The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.4 – Huaca

On April 3, 2019April 3, 2019 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction, Original Fiction Series, Sketch of Sam Monroe, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized, Weird FictionLeave a comment

Image result for mato grosso jungle

The adventure continues!

Full Text

~

Previous Chapter

The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.3 – As Wicked as the Wicked

The Sketch of Sam Monroe is a weird fiction thriller. Follow the adventures of five quirky Black Ops pharmacologists as they globetrot their way to the Mato Grosso jungles. Philosophy, psychedelics, and banter are infused throughout this literary comic-book.

My knees ached.

Jesus, did my knees ever ache.

Good training is indeed good. It is how I recovered the key. The key to the castle keeping my memories.

No madness, no brainwash, no demon lights could obfuscate screaming joints. Sinews that cry a song of burden. Protesting eighty pounds of ruck sinking boot into irregular soggy soil.

These that were so far from the Andes. These Huacas were magnetic. Subtle to the point of indistinguishability. Mixing with greens, browns and vines as fixture rather than feature. They nonetheless transformed it all.

Their magic made one forget and remember.

The pain was gone. The faces and conversations I surveyed became a backdrop. Older than the predecessors of Viracocha. Yet as fresh as the soul.

These weren’t palisades, earthen ramparts, or village rings. Bluish grey and porcelain smooth, Easter egg hints of Easter island, a fragmented monument to Ur, yet they are beyond Babylon. As hoary as Pangea, their ruin, is the Urtext of our civilization.

Graham’s bloody deeds, the polyglot chatter, and all the strain of expedition were forgotten. In its stead stood a remembrance. Memory the stuff of dreams and visions awakened.

Yes, awake is right.

That is the state revered here. Of course the natives regard their dreams as real.

Harris was right. The shem was here.

Pine Cone Pineal Gland

“Did a vehicle…” I began.

“…land somewhere…” Sam continued.

“…in the Andes…” Lucas finished.

Hoyt simply trudged on in spooky silence.

So, the others felt it too. We were close. Close to shattering the gnostic lie. Matter and spirit are not to be regarded as separate.

The shaman’s lights no longer perplexed me. I was untroubled by the madness we’d seen in Pacific depths.

The glory of God was not profaned by dust.

Duality needed no affixing since it’s just myopia. We were in no danger of transgression.

Here at arm’s length was the physical. In truth it transmitted… no it was the spiritual. The question now was how to travel from vein to heart.

Yes, we were awake. Wakefulness has grades. To complete our mission to gain ‘Total Information Awareness’ we merely had to hop from the bed. What was mere in the mundane was complex in the mystic.

Despite appearances Cook probably didn’t know the sort of thing we were after. Hell, neither did I. Yet, together through converging interests we were working it out.

Fawcett’s city, his fascination with the occult, his disappearance all these puzzle pieces led to something far beyond archeology.

In the tradition of the magi a mystic announces the Aeon. We are in the Aeon of Horus, the age of fire, and there is transformation afoot. Transformation of the sort that those servants of Saturn feared.

It is a calculus of dance.

We had just a few more differential pirouettes to skip into the ecstasy beyond dimensions. Not interdimensional mind you. But dispensing with dimensionality altogether. There are some among us who fear this to be gazing upon the face of God.

Yet, God’s face everywhere appears and all these thresholds are pagan fears.

I again noted the vines wreathing the roots of great trees like a crown for the true arboreal head.

I nodded to Chuck. He understood me.

The horticulturist stooped and harvested.

We trekked on through primordial vesper.

Yes, the trick you see, the excellent training. This we received in spades. Before any sort of psychedelic or ascetic work it is essential to set anchors. Failure to do so when delving into anything beyond intermediate depths will cause a slip into the all-consuming fire.

Despite them trying fervently to thrust me headfirst into Hell. I am whole. I am whole because I tethered myself. It is why I remember all of this. It is why I am recounting all this.

Even in my strange exile, here among discarded Wonton bowls, and modem stripped laptops. As I float in the South China Sea – I recall everything. I recall everything because pain in the legs is the heart of Zazen.

Schmidt was the first one to notice the sinkhole. Having picked his way to the top of a peculiarly shaped mound of ruin and flora he cried out.

“Holy fuck!”

Holy fuck was right.

“This is very similar to the cenote in Valladolid Mexico.” Cook remarked.

“What it is! Is fucking dank…!” Sam exclaimed clapping his hands together. “Ya fags got SCUBA shit right..I mean we’re bound to have scuba shit…”

Lobo nodded.

We still had several miles to go before reaching the next rest stop on the route Hoyt’s ancient map outlined. But, several miles was forgotten in light of this seductive anomaly.

It was unanimously agreed that we go swimming.

It’s important to do dangerous dives well rested. Initial explorations would have to be made. This was also an excellent opportunity to assess the amphibious fitness of our drones.

That’s a lot of activity.

Which is why we set up camp before noon rolled around.

~

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.3 – As Wicked as the Wicked

On January 21, 2019 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction Series, Sketch of Sam Monroe, The Fractal Journal, UncategorizedLeave a comment

REVEALED: The 'mystery UFO orbs seen and filmed stalking ... — Chapter 8.2

The whole place had a bizarre sort of sentience.

We filed down a path lined with gnarled roots and dense vegetation. The smell of damp earth pervaded humid air. Fireflies lent mystic luminescence to the primeval scene. Every now and then bits of stone, arranged in vaguely intelligent patterns, would make us pause and ponder. Until a shove informed that we must troop on.

Sam’s tan baseball cap bobbed prosaically, just feet from my line of sight, intermittently obscuring my view of a darkness that was surprising for mid day. The canopy was thick, stretching some hundred feet above, vaulting cathedral-like, assuring the sun dared not defile an eternal vesper.

The hush among us Americans was certainly church like, much to the amusement of our guides, who laughed and sang in a mix of Portuguese and Arawak.

This is how I began recollecting the strange series of events that led to our present situation in the Amazon Rainforest. Everything that I’ve so far recounted is crystal clear in my memory. It is my fond hope that those who can glean what stands in the shadows of my words…do. That is that I have communicated effectively.

It is a matter of necessity that this record is episodic. Despite our notes, our corroboration – there is some difficulty in recollection. Yes, I understand that this seems to contradict the earlier statement about a crystal clear memory. What I mean is that the skeletal framework is crystal clear. But certain connective tissues remain mercurial. Did you ever forget the name of a coworker you saw daily. Someone you knew, whose name you knew, yet for some reason now that name escapes you. So you resort to recalling facts about your interactions, their appearance, how you felt etc. Well, this is exactly like that.

Most of the blank spaces have been surpassed except that which regards the key. I can barely piece together the connection between the strange soldiers and a certain shadowy lodge in Germany. The furthest true planet is cloudy.

I think these men have something to do with the giants that attacked us at Luckadoos lodge; and maybe some of what the country swain recounted was not entirely fabricated. Physically they are not a threat. Whatever has Hoyt in its grip does not tolerate them. He’s like some white blood cell.

But, metaphysically something has crept in. I think the strange shaman who appeared at the Kuikuro village is trying to keep it at bay. Nightly he makes some sort of propitiation. He sits alone by a strange geometric fire that he himself has set and rocks back and forth as he mutters some staccato chant.

Many of our guides have abandoned us. We did foresee this eventuality. Which is one of the reasons for our (traditionally speaking) inadvisably outsized expedition. It isn’t their exit that alarms us. It is their parting words.

What I am saying is an extreme paraphrase but I believe it to be a faithful enough rendition. In essence they told us that there is no such thing as balancing duality, in affixing it, and that our attempts to do so render us: ‘as wicked as the wicked.’

Who knows what sorts of bizarre imaginings the Catholic/indigenous syncretism fosters in local brains. Yet there was something uncannily erudite in their debased Portuguese patois. Something forceful in the rhythm of syllable and the sternness of expression.

This coupled with the fact that their admonishment echoed well established alchemical truisms.

I approached the Shaman one night mid ceremony. Something no one had done. But, I was through with politesse. I entered with the intent to get answers. And I did.

He met my gaze and instantly I was flooded with inexpressible awareness. It was throbbing, pulsing, wavelike – everyting was solid but nothing was tangible. It was as if the whole present reality was comprised of smoke. A wispy thing an afterffect…and then I heard him say….

“Sacred fire…sacred fire is timid…it does not consume. Rather it perpetuates. It is flux and stasis.” As these words manifested in my brain I saw two iridescent orbs emerge from the ground and phase their way through the trees.

I was immediately transported back to that spot by the kitchen window at the lodge. By now I knew…but still it threw…me…the saucers I saw at a hidden Kentucky lake were not the effects of military grade hallucinogens.

For what I saw now…I saw stone cold sober.

And this is where the trouble and the shadow began. Memory flees from me just as those orbs seemed to flee from our strange companion.

My surroundings aren’t helping matters. As of the writing of this, I am inside a shipping container aboard a Chinese cargo vessel. I’ll reveal the reasons behind this later – post hoc dangers aren’t primarily metaphysical.

If it wasn’t for Chao and his dumplings I may have given up on recounting this at all. I mean in the grand scheme I suppose it doesn’t matter. Whether one knows or not. It’s not a matter of fate either…but I get ahead of myself.

The trouble is that the key as you may well have guessed was chemical in nature. And the realization of the city shattered our standard temporal apparatus to such a degree that everything in the periphery of the epicenter was lost. That is we that survived knew…but we do not know how we knew. It is against my better instincts that I am trying to surpass that gap….

There is a reason that there is no heaven on Earth. But more on this later. I hear the sound of flesh on metal…that’s Chao with the dumplings.

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.2 – Sigil

On December 15, 2018December 15, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Sketch of Sam Monroe, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Image result for planetary seal of saturn — Chapter 8.1

We continued as if a trail of corpses wasn’t piling in our wake. Thornton’s fatal call never came. Stateside communication was as mundane and technical as ever. Was there some glitch that made ‘Langley’ miss the HAG – I log?

Our minds struggled frantically for answers. Graham reticent as ever would certainly not provide them. Lobo simply replied “Less hassle for us.”

Cook the de facto leader of the expedition couldn’t extract answers from anyone and was at a loss as to the probable identity of the dead. They weren’t tribals. Murmurs rippled through the expedition and yet no one bothered to confront Graham. We were the only ones that even dared to question him.

Everyone just sort of watched from a fearful distance.

It became a sort of grim show. Whenever Hoyt ventured into the wood…we’d gather in the spook tent like a suburban family watching a morbid sitcom.

The more we saw…the more confused we became. Since we never used the aerial drones at night to prevent tree induced collisions; the little robotic witch eyed climber was our awkwardly angled window into a world of silent death.

The first sighting that I mentioned was a mere accident that happened while Cook was playing with our toys. But having become obsessed with figuring out this fresh mystery we took more drastic measures.

We figured Graham’s location by placing a tracker in his boots. Just slipped one in as he slept. To be honest I think he let us.

If it was within range we’d send out the HAG – I. How Hoyt knew where the intruders would be is beyond any of us.

He’d simply appear. As if he were going to an appointment. We’d hear nothing but the tread of the enemy and the barely audible thwoosh of arrows splitting the jungle air. The stricken never cried aloud. The aim was deadly piercing either neck, heart, or lungs, once or twice the mouth.

The most disturbing discoveries occurred when we’d troop out to the kills. Obviously the limitations of High Agility Ground surveillance meant we could see maybe one or two kills. That of course was far from the reapers actual harvest. These were nightly slaughters. How was this martial force deployed? Who kept sending out these wolves to the slaughter?

The dead were invariably turned face down with their throats tidily slit. They were all wearing some sort of uniform. The pattern of the camo wasn’t that of any branch of any nations military that I knew. The fallen were equipped with night vision and some odd-looking assault rifles that resembled an M4 carbine.

Strangest of all each member carried daggers bearing the planetary seal of Saturn on the blade.

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.1 – The Roots are Thirsty

On December 14, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Original Fiction Series, Sketch of Sam Monroe, The Fractal Journal, UncategorizedLeave a comment

41. Write a list of 101 places to see before you die ... — 8.0

Lucas was even less thrilled about waking earlier than early.

He stumbled to the spook tent with all the enthusiasm of a snail approaching salt.

It took what would otherwise have been a comically epochal span of time to realize the gravity of the situation.

“Wait….what…what the fuck…” He muttered as his eyes narrowed on the bichromal display.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his face turned ashen white. An effect rendered all the more impressive by his deep Amazonian sunshine induced bronzing.

“Pai Nosso que estás no céu Santificado seja o vosso nome…” Cook muttered under his breath.

“I didn’t know you were religious.” I said.

“I am not but sometimes one must…Ai meu Deus!”

“Nah…god damn is more like it.” Lucas interjected.

“Perhaps…” Cook said looking as wistful as the cramped quarters could afford.

Lucas tugged at my shoulder.

I instantly recognized it as a prompt for private conversation.

“Excuse us Doctor Cook.” I said.

The doctor simply waved us away as he played and replayed the grim little video.

Lucas and I stepped into a thicket just outside the camp’s perimeter.

“Ok…what the hell is going on?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“He’s….killing people…?” The statement trailed off into the tonal quality of a question.

“Uh..yea..looks like it…”

“Why….”

“Fucked if I know…”

We both stared at our boots.

“Your theory…might be right…”

“What theory…”

“This is real Alan…”

“Yea…either that or he’s just gone mental…”

“Hoyt…old pussycat Hoyt with the soft gray eyes…the nerdy bent…he’s not even military for Christ’s sake…and since when in all fucks name does he hunt…”

“Since when does he hunt people…” I added.

“No something happened….” Lucas said. “Something far beyond the power of suggestion…”

Again we examined our boots as if they were the most interesting thing in the universe.

“No wonder the natives avoid him. But…the thing that’s got me most bothered is why Lobo allows it.”

“What if he’s commanding it…” Lucas began.

“I dunno…I kinda wanna go back…”

“I don’t think we can…”

“Sure…just call it quits….if Cook and what was once Grahamathy wanna find some abomination in this god forsaken hell they can do it without our help…”

“Yeah…but Baird…if they do…they’ll have ultimate say…over whatever…whatever it is…”

“Is that the way it works?”

“I dunno…but it’s too risky to just let it unfold.”

“Fuck!” I stamped my foot against the ground.

Then as if I’d unwittingly performed some summoning spell Graham Hoyt emerged from the treeline with a pair of wild pigs in tow.

Lucas and I must have stared the oddest stare. Yet he was unflinching as he had been since the Luckadoo incident.

“What?” He asked.

“Where the hell have you been…?”

He was silent for a moment as if considering something.

“The roots were thirsty.”

And with that he made his way past us into the camp.

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 8.0 – Night Ops

On December 14, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn Sketch of Sam Monroe, UncategorizedLeave a comment

3D night vision kill 8 14 17 - YouTube — 7.9

‘As if we had a choice.’ I mused to myself as dawn tickled its way up my hammock pegs.

The haze of sleep dissipated slowly.

I wanted to lay there and sway forever in the sticky morn. My wish would not be granted.

Cooks boisterous tankroll of a gait disturbed my contented malaise.

“Senhor Baird! Senhor baird…come to the surveillance tent…come on…”

“Wuhh…” I shook my head.

I felt a strong hairy hand grip my wrist.

“Get up…get up! I have something to show you…”

I hung my feet over the edge of my suspended bunk.

“Dr. Cook…it’s too early to be this excited…”

I barely registered a look of incredulous rage.

“I would not risk your bitching for nothing….bichano…fucking Americans..”

I rolled my eyes and reached a hand down to examine my shoes.

“I already look. Comone on get dressed lez go!”

I groaned.

‘What the hell could be this important.’

I hardly saw any other fool stirring in the legion like camp.

My boot ensconced feet contacted a slightly sinking earth and I was off to our gizmo tent.

Cook had outpaced me by a country mile and was leaning over a console. As I stepped closer I noted Graham’s figure stooped over something in the black-white glow of night vision. It was HAG-I footage.

I leaned over Cooks shoulder to get a better look.

“So what…Hoyt is bein a freak again..what else is new…” I muttered in disgust.

Cook’s face wheeled about and faced me; so few inches distant that I could bite his nose. These tents were cramped.

“Look closer…”

I did. An action which caused me to get just as excited as Cook.

Graham was leaning over a body.

Not the body of a pig or a peccary or any kind of wildlife…but the body of man…a decidely non native man with an arrow protruding from his chest.

I gasped audibly.

“I told you…this explain everything…about why Commander Lobo let him go alone in the Jungle…”

It was still too early for me to understand.

“Don’t you see…we are so unmolested…”

“Well…I mean uncle Jethro ain’t here…”

“Ugh…you Americans with your jokes…look….Senhor Baird…the fact that we have not had to deal with anyone for a week is not absolutely outre…but given the current climate…it is unusual…and there…” he said tapping the screen…”there is the reason why…there are simply no one to bother us…”

Cook was really worked up. His English never slipped this bad.

“Do you get it…he is killing people..”

I got it. I got it loud and clear. This was highly illegal…on multiple levels…and Thornton would skin us alive…it would be worse than Court Martials…Thornton would..Thornton….

I wheeled round and headed off towards Schmidt’s hammock.

“Senhor Baird!”

I ignored Cook’s protestations.

No this was real…this was real alright…

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 7.9 – The Arch-Druid

On December 12, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Sketch of Sam Monroe, The Fractal Journal, UncategorizedLeave a comment

The satellite view was deceptive. Google maps reveals an impressive looking patchwork of highways in the Mato Grosso and all throughout Brazil. Labeled with such bureaucratically soporific appellations as MT 101. Yet, these thin lines stretching like gossamer serpents to overgrown pioneer towns were nothing but dust in a vast ocean of green.

So knowing that we could eventually break through to another highway should the need arise, wasn’t as comforting a thought as one might suppose.

These were the things I pondered as I watched Lucas shoo a stick bug the size of a forearm off of his pack.

“That thing is almost as scary as Graham.”

“You mean Jeeves?”

Schmidt chuckled. “Jeeves…?”

“Or maybe he’s more of a Bertie Wooster.”

“What the hell are you talkin bout man?”

“Guess you Krauts are just that uncultured.”

“I’m American man...U..S…A – U….S….A – U…S…A – U…S…A!”

“I wouldn’t be proud of ignoring the glory of Stephen Fry no matter my origin.”

“Can’t ignore what you don’t know.”

“That’s the definition of ignorance.”

“Whatever.”

We sat for a bit in the fold out chairs appreciating the familiarity of the fire rather than the warmth. The polyglot chatter of the voices mixed with twilight and the occasional cry of howler monkeys had a surreal effect. God, my legs ached. Even more so my feet. Even with the best gear the planet had to offer there was no way, no precaution, no circumspection that would allow you to adequately address the damp. I had athletes foot. I had it bad.

“Fuck.” I cursed.

“I’m not into dudes.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, if I go gay I’m goin for old bedroom eyes over there,” I said flicking a thumb in the direction of one of the Brazilians with especially large liquid brown eyes that seemed to ever be on the verge of weeping.

“Pffft….my ass is better.”

“I thought you weren’t gay.” I laughed.

“Just cause I’m straight doesn’t mean I’m not vain.”

“Glam rock kid?”

“Yep.”

Our banter was a silent pact to balm the weirdness. Graham had become eerily good at hunting. I’d never known him to hunt. In all the years I’d spent with him…I’d never heard him mention hunting. Nor did I know that he could carve out, string, and pull a long bow.

What was stranger was that no one stopped him. Brancos were not supposed to hunt on tribal lands. Yet no one stopped him. The Kuikuros and other tribes among us were terrified of him. The Brazilians disliked his taciturn nature, and the terseness of his replies. As for Lobo and his mercenaries they were far too busy keeping watch on the brush. The latin spec-ops guy also seemed to have gained a deep respect for old Hoyt.

Which is why he made no attempt to stay the silent stride that carried the lanky predator beyond the perimeter.

“What I don’t understand is how he’s able to get close to anything with that reek.” Sam remarked.

“Yeah…”

Hoyt had continued smoking like a chimney throughout the week. I could always smell him before I could hear him.

“So, I guess we have to talk about it…” I said after yet another prolonged silence.

“Let’s not and say we did.” Lucas said.

“Yeah…you tasted that Finnish pussy…you should appreciate Suomi wisdom…silence is sacred.”

“Fancy yourself an ascetic now motormouth?”

Sam flicked his tongue between a piece sign. “Motormouth is what your mom calls me.”

“O yea…score that postmenopousal tang…ya tiger!” Schmidt rolled his eyes.

“Jesus Christ guys…I’m serious what do you think is going on here…”

Lucas sighed.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you can’t tell me that this is actually real…”

“Well it is…we’re here, wet and miserable as fuck, likely to die of dysentery or oversaturation at any given tickby of a god damn second.”

“No I mean…I don’t think Thornton is a Gman at all…I don’t think we’re really propogandists…or shrinks…or drug manufacturers…”

Each of us eyed our boots uncomfortably.

“I think he’s the arch-druid and we’re bringing him the vestal virgins on a silver fucking platter.”

“You guys wanna…call it quits…”

Slowly we all shook our heads.

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 7.8 – Babylon Ex-Nihilo?

On December 11, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, Sketch of Sam Monroe, The Fractal Journal, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Nineveh, the Bloody City â The Kingdom of Our Lord — Chapter 7.7

Ah, the rain…it was after all a rain-forest. Though we were careful to embark during a season that was dry relatively speaking…the problem was that we were speaking relatively.

We were coping… swimmingly.

That is we were in essence swimming. Though everything was waterproofed in a spectacular fashion…I kept waiting for something to give out. It was of course a relief from the heat…but hardly that either. The decrease of hell was but a scant degree and a half if that.

There were times that we’d have to cut through bush, and times that we could walk freely between massive trunks, shrouded in a dark misty shower.

No wonder the Indians walked about nude. Hey…maybe they were the first people to evolve…hairlessness would certainly be an advantage here…

“What’s got you so perplexed?” Dr. Cook inquired as he fell into step beside me.

“Oh just thinking about ultimate origins. This place sort of makes it inevitable. That and what a spectacle we must be. We are an utter invasion.”

Cook laughed.

“We are but a germ’s germ here. Even if we took the whole population of Brazil. Even with the deforestation…”

This was not a comforting thought.

“So do you believe what that anthropologist at Kuikuros village told us?”

Cook stared at his footfalls for a bit.

“Believe him in what way?”

“That the cities were simply a larger scale version of those massive grass huts? That the conquistadors were being too European in their imaginings. That cultural nearsightedness was the cause of their failures. They were looking for stones, causeways, roads – and this was wrong…”

“Oh well certainly yes as regards the Kuikoros. You yourself saw the ditches and depressions for the palisades the remananats of the plaza. However…our friend is a bit too enthralled with a certain glib neosketpticism. It’s an odd thing common in academics my age…they want to reform ‘Western Conceptions’ so much that once something fit for that purpose is found…they cease inquiring.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they’re in love with the noble savage myth. I am too…to an extent….but there is a reason the Kuikuros and many others are fascinated and frightened by their own myths about the ‘people of the cloud’ that live somewhere beyond their borders. There were ample reasons for the early explorers to lie. Grants…glory…etc…but that does not mean that they lied. Nor does it mean that they lied to themselves mistaking boulders for bricks.”

“What makes you so certain? Is it Hoyt’s map?”

“Pffft…well, it certainly buttresses the case for alternative history. But, that history frankly stands well enough on its own.”

“O?” I said as I smacked the billionth demon from my cheek. It was remarkable how they braved the rain for blood.

“Well, yes…I have shown you Gobekli Tepe…you yourself saw the ‘Brazilian Stonehenge,’ and Stonehenge itself. Certainly certain clever physics may have been applied…and perhaps many a thing has the accustomed mundane explanation…but when one takes all these things together…and when one see the explosions of high culture…the surprising spread and syncretism.”

“Syncretism….So what you’re telling me is that if someone was seeking to create a new faith…a global faith…it would in fact be an old faith?”

Cook and I trudged along in silence for a great long while before he spoke again.

“Yes.”

I began to see Thornton’s prodding in a different light. He was not a G-man who wished to use psychological and chemical tricks for martial purposes. He did not simply want to gain compliance through memetic warfare. He was a sorcerer…a high priest in some mystery religion I was only beginning to understand. And we were all his unwitting altar boys…o good.

And I began to feel a very strong urge to deny the doctor.

“Yea…but come on…what could be out here…that we haven’t seen…you yourself have been studying the area for forty years you say…and you have not yet found a single thing resembling El Dorado or whatever…”

Cook laughed again.

“I have already told you…we are a germ’s germ here…much there is unseen beneath the canopy…and much more beneath…the soil beneath the canopy…and you and I hold a clue to original elevations, to a four hundred year old topography in the map of your strange friend there…” he said as he pointed to Graham hiking a few bodies ahead. “You yourself have seen the strange stones that we’ve been passing the odd dispersal of trees where they should be thick…no my friend…you are going to see something far more ancient and impressive than a thatched roof New York.”

We were again silent for a great length.

“Babylon ex nihilo?” I inquired incredulously.

Cook simply shook his head.

“Babylon is simply a fragment…and nothing arises ex nihilo…all physic things have a metaphysic origin.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Thornton.”

“So be it.”

“So you are basically proposing the stoned ape theory?”

Cook smiled broadly. “That’s an oversimplified version of an aspect of what I’m saying but what I’m saying can’t really be said. It like theoretical physics or any complex systems can only be understood through rigorous study. But…it can also be seen. And I aim on seeing it.”

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Submitted by J.D. Newsman – Free Car (Creepypasta Sorta) – Pt IV

On December 5, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

The tale continues!

Sorry for the lag in uploading/creating. End of the year is a busy time and all the rest of my excuses etc..

Also sorry for the subpar voice acting… I really would have preffered getting some dudebros together but I’m far too spent ATM to herd the sort of cats I hang about with.

Anywho hope you enjoy and here’s the script just in case you’d prefer to read it.

Doctor Borowski – The following is somethin I was able to grab with my pen. I never thought I’d use this damn thing. Bought it as a vanity at some conference in Sante Fe years back. Little recording device that let’s you get around certain pesky patients rights legalese….never thought I’d use it…much less for good. Hell I’m surprised the battery still held. I feel like James Fucking Bond here…

Agent Bisby : I’m going to remind you again, just one last time, that your prescence here is due entirely to my good humor.

Doctor Borowski: (Sighs) I think you understimate the amount of leverage I yield. These are my patients.

Agent Bisby : Only one is your patient, and he is a possible criminal.

Doctor Borowski: Hardly.

Alan Rickman : O gee I’m so fucking scared…listen you fucking armed accountant …

Docto Borowski : Easy Alan easy…

Alan Rickman : Alright…but just for you doc…this guy right here….

Docor Borowski : That’s enough Alan…

Doctor Borowski : Are you alright Mr. Hurst?

Frank Hurst: “Alright…hahahaa…yea…”

Agent Bisby“Can you tell us what happened?”

Alan Rickman: Can anyone tell anyone anything?

Agent Bisby: Get real man.

Alan Rickman: Yea, real…ok…let’s talk reality…what do you know about Alexandria?

Agent Bisby: I’m not here for a history lesson.

Alan Rickman: I don’t think that you have a choice. You’re gonna have to humor me. Or at least that’s what you can tell yourself Mockingbird.

Agent Bisby: (after a moment of silence) Hey! Don’t call me that…

Alan Rickman: (Laughs derisively)

Agent Bisby: Trust me buckoo…ya don’t scare me one bit. I’ve seen way weirder shit than that…

Alan Rickman: That’s rather inconsequential…and…you still haven’t answered the question. What do you know about Alexandria…

Agent Bisby: It’s a city in Egypt…what about it…it’s history, the burning of the library….what?

Alan Rickman: The library.

Agent Bisby: Well, what about it? First it was accidentaly burned by Ceasar, then fell into pedantry, then was finally eradicated by Islam.

Alan Rickman: Quaint. Very quaint indeed, but I think you know better….

Agent Bisby: If you mean that paganism and platonism survived, that many libraries existed throughout the mediterannean, then yes…if you mean something else…

Alan Rickman: O I do.
Agent Bisby: I’ve never been one for guessing games.

Alan Rickman: What is theurgy?

Agent Bisby: Voodoo.

Alan Rickman: (laughs) What is demonstration?

Agent Bisby: What I’m doing now…demonstrating patience. A feat growing more and more difficult by the second.

Alan Rickman: I meant etymologically…what is demonstration?

Agent Bisby: I’m aware of the oracle of Delphi…what is your point…

Alan Rickman: My point is that there was a point to the specific destruction of the Alexandrian Library.

Agent Bisby: Alternative history is a great made for TV special but it ain’t got a thing to do with your crime.

Alan Rickman: (Laughs) My crime?

Agent Bisby: Yes, you may recall that you kidnapped and maimed Frank Hurst.

Alan Rickman: (Chuckles) Is that what he told you? That I kidnapped him.

Agent Bisby: No he has trauma induced amnesia.

Alan Rickman: And what did the good doctor here tell you.

Agent Bisby: I don’t for one instance believe that you plucked Mr. Hurst from thin air.

Alan Rickman: What in the doctors record indicates that he is prone to lyign, fanciful stories, or any particular afffinity to me?

Agent Bisby: Well nothing…

Alan Rickman: And you say you’ve seen strange things…

Agent Bisby: I am not the one being investigated right now…

Alan Rickman: And what is now?

There is a great whirring sound.

Agent Bisby and the doctor gaze around a field in astonishment.

Agent Bisby: This…this…this is my dad’s ranchouse…this is our…our pasture…our gate…

Alan Rickman: (Chuckles) I kept the docs furniture to make sure you remained in a comfortable psychoanalytic mood…

Agent Bisby: What…what the hell is happening..am I some kinda guniea pig here…was this the superintendents idea…I want answers damn it..

Alan Rickman: O come now…I don’t think you need an external authority to provide you with answers. You have yet to answer my question what is now? Let…me give you a hint…how is it that I was able to see Frank Hurst all these years?

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 7.7 – Anarchy

On November 21, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn Sketch of Sam Monroe, UncategorizedLeave a comment

In an era when Brooklyn dentists go on Safari, I suppose that even our mad expedition was doomed to be tainted with training wheels. I lost my coffee buzz at the same moment that I watched a bright glint arc its way over our heads through my binoculars. The big high tech daddy in the sky was always just a few steps behind to catch his little man in case he happened to run the risk of scraping up against reality.

There were dangers, and plenty of them, chiefly the heat and the monsters the humidity bred.Provided that this manuscript made its way across the web and the handful of copies we were able to get into print weren’t destroyed I’m sure that readers are pretty fed up with my incessant bitching about the heat.

If it helps, I’m doing it on purpose.The thick sticky air is a constant preoccupation. A preoccupation as constant as hum of every kind of arthropod deploying billions of years of evolutionary strategy to wage war on my homeostasis.

You really shouldn’t come here if accidental death by exotic critter or heat exhaustion isn’t your thing. It really is pervasive. I sit down to write and can think of no other thing to describe. Though I prefer a pen and paper I’ve switched to a rather bulky waterproof laptop due to sweat and damp making it impossible to maintain the integrity of my notebooks.

I suppose that what I’m getting at is yes there were dangers here but really they were theme park dangers. You can get decapitated on roller coasters. Here in the jungle there was a chance that you’d get shot by nickelante revolutionaries or mauled by a jaguar but the chances of that were about as high as a loose bolt on Thunder Mountain. That’s the impression I had.

Night Vision, air conditioned tents, anda small platoon armed with automatic rifles didn’t bode well for feelings of vulnerability. As I’ve mused before there are plenty of reasons to be worried even despite this but I still got this boxed in feeling. I mean at the moment I could pull up a porno on this little 13 inch screen. My phone talked to satellites in geosynchronous orbit.

Space might hold some fascination some thrill of the unknown but I know for a fact, I feel it in my bones, that the wonder of Magellan…or even Patton is no longer possible.

I’m happy to inform you that this dreary notion was soon to be dispelled. Brazil is a volatile place and the construction of the Belo Monte dam far to the north sent shock waves from the city of Altamira throughout the basin, even as far as Mato Grosso.

“What is the number one problem in the Amazon?” Lobo quired as he fell into step beside me.

“Bugs that crawl up your pecker?”

Lobo smiled wryly. “Expand your scope.”

“Deforestation.”

“That’s a surprising answer for a military man.”

“I’m a martial scarecrow,” I laughed. “Sure, I have rank and file but really I’m what the limeys call a boffin.”

“I’m aware of the term. But now that you know that I am speaking from a soldier’s view what is the biggest problem in the Amazon? I will give a hint: deforestation is but a symptom.”

“Corruption?”

“Close, but again that is merely a symptom.”

“Well, deforestation can be a crime, corruption is basically another term for crime, so law enforcement.”

“So close, in fact close enough to where I’ll take it. But, I have to expand it…you see the problem is very simple…power projection.”

I turned my head and raised an eyebrow.

Lobo pointed up.

“You see the canopy? Does that lend itself to air support?”

I shook my head.

“Did you see the savanna, the wetland, this dry forest? How easily do you think that adequate force can be projected on the ground?”

“Not very.”

“Yes! What we do here now…” he said sweeping his hand over the expedition trailing in front and behind. “…is only possible because of your American money…”

“I see.”

“Ah, that you may…but seeing is not realizing…there is other money besides American money and there are people who do not in the slightest motivated by that impulse…”

“You are talking about social unrest?”

“That and much much more…those are the things…not just these trees, this mud, this river…that make projecting the power to enforce what we call civilization.”

“Ok…and…”

“I’m Worried…this is really complicated…this project…the area…the time…we are a tangle of knots…”

He fell silent.

We strode on in a thick air of contemplative apprehension.

There it was. The dissolution of my modern ennui. The wild was still wild. I gazed at the canopy whose shade was a shield for anarchy.

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The Sketch of Sam Monroe – Chapter 7.6 – A New Answer

On November 6, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn Sketch of Sam Monroe, UncategorizedLeave a comment

Image result for whiskey and mystics and men — 7.5

“Je ne savais pas que tu parlais français. ”

I groaned. “Wha..what ?”

” I didn’t know you spoke French. ” Fabres voice was muffled by the fog of sleep.

” Huh… ”

” You were just humming an old French tune. In near perfect French. ”

“I wouldn’t speak Frog if you paid me in gold bullion and Claudia Shiffers pussy. ”

” Are you always this charming when you wake up ? ”

“Are you always an unbearable asshole ?”

” A question with a question with an attitude…you’re sure you’re not French. ”

It was one of those naps that really disoriented you. I mean I knew where I was…slowly. But, everything came in as incomplete jigsaw pieces.

“Are ya ready for the first big hike?”

I wasn’t. I watched the porters stowing the tents and gear with growing horror. The humidity was nauseating and physical exertion was an unwelcome suggestion.

“Cheer up! What…you’d rather play with chemicals in Kentucky?”

“Much.”

I dangled my legs over the side of the hammock. These poor feet would soon be ensconced in boots. And these poor legs would soon be a trekking for a mystic puzzle piece.

Two porters approached the sleeping tent and began working to remove the outermost tarp.

“Looks like you’d better get moving.”

“If you were going to be my reveille you could’ve at least brought some coffee.”

“I’m a cop not a maid.”

“Nah, what you are is an asshole.” I muttered as I checked my boots for bugs.

All that was left of the mess tent was a fold out table with what remained of some pork and eggs and a coupla big thermoses of coffee.

I dumped two huge ladel fulls onto a metal plate and went to town.

“Hungry much?” Lucas voice rang out behind me as he approached.

“Hell yea…I’d suggest ya pig out too…” I said between chomps. “I mean ya shoulda already…you remember how many calories we’re about to burn?”

“That’s why the pot is nearly empty. Your lazy ass was the last to wake up. You got Lobo to thank for us leavin ya as much as we did.”

I chuckled. “Aww…what a sweetie.”

“Sweetie nothin…I think he’s gonna drive us to near breaking. He wants to get this over with as soon as possible. You can almost cut the tension in the air around that dude with a knife.”

“Yea…I figured…he’s worried about revolutionaries or drug runners or both.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s worried about everything.”

“Can ya blame him…” I said motioning a circle around the perimeter with my fork. “Look at the size of all this…ya could see this expedition from space.”

“They say there’s safety in numbers.”

“There’s also mutiny and intrigue and broken gear.”

“Yea…I’m not really sure about this but then again this is one hell of a trip…one hell of an everything…I mean this whole fucking project. I mean I still don’t believe that crazy bullshit we saw in the Pacific. If we’re looking for ultimate origins…I mean hell just show the public one glimpse of that…”

“I think old Thornton is looking more for a way of life. But before that…someone’s gotta live it…I guess we’re the guinea pigs. I kinda think of it like the end of that Doors song…but sorta like the opposite…we must try to find a new answer instead of a way…”

“Yea…” Lucas agreed. “Makes sense I suppose…now that we found the new answer the problem becomes clearing the way.”

“You really think he’s gonna put Mescaline in the water supply?”

“Wouldn’t put it past him.”

“You know…” I said as I gazed at the villagers going about their business despite the high-tech alien bullshit that was going on around them. “This isn’t going to work…it isn’t going to work…there’s just too many different ways to live.”

“…hmmm…but… maybe that’s exactly how it’s gonna work.”

“Maybe.”

I heard muttering in Portuguese. A couple of porters were approaching.

“Are you finish the coffee?” One of them inquired in halting English.

“Hell no!” I said snatching up one of the thermoses.

The porter laughed.

“We got order to pack up…”

I was done with the food an indicated as much. As for the coffee…there was still a good half hour before we were going to take off.

I wandered over to an overturned canoe. Lucas decided not to follow suit as he was already full of caffeine and opted to buzz with overstimulation over the various affairs that surrounded us like a mad pointillist painting.

As I poured another cup of coffee I heard the sound of approaching rotor blades. It was the bird coming by to pick up the HAG I and our other high-tech toys.

‘Pizzaro could never have imagined this kind of bullshit.’ I chuckled to myself.

To think that we’d be followed by a helicopter full of silicon valley took some of the romance out of it. But, as my eye danced from lapping river to canopy I regained a sense of mystic thrill. As the caffeine began to work its way through my system I became cautiously excited again.

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