. Now what the fuck was he supposed to do.

“I gotta shit- help me wheel this thing outa here,” he stammered.

“What?!?!?”

“I SAID help me wheel this piece of shit out of here so I can take one,” he hoped barking this order would subdue Philly into silent compliance. It worked.

As the door slammed shut behind Zowie, Philly worked quickly to separate Snake Boy from the hand truck. The Snake Boy, barely containing his wrath, lunged toward Philly only to buckle on his mangled ankle.

"My name is Philly," squeaked Philly in a manner he hoped would soothe this beast. "Here's some grub, I'll getcha beer, and some ice for your ankle." With that he beat it to the fridge. Philly heard Snake Boy huffing and heaving his hulking mass onto Zowie's bed. Now that his victim had regained consciousness, Philly realized he should have spent less time thinking about the vision of loveliness at the Cattle's Loft and more time talking to Zowie about what to do next. He decided to lie to Snake Boy.

"Heres da ice. Wrap it in dis towel, it'll help."

"'Ow'd I get 'ere?" demanded Snake Boy, "and wot 'appened to me ankle?"

Philly began fidgeting and smearing the lipstick around his mouth. Finally he stammered, in a voice he hoped carried into Zowie's refuge, "It happened real fast. All I remember seein' is you collapsin' in the gutter after you was hit. I'm new in town an' didn' know what to do, so I brought you here. I met Zowie at the Pencil Sharpener. He's da only dude I know, 'sides you. What IS your name, anyway?"

"Did you see the car wot hit me? And where the fuck are we?" Snake Boy grabbed the beer and sucked it down in ten seconds flat, amazing and confusing Philly even more. "And get me another beer!"

Philly scurried to the fridge and yelled over his shoulder, "I don't remember seein' da car and we're at Zowie's." Relieved he did not have to lie to Snake Boy's face, he handed him the beer and asked again, "So what'r ya called?"

Snake Boy grabbed the beer, opened the bag of food and then bellowed, "Snake Boy, the Rave King!"

MORE TO COME!

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