Don't Ask Me That!

  Bitch ass nicca. He got what he deserved. And yes, yes, I know that that word has no "meaning", but you get my drift. It is just so offensive for him to have died that way. So much power, but so little will to wield it.

  Personally, I would have never been defeated because of my attachment to Chrysalis, or any woman for that matter. And while I do not have children, and thus cannot speculate on fatherhood's impact upon a psyche, I seriously doubt that I would abandon my objectives, even for my own child. However, that version of me made many interesting decisions in his life, most of which were the opposite of mine. He fought for Chrysalis. He won her, and eventually, lost her when the Darkness overtook him. Sad really, because his attempt to artificially manifest by merging a dream and reality, even if only at the local level, constituted nothing short of brilliance and an awe-inspiring display of ingenuity. Such particularized control of gravity impresses to say the least, I mean, to not only fold space, but to hold the folding in place for extended periods of time, while continuing to operate in the combined space, simply unbelievable.

  Yet, even that trick, is nothing compared to true manifestation, and this is the power that I sought.

  But as is often the case, this me failed to achieve manifestation, because he was not ready to wield it as demonstrated by his rather shameful demise. Indeed, recall that the ability to manifest is as much a choice, as it is dictated by fate. Yet, it is only needed to the extent that it is not wanted.

  Manifestation is a paradox.

  Which is why he required a dreamscape to make it happen, reality, or rather its inhabitants, would not accept his ascendancy. And that goes to another very relevant point in that vignette, the fact that he had to choose a dreamer who would not implicitly reject his ascendancy. That is something that we have not discussed in detail yet. It is an aspect of the Darkness, a great source of power for me, and a fact of human nature. As an alpha male of African descent, for some unknown reason, I am despised and mistrusted around the world. Indeed, few creatures inspire more universal disdain, than a powerful, intelligent man of African descent.

  Now listen, I am not playing the "race card" as many of you know it. Indeed, like you, I used to think it was just in the USA. But as I began to travel the world, I realized that it was not merely a slice of Americana. It is everywhere, like 5 fingers and toes -- almost genetic. In Europe, Asia, and even South America, there was almost a mandatory dislike rule for Africans. Arguably, the rule even applies in Africa among Africans. But that is an discussion for another day.

  Yet, there is no explanation. We have committed no sin in recent human history -- we did not build ovens for humans, we did not engineer the middle passage, we did not exterminate the native americans -- in fact, we have been nothing but victims for as long as most human history records.

  I once asked Antares if there is a reason why I garner such dislike in people that I have never met or seen. He smiled, if a demon can do such a thing, and simply turned away.

  But it is more than the Darkness I carry. Because in all candor, few people can actually sense the Darkness, or are even perceptive enough to get the "hebbie jebbies" whenever I come around, although a surprising number do. No, this is different. It is the bank teller who is sure that I could not possibly have as much money in my account as the screen says, so counterfeit checks all the bills in my deposit, even the $10s. It is the cashier who tries to cheat me out of a few dollars that I would have happily tipped her. It is the waiter who decides to serve me last, even though my table is first.

  Yes, it is the people who stand to gain the most from my ascension, who oppose me the most.

  Irony. It is one of the Creator's most clever inventions. And I have been its victim more times than I care to count.

  Anyway, as I exit the aircraft, I wink at the stewardess again, just to make sure I left an impression. I round the corner of the tube and see that the line through customs is long. Keep in mind that customs in Israel is a bitch under normal circumstances. Throw in some crowding, and you have hell on earth. Especially for someone who travels as much as I do.

  Notwithstanding my American passport, the recent stamps from Turkey, Pakistan, Iraq, Afghanistan, and India create something of a dilemma for the customs agent. He looks at me, and requests a supervisor in Hebrew. I look at him and roll my eyes, as I wait patiently until a supervisor, along with several armed guards come over to speak with me.

  "Is there a problem?", I ask. The customs agent ignores his training as a deeply held suspicion simply overwhelms him. His clouded mind misses the numerous indications that I am not a terrorist -- e.g., the very nice custom suit, the closely shaved and well manicured nature of my hair and hands, my unmistakably American accent, my first class ticket, the calm with which I address him, and my athletic physique. None of these are the trademarks of the terrorist.

  Yet, the agent cannot help but suspect that something is wrong. Human beings are such idiots.

  "Well sir, you are rather well travelled. And to such interesting places. Moreover, I could not help but notice that you travel alone and with no luggage. May I inquire as to your purpose here?"

  Impudent dog. I should kill this man where he stands, as his presumption offends me. Yet, once again, I remember my place and temper my reaction. "Not sure why you are asking, but it is personal business, of the utmost importance and timeliness. In fact, you are currently jeopardizing my objective here. I need to speed this along." The armed guards frown and move closer, I smile. And then, all three mean immediately go to full attention. I turn around and see a familiar, but ugly face.

  "Is there a problem here?," he snarls.

  "Yes, sir!", the four men shout at once.


  "This man seems suspicious sir. We wish to investigate."

 The Colonel is, to employ a sterotype, an old war horse, if there ever was one. He is a simple man, who has lived an extraordinary life. In his time, he did a lot of good. He did a lot of bad. Proud of the former, admittedly and openly ashamed of the latter. And he bore the scars of both -- a rare combination in a soldier. Yes, even good deeds leave scars.

  I was happy to see the old man.

  The Colonel immediately violates my personal space, and face to face asks me, "Do we have a problem here boy?" I resist the urge to smile. There are only a handful of beings in existence who could call me boy, and not find themselves instantly in the next world.

  The Colonel numbered among those special beings. I played along, and dropped my countenance like a whipped dog. "No sir, I am just here to see an old and dear friend. My anxiety got the best of me and I spoke rudely to the agent. I apologize."

  The guards and the custom agent nodded approvingly. The Colonel knew how to put a pompous dog in his place. "I'll take this from here. Dismissed." The men literally fell over themselves moving on to the other customs desks. The Colonel then grabs me by the arm and escorts me through security. Pretty strong for an old man. And when we reach the back offices, he whirls me and around and grabs me in the biggest bear hug I think that I have ever had.

  "Damn boy. It does my heart good to see you. When did you get so big? All manly and what not." He just stares at me and shakes his head. The care and concern patent in his eyes. I cannot help but return the affection. I would kill over this man, without hesitation or reason.

  "And I have missed you as well Colonel. Are you well?"

  The Colonel snorts and shakes that big melon of his. "With all the trouble with Iran, the old guard dying off. I tell you, this world is tricky Magnus. Very tricky, not a place for an old bruiser like me."

  "Respectfully Colonel, I wouldn't have thought that all this politically correct bullshit would have affected you."

  "Neither would I, but these are strange times, and even the leader of the free world has his limits."

  "And how is the Professor? Will I get to him in time?" The Colonel pauses at the genuine concern in my face. "The old dog will hold on until you arrive. But after thatů" The Colonel looks away. "Well, let's not keep him waiting. I have made arrangements. The helicopter awaits us upstairs.

  After a quick jaunt, we arrive at the airport's helipad. And I am shocked by what I see. A transport helicopter, armed to the teeth, with several stealth copters hovering near by. And awaiting us on the tarmac were parts of the Professor's personal guard. Elite soldiers, strategists, and assasins all. I pause and turn toward the Colonel. "Does everyone know about the professor's condition?"

  "Unfortunately, yes. And you have no idea how bad it is. The world teeters on the brink of destruction, and the world's greatest champion of order and peace lies on his deathbed. The minions of chaos and evil anticipate his death, and plan. These are foul times my son. Foul times. So, he ordered me to bring you to him unharmed. And I intend to do so. You are our wild card, our last gasp of hope. How's it feel?"

  I consider my answer carefully, as the Colonel is not one to be taken lightly, nor does he speak idly. Grimacing due to the wind and sand from the helicopter blowing into my eyes and nostrils, I manage to say, "It sucks."

  The Colonel nodded, and spared me further conversation. I guess that he figured that I would need my rest once we got to Masada. He must have noticed my wound.

  First Elder, I hope you were not going to ask me what I think you are. I will not serve Kip, but I will kill him. I doubt I am so lucky.

  Fuck! I think, as I drift off to sleep.

Return to TOC:tmh Chapters