Gazers
by Eamonn Gosney
People were not thinking straight. The vast bulk of the human race didn’t know why. Most had no idea that they themselves were stupid. A population too stunted in cerebral development to even envisage such a thing. Average folk were too inept to ask questions. And those questions that were being asked—were the wrong ones...
What dreams does a young boy have? What dreams is he having when lying in his bed at night? Dreams that are broken when the nightly horror begins. Mortuaryine Mother has come to visit. She with the frantic glee in her eye. The fussing fiend with the spray. And this obsessed mother really loves drenching everything in her path with the wretched thing. Yes! the boy is angry, he is still ANGRY after all these years.
Tonight—as usual—Mortuaryine Mother has come fully prepared for battle. She buys her economy-size bottles of Mortuaryine in bulk. Damn weekly shopping trolleys overflowing so that house cupboards are forever stockpiled with the poisonous muck. To ensure she never runs out (heaven forbid!) her squirting arsenal remains topped up and ready. She uses a devilish sprayer that looks like a bicycle pump connected to a tin can. Insecticide is poured into the can which is mounted sideways, up front. Some people know these confounded contraptions as flit guns.
Eyforani is asleep. Just before midnight an odiferous hand switches on the bedroom light and Mortuaryine Mother enters. The boy’s peaceful slumber is ruthlessly snatched from him. Liquid pest killer is dripping from her weapon. She has just finished loading a fresh batch of the viper brew. His nostrils smell the reeking vapor with dread. The beastly female immediately goes to work like a lunatic possessed. Pumping away crazily—furiously, like there is no flamin’ tomorrow. The panic stricken child scurries beneath pillows, sheets, blankets, mattress, bedsprings in a fruitless endeavour to escape the assault. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the naive mother, she has been thoroughly brainwashed by Mortuaryine advertising executives and their cute little Millie the Mosquito jingle on TV:
“It’s perfectly safe,” they say, “We've tested our harmless product on rats.”
It has been years and the now young man still isn’t over it. He has no idea what's wrong with him; the multiple poisonings of long ago having been suppressed from his memory. But behind the biological scene though, remnants of the insidious crap continue to play havoc with his senses. With intellect hampered, judgment scrambled and haywire emotions—frequently all over the place. While between his ears things are spinning every which way. From a clogged brain that is not operating properly, not able to function as it should. HALF THE TIME THE POOR BUGGER IS OUT OF HIS MIND!
Jeeyz’s face turned an ash-grey shade of shale on hearing what his friend had to say. He stood speechless for several moments, gathering his thoughts together and wondering if indeed he was hearing correctly. ‘You what?” he asked the young man beside him.
“I’ve been thinking of becoming a suicide bomber,” replied Eyforani.
“When did all this happen?”
“It’s been on my mind for a while ... but in the last few days I've really given the martyr idea serious thought. It occurred to me that this is what I must do.”
Jeeyz was shocked, he had no idea that Eyforani was considering such a wild thing. He knew the guy had his problems and was somewhat upset with the Wasinaili occupation and such, but never for a moment did he imagine that Eyforani saw himself as bomber material. Although there had been several other fellows in the neighborhood who had gone down that track—vacated the world in this way, Jeeyz didn’t go along with such outlandish ideas. What did it achieve—other than innocent people being blown up? Another senseless massacre of unsuspecting civilians! No, martyrdom certainly wasn’t the way to go. It definitely wasn’t Jeeyz's cup of tea. But he did understand the utter hopelessness that many of his countrymen felt. It certainly was a sad state of affairs that such desperate measures were even being considered—let alone taken-up.
Tod was an old hand in the tailoring trade. He had been a tailor to the performing thespians for years, and as such would get all manner of unusual costume requests. So it wasn’t too peculiar for him when he received the latest order: “Tod, I would like you to stitch together a suicide bomber jacket for me, please.”
“A—suicide bomber jacket?”
“Yes, that’s right. We are putting on a theatrical production here called Holywar Blues, but our seamstress has called in sick and will be off for goodness knows how long. So we are counting on you to come up with the goods for us. Something really authentic is what we are after.”
“Oh ... okay Lyli baby, sure ... you know I’d do anything for you ... sure ... give me the measurements ...”
"Tod, you are a real darling. I’m going to make this up to you next time I visit; you hunk you ... now here are the specifications—we were thinking of a strong fabric, something like ...”
Mystie hated hearing about bombings. Every few weeks now there would be yet another news report about yet another explosion killing more innocent citizens. Mystie was sickened by it all. At first, she would hurriedly stab the remote or even turn the radio off altogether, upon hearing that a broadcast concerned another murderous slaughter. She just didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want it to touch her, didn’t want it to intrude into her life. Didn’t want to be depressed by it all. Then, sometime later, she chose to look into the matter in an attempt to make sense of what it was about.
It seemed that in the main, the people who were engaged in this drastic activity were the Desertinians. They obviously were majorly peeved with the Wasinaili's and were attempting to deal with the situation by this horrific means. And there seemed to be no end in sight for cessation of the hostilities—it appeared the two groups would clash forever.
“Hi Mystie,” said Tayze, “How’s things—what are you up to?”
“Oh hi Tayze, nothing much, just here doing the washing and listening to the radio—and hearing about another suicide bombing.”
“Yeah, they never seem to end, do they?’ said Tayze.
“It seems that every time the news comes on it is to inform us of another explosion and another bunch of people getting wiped out,” said Mystie.
“Yes, we certainly do live in violent times,” added Tayze, as she finished taking the last of the clothes out of the dryer and stood up. “Well, I’ll catch you next time—bye.”
“Nice talking to you Tayze, see you later, bye.”
Mystie sat back on the wooden laundromat bench seat, absent-mindedly watching the tumbling machine spin her underwear around. A song had started playing on the radio: You’re On The Track To Somewhere.
She enjoyed the catchy tune and hoped the lyrics were a good omen from The Squawking Freds.
That night, as Mystie lay in bed listening to the rain pelting down on the roof, she wondered if maybe she was just a tad too sensitive about things. Other people didn’t seem to get bothered by horrid explosions the way she did. Maybe they didn’t even hear them mentioned on the radio? Maybe they were switched off to such dreadful things? 'Yes, that must be it,' she figured, feeling her mind clear. Outside, a zigzag of lightening arced across the pitch-black sky, illuminating the township in star-bursting incandescence. Every inhabitant of the town and those residing within it's twenty-mile outskirts, heard the startling thunder boom which followed—every inhabitant that was except Mystie. As she was all snuggled up in contented tranquility, blissfully asleep.
Ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring, ring-ring ...
“Hello.”
“Hello 0’ Exalted One, it’s me Lyli.”
“Pleasant tidings Lyli, have you got some good news for me this evening?”
“The order has been filled, O' Exalted One.”
“All systems go then, your end?”
“That is correct, O' Exalted One. We have found ourselves someone—isn’t life wonderful. No, O' Exalted One, there is no problem there either, we have a new Tailor-Of-Death on the job—a jacket is being sewn up as we speak. Thank you ... thank you ... thank you ... O' Exalted One ... you are too kind.”
Click ...
Buzzzzzz
The secretary, perched behind the dappled canetoad-skin paneled counter in the outer waiting room, pressed a button on her keyboard and spoke into the microphone headset she was wearing: “Yes Mantrilla, I will send him right in.” While glancing over to where the guy who had just strolled in five minutes earlier was seated—and who now was completely immersed in one of the char-table mags—she seductively voiced “Ms Sparks will see you now,” including whispering ‘big boy’ at the end of her sentence.
The tall, athletic-built stranger rose, gave the secretary a cheeky grin and made for the door she was directing him to. From the counters’ slightly elevated position, she watched every spry step his muscular frame took. And after he had disappeared from view, sighed deeply, then—with the feline moves of a jaguar on fire—went back to filing her already scalpel-sharp chrome-plated fingernails.
The middle-aged woman looked up, eyed the fine specimen of masculinity in her office and smiled ever so gently. He grinned back warmly. With business-like display she went back to reading the opened black-tabbed folder sitting on her desk. “Okay, let me see, Blaze B. Stellar. Mmm, Hmm, Mmm,” she muttered as her eyes descended the page. “Okay. Okay. Everything seems to be in order, Mr Stellar.” Closing the folder she looked up again at the applicant in view. “Mantrilla Sparks, personnel officer Stargaze Enlightened Enterprises. Sit down Mr Stellar.”
Blaze took a seat.
“Now, the reason you are here, Mr Stellar ... Blaze ... is because we here at Stargaze have advertised ...”
Sitting back comfortably in the tongue-soft upholstered chair, Blaze nodded.
“We need ... I need ... our company needs ...” Blaze nodded some more.
“We have a vacancy ...”
And he nodded yet more.
“Of course you know why Earth exists, don’t you?” asked the woman, kind of non sequitur and way out of the blue.
“Earth! Isn’t that a planet?” asked Blaze
“That’s right, Earth's a planet ... It’s a planet alright ... But not just any old kind of planet,” said Ms Sparks, while her face lit up. “It’s a special planet! A very special place.”
“Really?” asked Blaze, and showing more interest.
“Yes, really, Mr Stellar. Earth is a testing area—Cheavon’s cultural testing area,” she added.
“Hmmm,” said Blaze, all ears.
“We have clients who are very interested in Earth, Mr Stellar. Earth is where they get most of their best ideas from. That is why Stargaze Enlightened Enterprises exists. People pay us to look. To look for good ideas.”
“Oh—okay,” said Blaze, while continuing to nod.
“I’ll explain, Mr Stellar. Our clients detest making blunders. They utterly despise mistakes of any kind. And why should they have to make them, when there are other beings around who appear to love making them?” opined Ms Sparks, with a mischievous smirk.
“Right ...,” said Blaze, somewhat smiling back and slightly nodding with agreement.
“Your mission, Mr Stellar—should we ... should I ... choose to accept you—is to become part of the scene on Earth. We want someone who will just fit in down there and carry on life in an everyday fashion. A Cheavonite who will blend in with the Earthlings and not draw any attention to himself—and observe for us.”
“For how long would I need to do that?’ asked Blaze.
“Well, we will let you know when you have observed long enough,” she replied. “We'll be in touch. When your assignment is complete, you will be contacted.”
“I see,” he said.
“That’s right, Mr Stellar ... Blaze ... you will SEE for us,” said Mantrilla Sparks, showing a huge smile, and her full mouth of utterly-dazzling Australian black opal teeth.
Approaching the starcruiser, which would take him from Cheavon to Earth that evening, Blaze Stellar removed from his breast pocket the letter which had been handed to him by Ms Sparks as he left her office.
The envelope was marked:
HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL - FOR YOUR EYES ONLY
Inside the envelope the single sheet of paper read:
An unstoppable mechanism has been triggered
The paper you are now reading from will self-destruct in twenty seconds
Reading down the page he read:
There is only one requirement for you to follow from immediately that you arrive and thereafter until your stay on Earth comes to an end. DO NOT — we repeat — DO NOT do anything which will interrupt the planet’s usual activities. It is imperative that the day-to-day lifestyle of Earth’s native inhabitants is not altered or changed in any way. We have a team of anthropologists here on Cheavon who are engaged in a long-term study of the Earthlings. And in order that these academics remain eligible for generous study grants, Earth’s inhabitants must not be meddled or tampered with in any way. DO NOT FORGET that your job is strictly TO OBSERVE ONLY.
Bon Voyage and Good Luck.
Love, Mantrilla
Blaze looked at his timepiece. There were only three seconds remaining of the self-destruction countdown. He had no idea what might happen, so prudently held one really small corner of the paper between a thumb and finger.
There was an almighty ZAP as the homing device of a hovering satellite activated and a trillion volt red laser beam fired down and struck the paper. Instantaneously the document disintegrated into a puff of smoke.
“Ouch,” yelled out Blaze, and quickly quenched his singed finger tips in his mouth. He then tossed his newly issued Stargaze Enlightened Enterprises kit-bag over his shoulder and strolled across the gangway of the waiting vessel which was sitting towering on the tarmac in front of him.
THE END
Copyright © 2003 Eamonn Martin Gosney — All Rights Reserved
No comments:
Post a Comment