Who knew? —Draft v0.3

Who knew?, Draft v0.3

Dedicated to the ancestors that came before, paving the way for everyone, and the great-great-great-grandchildren yet to be. Thank you with all my heart...

The following is entirely a work of fiction. Any and all resemblance to individuals, persons, places or things, past, present or future, living or deceased, is purely serendipitous.

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Prelude:

There persists the abiding belief in a vile presence beleaguering this world. A corruption that is nameless, ageless, virulent, contagious, and overflowing with malice. It may appear in myriad pretense. Manifold are its invocations.

Yet, where in our minds there exists the one, in our hearts also resides the other: Like yin and yang, light and dark, left and right, feminine and masculine—that crazy little thing called love. For, when we operate in duality, on average everything must remain in perpetual balance and harmony. All things being equal.

Albeit, nothing is what we think, nor that which we have been led to believe; are under influence to perceive as reality (but we shall arrive at the entirety of that in due time).

Some might say in divine timing. But, you ask me, I think the Universe needs a new watch.

Patience, now. Let’s not be catty...

Anyway, first...yes: Succubi, Incubi, Shape Shifters, Skin Walkers, Vampires, Imps, Demons, Devils of every ilk...they are all real.

Though, only when we choose to play the proffered game—otherwise, they are simply energy, same as everything else. And shadow energy at that (afraid of the light, yet unable to coexist without it).

Still and all, from my humble, perhaps naïve, perspective, I do not understand how it is possible. In fact, never before have I ever believed any of these unnatural things actually existed beyond fiction, folklore, myth and urban legend, nor have actually been witnessed outside of Hollywood cinematics.

But, yeah, now I know better. And, I have proof.

Like unholy outlaw spirit rustlers wrangling indentured earthly livestock: These degenerate renegade reapers apparently cannot—or, for whatever miserly reason, simply will not—beget sufficient vigor to maintain themselves, so they steal others hard work and vitality.

But, unlike fictional vampires that crave blood, the intent of these veiled cabals is primarily aimed towards the accumulation of money, and by-products thereof (e.g. political influence, social status, and et cetera)—with a secondary predilection for pilfered hopes and dreams, happiness, essence, and the like. However, everything requires energy to survive. So, they plunder and squander life force as well.

And these unconscionable ghouls enact their skulduggery by whatever unprincipled means they deem necessary, no matter the cost; without regard for any damage they cause nor whom might be injured.

Always preying upon those that are judged inferior, beneath, inconsequential.

Shades of notorious B-movie old west gangs; 40’s mobster flicks; like that. But without the marshal or superhero riding to the rescue.

The governing modus operandi seems to be to fabricate and cultivate open-ended energetic imbalances, chiefly using gossip, lies and disinformation; love bombing, breadcrumbing, gaslighting, catphishing, cyberstalking—word magick.

However, their arsenal employs every narcissistic psychopathy and all the deadly sins, even resorting to dark hoodoo. Eschewing all that is held dear. For the sole witless purpose of consummating their own self-obsessed wants.

The belief being that the resulting chaos renders their machinations invisible. The theorem, therefore, is that practitioners are able to move about within the spawned clouds of confusion and suspicion with plausible impunity; as many less-aware humans will focus upon symptoms, never discerning the underlying projected illusion—nor realizing that the perpetrators shelter, prowl, hunt, feed and play right in our midst.

Additionally, it is assumed that if anyone did attempt to report impropriety, the hapless victim could easily be made to appear delusional or irrationally vindictive. After all, who, in modern society, in their right mind, would believe such a wild tale?

And, this isn’t just what these wanton goombahs do for a living. This is their fun as well. This is what they consider relaxing, satisfying. This is what they call religion. This is how they strive for enlightenment. Twisted as that may seem, though morally nihilistic, it is nevertheless a valid pathway. A path, withal circuitous, convoluted, punishing to an extreme and not for everybody—nor humanity in general—is a way forward all the same. Juan Matus might have referred to this as a path without heart. And traversing such a course, howbeit doable, can take forever—and tax everything you have.

Then too, any such dark-side activities legislate severely strict canons, exceedingly high costs and egregious penalties for infractions, transgressions and failure. I don’t mean merely the effects of societal laws, justice and penal systems, nor the black hand of fellow underworld syndications. No: As above, so below; as within, so without.

As it is written in the stars: If you lie, you will be lied to. If you cheat, you will be cheated. If you steal, you will be stolen from. Do for others as you would have them do for you. What goes around, comes around. You get what you pay for. You reap what you sow. What you give is what you get. The energy you put into the system, is the energy you take out. Those that don’t learn are doomed to repeat. Be careful what you wish. You made your bed. Live by the sword, die by the sword. An eye for an eye. Karma’s a bitch. And so forth and so on, ad infinitum.

And as for—Pride goes before a fall—numerous allegories abound: The Tower of Babel, with its topmost levels reaching into heaven. Goliath underestimating David. Icarus ignoring Daedalus’ admonitions regarding flying too close to the sun. Haughtily inhospitable Sisyphus. The Terrapin and the Hare. Humpty Dumpty...

Notwithstanding, sometimes it feels like these entities just plain hate everything, shamelessly, recklessly, remorselessly. How can anyone stand against such ruthlessness? Ah, but therein conceals the weakness: The rigidity of such unmitigated hatred compromises everything, which includes their own damned selves—like cancer.

And to what end?

Yes, Nosferatu is an actual thing—unwell and unliving, and arrogant as all hell—nestled smack-dab in the trusted bosom of our unsuspecting abode. And inadvertently, I upset a nasty hornet-nest of the aforementioned parasitic sycophants when I settled in the little hamlet of Piñon.

Be that as it may, as stated earlier: Neither these depraved aberrations nor their vainglorious appetites matter, unless we choose to play by their rules, on their home turf, accepting their officiating, entertaining their groupies and supporters.

In other words: Willingly give our power away.

Funny thing, though, I do not play...

But I do, on occasion, get ahead of myself. Let me back up a pace or two. Hmm...where to begin? Let us see:

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Sundial 1A:

It was a dark and stormy night...wait, no.

Abandon hope all ye that enter...nah, nah, no. That’s not it.

Her eyes, bubbling and seething, like twin La Brea tar pits, sucked me in...Jeez.

Huh! I know there’s a good opening line here someplace. Well, it’ll come, by and by. ‘Til then:

I’d been wandering since the wild fires kicked me out of house and home. Everything I had left in the world fit into my little car. Traveling lite. And, I’d been driving here and there, tossing around for a decent place to make landfall. Not finding much to write about. I’d never been homeless before. Had no frame of reference. Didn’t know what to make of it.

So I drove, and drove, and drove some more. To-and-fro; hither and yon; ranging over seven-eight states, one town after another, staying away from really large cities as much as possible. Occasionally finding a seemingly peaceful, friendly community. Mostly encountering not much of interest. Nothing that encouraged more than a single night stopover; maybe a day or two perusal. I was feeling the onset of a cyclonic depression blowing up my tailpipe.

Yet, to paraphrase Lone Watie, I endeavored to persevere.

And then suddenly, one afternoon as I slowed to a stop at a rural crossroads in a Southern province...there it was: A little burg known as Sundial. So called because of a long narrow shadow, cast by a curiously lofty church spire. A presage that, during the sunny summer months, would advance across the town square by day. Thus, this mirage evoked the semblance of a giant, you know, chronograph. You could even tell time by it, sort of, more or less. Seemed a possibly interesting harbor to anchor for a time.

In point of fact, I’d been feeling a sort of low-key magnetic tug for a few days. Somehow this had distracted me, nudging me, causing me to miss intended exits and take wrong turns. And, whatever it was seemed to have directed or enchanted, perhaps bewitched me in the direction of the Commonwealth of Sundial. And strangely enough, was still pulling me towards a local place of business. I had no idea what this anomaly could be. But, who am I to argue?

So, there it was. And, there was I. And, here we are. Who knew?

I rented a room at a cheap motel up the road a piece. A temporary base of operations. And from there, planned to begin shopping for a more permanent arrangement.

Little did I know. Did I say the motel was cheap? Guess I didn’t mean inexpensive, nor clean, or quiet. Kind of felt like there may have been drug transactions in the offing; some form of trafficking. But, I was tired of the road. And am perfectly capable of minding my own business. Well, any port in a storm.

Turned out I wasn’t there long enough to be worried anyhow.

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Sundial 1B:

After a couple days away, I returned to Sundial proper to attend a prearranged appointment at a local Reality office. One of the agents had agreed to take me out to survey a few properties available for sale.

When I arrived, she was busy. However, another client was present. This person was looking to advertise a small studio for lease. He was big; had been engaged in law enforcement, until a career ending illness changed his plans. He was examining me closely with that cops eye. I was doing my best to ignore. Then, abruptly, he walked up, looked down, and without preamble, said: “You have a beautiful aura.”

That was unexpected. I really did not know how to reply. I smiled, hoped it wasn’t a grimace.

He offered his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Samuel. Used to be the Sheriff 'round these parts. My line of work,” continued Sam, “um, my previous line of work, had to be able to size up a person in seconds. Learned to see aura’s,” he explained, “comes in pretty handy.”

Made sense. “My name’s Waylon,” I replied, responding with what I deemed to be a manly handshake.

At that moment I knew this elderly man was one of the reasons I had been compelled to Sundial. Not the primary impetus, but an important mission nevertheless. Puzzling.

The Real Estate agent came out then: “See you two have met,” said Julie. “Waylon, Sam here has a space for rent. Not many rentals available around here, and they tend to get snatched up quickly. You interested? While we’re out looking for a place for you to settle down, I mean.”

They both looked on expectantly.

And so it was that I was out of the shady rest motel and into something a little more accommodating.

Thus began an even more unexpected and fruitful alliance.

I moved in as soon as the paperwork was signed and monies exchanged. It wasn’t a large effort because, like I said, everything I had fit in my car.

The guest cottage was small: It was segmented into somewhat separate living and sleeping areas. There was a reasonable half-bath. And something masquerading as a kitchen. That said, it was much nicer than the old motel. And quieter too—except for the domestic animals: There were a couple dozen laying hens, two roosters, three turkeys and a guineafowl out back. An exuberant pair of corgis had the run of the yard.

Oh, yeah: There was WiFi in the main house. However, the walls were so thick, had to get a booster amp to make it useful. But, the connection was free.

Beginning to feel a lot like...home.

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Sundial 1C:

The Pronghorn Bistro. Remember the business that I said was beckoning me? That’s it. I’d been driving past the place at least twice a day for a month. I’d looked it up online. The website advertised a restaurant/bar/brewery. There wasn’t much on the menu that sounded like food I could eat. And, I do not drink alcohol. So, I’d been avoiding going in.

Yet, the pull was palpable—that preternatural magnetic tug I mentioned earlier. And it was getting stronger. Even showing up in my dreams.

Then one evening, I gave up; pulled into the lot and parked. As I walked to the entrance, I told myself there must be something palatable to be had. And anyway, I didn’t have to drink. But, I really needed to know what was summoning me, and if possible, why.

I pushed open the door. Gazed about at the tables, the clientele, noted the cacophony. Then walked directly to the bar, pulled up a stool and sat. One of the barmaids appeared and set a coaster in front of me...and immediately I knew that this was the draw.

I had no idea how I knew. It certainly wasn’t attraction in the normal sense. I mean, I don’t really have a type per se. But if I did, this woman would most definitely not be it. Nor did she display or any hint of recognition or fascination. And yet, this female was the main reason for my being in Sundial.

I was flummoxed. I ordered a pint, a draft stout. It was nitrogen charged. It tasted good, and hit me hard. Thank you, Lily.

And that kicked off an even stranger and inexplicable association.

Would that I had simply ignored the feelings. Listened more intently to my intuition. Paid attention to the red flags. Turned around and run for the hills.

But, apparently, some larger agency had other plans.

This, then, became my new life:

By day, helping the nice, occasionally demanding big-guy. Which, though physically taxing, sometimes extremely so, nonetheless proved to be curiously rewarding.

Spending evenings with the happy-harpy. Enduring her rough demeanor and annoying donkey-bray laugh. Relearning to process junk-food and swill beer. Wondering why any of this crap was necessary, how it could possibly to be useful. Keeping an eye peeled for a clue. Finding bupkis.

And all through the night, dreaming of, praying, begging for, sweet escape.

But escape was never in the cards.

Well, maybe I could find a new homestead. Some acreage to stretch out a bit. Get a dog.

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Piñon 2A:

To the world at large, the village of Piñon presented as the quintessential, idyllic little hamlet: Quaint and picturesque, quiet, friendly, helpful and peaceful; where everybody knows, loves and supports everyone else—one big happy family, welcoming each and all.

However, scratch most anywhere and one begins to see a completely different canvas beneath: The stagecraft painted a beguiling Rockwellesque portrait. The spirit of Piñon? Yeah, now that was something else altogether. That was something straight out of the mind of King. Not to wax too macabre, but the commonwealth of Piñon was determinedly, furtively and unapologetically demonic, through and through.

Oh, I don’t so much mean Satan worship and all that. Were rituals performed? Most assuredly. But, it was more a den of thieves and liars, unconscionable narcissists, and hedonistic deviants: Smiling in public, gossiping when out of earshot, plotting behind closed doors. And, very like rapacious grifters, perpetually on the prowl for the next big-hearted, gullible mark; praying for a whale.

Yes. At a glance, Piñon seemed like paradise. For those that see, though, it was Hell’s back forty. It would appear that I looked but did not see; listened but heard nothing. And apparently, I debuted as every bit that big-hearted, gullible mark everyone wanted.

This is what greeted me upon arrival in Piñon. Who knew?

Certainly not I.

continued...

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