Posted in Books

Convenient Incidents

Hello Commons, I’ve written and published another book. This one is called Convenient Incidents, it’s an anthology of fifteen interconnected short stories which revolve around a man by the name of Hilter Odolf Williamson. This is my eighth fiction book overall, the sixth in its series, and the first book of the Third Spiral: The Here and Now, and by the end of this post, I’ll have explained everything.

First, the new book. Convenient Incidents is a collection of fifteen short stories broken into three chapters of five stories each: Fricker Drive, The Incense Salesman, and Convenient Incidents.

  • Fricker Drive starts with a young man who lives with his parents on a backwoods road called Fricker Drive in the town of Treeburg; this young man vanishes, which prompts his family to sell their house to a psychologist named Hilter Odolf Williamson so they can move away. Then, as more of the residents start to disappear, Hilter begins buying up all of the vacant houses on the road for reasons he can’t explain.
  • In The Incense Salesman, a mysterious incense salesman under the alias of Smells connects with random folk from the greater Treeburg area over the internet and sends them free samples of his wares. Something strange happens whenever the incense samples are lit, and when the salesman goes to deliver his last free sample? Something even stranger happens.
  • Finally, in Convenient Incidents, Hilter (who’s begun to notice a few patterns present in the “conveniently coinciding incidents” transpiring around Fricker Drive) starts a general psychotherapy practice out of his many houses. The discussions he has with his patients (all locals who played a role in the strange events) sends him spiraling into his own mind trying to figure out what it all means, why he bought all the houses on Fricker Drive, why he even came to the area in the first place. Then, he finds out.

All of Convenient Incidents can be read for free on my website by clicking here. If you’d like to help support my work, you can buy a paperback copy from Amazon by clicking here. Convenient Incidents is 90,666 words long (which translates to 248 pages) and yeah, now you know.

Next, how my fiction works. Everything I write takes place in a reality called Existence. Existence is made up of a few different astral planes, one of which is called The Void. The Void is where the universes float, the universes are where the planets float, and the planets are… well, you know what planets are. Convenient Incidents is the sixth book in the W-63 series, which means that it takes place in Universe W-63; the first five books of the W-63 series make up the First Spiral, which I’ll get to in a bit, and are not directly related to Convenient Incidents. They are related to it, but not in a strictly linear fashion, which means you don’t have to read the first five books in order to understand and enjoy the sixth; if you did read the first five books you’ll probably notice a few references, such as character and location names, but the story of the first five books and the stories in the sixth are not linked.

Well, they’re technically linked, but in the same way your past life is linked to your current life… makes sense, right?

Lastly, the three spirals. Okay. So the First Spiral is called The Highest One Writing, the Second Spiral is an ongoing story that I’m not revealing the title of until it’s done, and the Third Spiral is called The Here and Now. I’mma put it into a list to explain it.

  • First Spiral: The Highest One Writing
    • A story about a fictional author with the initials of HOW told over the six books that he wrote. Each book is a different kind of book (self-help, poetry, novel, etc.) and to keep it simple, I’ll summarize the story for you like so: Through his writing, our HOW author inadvertently taps into and controls a few different universes parallel to his own. He winds up meeting one of the beings from one of these universes (who he thinks is just a character from his writings), and at the end of everything, the “character” ends up killing the author and his mother and destroying all of Existence.
    • But, the thing is, Existence can’t be destroyed, it can only be reset. So…
  • Second Spiral
    • The grand majority of this is not written yet. I know how the story is going to go; I know how many books it will be, I know the titles of these books, I have plots, characters, locations, and the various universes they’re going to take place in, I have this, that, and the other thing, but aside from the first book, it’s all still in my head. And for now, that’s all right.
    • Here’s what I’ll tell you: the story of the Second Spiral begins shortly after Existence is reborn. Some nonsense will go down over the course of the story, and by the end of it, said nonsense will have been resolved. And that’s that.
  • Third Spiral: The Here and Now
    • Where the First and Second Spirals tell an overarching story, the Third Spiral will (probably) not. After the events of the Second Spiral go down, Existence will be existing. So long as Existence exists, things will happen. So long as things happen, there will be stories to be told and books to be made.
    • Cards on the table, I don’t have any books planned for the Third Spiral in the immediate future. In the distant future, yes, but not in the immediate future. That being said, I didn’t plan on writing Convenient Incidents either, it just kind of happened. So who knows.

Now to bring it all together: Convenient Incidents is the sixth book of W-63 and the first book of the Third Spiral. At the end of W-63 #5, all of reality (and thus Universe W-63) is given a hard reset – reincarnated, in other words. Universe W-63 doesn’t have a role to play in the story of the Second Spiral, so it is reborn as part of the Third Spiral. Convenient Incidents is basically the epilogue of The Highest One Writing, and so the first five books of W-63 are essentially the past life of Convenient Incidents. Makes sense now, right?

No? This is all totally confusing and ridiculous? Well imagine how I feel, all of this shit just comes to me. I go nuts if I don’t write it down and make it into books, so I’mma keep on keepin’ on and the pile will keep on growin’.

What else… oh, so like I said above, you can read Convenient Incidents in its entirety for free on my website right now (I’ll even put another link here). What I didn’t say above: all the books I’ve written can be read for free in their entireties on my website, that’s just how I’m doing it, click here for the list! Also, all of the stories from Convenient Incidents will be posted on the blog to be read by whoever finds the posts, but not until December 12th of this year. This is because WordPress offers a feature that allows you to schedule blog posts ahead of time, and I abuse that feature like a fiend; The Highest One Writing started posting on June 19th and will finish posting on December 11th, then Convenient Incidents will run from the 12th to the 26th, and then the first book of the Second Spiral (The Monksville Chronicles) will start going up on the 27th. TMC should finish its run sometime in March of 2021, and I plan on doing more writing between now and then.

Um… I think that’s all.

I don’t really know what I’m doing here, Commons, but I’m trying my best. For you, for the hypothetical readers, for the stories I tell and the characters those stories are about, I’m trying my best. And I’ll keep on trying. And the wind shall continue to blow.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The Zeroc Council Of Life – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (30/66)

Hello Commons, here is chapter 9.999 of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. Please enjoy. See the bottom of this post for more info.

Chapter 9.999
The Zeroc Council Of Life


“We have a problem,” Chairseat Jolon says as he addresses his fellow Chairseats, “or more accurately, a development. There is a small faction of humans who don’t wear capes despite representing an organization known as Cape Enterprises, and what’s more, they’d like to aid in our search for the anomaly we detected in the forest.”

“What do you mean or more accurately a development, that’s a huge problem!” Chairseat Kuland bellows from his chair next to ChairElder Ealdra, wishing those who consider themselves to be his peers had elected to send Chairseat Griffin or Chairseat Morwen to invade Earth like he had originally suggested. Even Eulalie would have been a better choice – a healer’s hands are deft and swift. “One can’t find something that doesn’t exist, Jolon, no matter how hard you try! Unless that’s your plan, to distract the humans with a fool’s errand.”

“Now Chairseat Kuland,” ChairElder Ealdra quells, “I don’t believe Chairseat Jolon was finished addressing us. He is your equal, treat him as such.”

“I do, Elder. As the Council’s strategy expert, who, may I add, didn’t appoint himself to the Council, I expect only the most flawless results from myself. Why shan’t I expect the same from the rest of us?”

“Because your high expectations represent your willingness to observe the downfall of your own kind,” Chairseat Gray whispers through bearded lips.

A silence is drawn from the Chairseats.

“Now, Chairseat Jolon, as you were saying?”

“Conveniently enough,” Chairseat Jolon says through clenched teeth whilst making direct eye contact with Chairseat Kuland, “while the craft I designed specifically for this invasion was making its approach, I was performing some geographical scans and… there is a strange anomalous signal that does occasionally ping from the area.”

Nine pairs of eyebrows ranging from shades of lustrous silver to weathered gray rise to the ceiling.

“All right Powwow, you have my attention.”

“Good Kuland, I’m glad you could catch up. Now, it’s in the shape of a mountain, the anomaly, and it’s located in the patch of forest between the currently deserted residential area and the lower of the two lakes. The very same patch of forest, may I remind the Council, that Admiral Bolt was instructed to investigate with his strike teams. The fact that all of these separate events – including events that we originally made up – the fact that they’re all occurring synchronously is… most unsettling, to say the least. I fear we may have stumbled into something not even Agartha would have been able to predict.”

As I said above, The 2020 Event |The Main Event| is a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. It is also the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Hanging In The Balance – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (29/66)

Hello Commons, here is chapter 9.666 of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. Please enjoy. See the bottom of this post for more info.

Chapter 9.666
Hanging In The Balance

Proper Zerocian Etiquette

“Well this still seems a little risky, us coming here and all, but what do I know?” Chuck rhetorically asks the open air, hoping he doesn’t get an answer.

“I don’t know Chuck, it’s like Ace said. We came through the right channels. He seemed pretty confident that we didn’t pose any sort of threat to the Chairseat or his mission.”

“Yeah, but I could totally pose a threat here, like, hypothetically speaking. I could literally vaporize this entire shit with the press of a button, no–”

“Along with the rest of the continental North America, and our planet. I feel like you’re feeling yourself a little too much today boss, why don’t you throw on your Cannabis juice and let me do the talking when he gets back?”

Chuck’s sunglasses melt away to reveal that his pupils have almost completely overtaken his irises, adding, “Oh, the Cannajuice done been flowin’, son. I never turned that shit off last time I kicked it on. I’m just used to it by now,” to really drive home the point that Chuck is the master of his own reality.

Sigmund crosses his arms over his lab coat, the plastic squeaking with moisture as he twists his torso and takes in his surroundings for the third time. The interior of the craft is disappointingly similar to that of a cave. The ceiling is covered with stalactites just dripping with calcium water, that irritating droplet sound being the last thing Sigmund thought he would hear whilst on board an extraterrestrial’s spacecraft. Probe him, cut him open, inject his body with tiny little sensors so he can be tracked for the rest of his days – just don’t force him to sit through natural Earth noises. It’s not even lit very well in here, the only source of light comes from a deep puddle of glowing water around which sits a tripping Chuck and a differently tripping Sigmund atop leathery mats that have absolutely no business being used by a race of beings as avant-garde as the Zeroc.’

Off in the distance, a mechanical whirring sound vibrates the air, followed by the slow approach of heavy footsteps through the bleak darkness. Even through his squinted eyes Sigmund can’t make out the approacher – was he slain? Did the invader succumb to the force of the invaders ballsy enough to invade an invading spacecraft?

Of course not, that would just be silly. Jolon crouches down to the puddle and dips the glistening blade of his tomahawk into its waters, giving birth to a murky red cloud that quickly dissolves into the turquoise glimmer of the luminescent liquid.

“Thank you for your patience, both of you. It is not like me to walk out on guests, but the matter at hand was especially in need of handling. Now, where were we?”

“Well I’m floaty as fuck right now,” Chuck says, his feet firmly planted on the ground, “but my buddy here was wondering, for the sake of the boys back home, why y’all are invading our homeworld. We hear that’s kind of rude, coming from your species.”

Sigmund nods his head, wishing Chuck would just let him do the talking for once.

“You are correct, an invasion of a lower lifeform’s homeworld normally goes against proper Zerocian etiquette. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how open one’s mind is to such things, there are extenuating circumstances at play, the likes of which you two are not aware of. Just like how I am not aware of how you were capable of hacking into the encrypted Zerocian boarding channels,” as he cleans the water from his blade.

The words, “I CAN ANSWER THAT!” echo through the cavern in Sigmund’s voice after he yells them. “We were visited by some of your kind last night. Four years ago, I accidentally contacted a satellite that you guys left in orbit around our planet. It took a while, evidently, no offense of course, I just… well, anywho, my call was finally answered and after an excruciating night of calamities, they sent us here!”

As soon as the sparkles fade from behind Sigmund’s glasses, Chuck knocks him down a peg. “Except Ace literally told us that he came to visit us just so I could trip on space drugs. Why you gotta lie to the spaceman, you know he can read our minds.”

“That I can,” Jolon says, “and while I’m unfamiliar with this Ace of which you speak, I’m happy to know that neither of you are attempting to be untruthful. Allow me to pay that sentiment forward – my coming here has nothing to do with any of that. We detected a very anomalous electromagnetic signal, likely amplified by the crystals filling the mountains of your local forests.”

“Oh, we’re not locals,” Chuck says. “Just visiting. Although it’s quite a lovely area, I’d have to imagine the hiking is fantastic.”

Ignoring that, Jolon continues. “The anomaly the Council has detected is unlike anything we’ve seen for millions of years, and it may point us towards something our kind has been seeking out since our invention of fabrication technology. Considering the fact that you were so open about having contacted the transmitter, Sigmund, I’ll move forward with assumption that you had nothing to do with the tragedy that followed its launch to your planet.”

“Tragedy? Wha–”

“At first the anomalous signal was very sporadically picked up; we mistakenly thought it was a glitch in our equipment. But over the past few, what do your kind call them…” Jolon wonders, searching through the lexicon part of Sigmund’s cortex. “Days. Over the past few days, it’s occurred with a frequency that the Council deemed unwise to ignore.”

“So what’d y’all pick up?” Chuck asks whilst searching for a lighter to light the joint he almost forgot was in his pocket.

Jolon, a being of class, conjures a small fireball in his palm and then flicks it at the end of Chuck’s Cannabis canoe to light it for him before continuing.

“A shifting of something between dimensions, Chuck, a dense, massive something that should not be sporadically traveling between planes of reality. If it was happening infrequently enough to register as a glitch, as it had been for the billions of what you call years up to this point, then I would not be here. But such rapid, unmanaged phasing between planes is unstable, it could rip a hole in the fabric of Existence and cause irreversible damage to the many universes in the immediate surroundings of this one, as well as any universes existing in the Inner Rim of the pocket of multiversal space that the aforementioned universes occupy.”

Chuck and Sigmund say nothing, sharing a look of unparalleled fear they can safely say they’ve never shared before. And that’s saying something; they’ve been in some pretty stupid situations, as they’d be sure you could imagine if they were even a little bit aware of your onlooking presence into their Universe.

“What could it be?” Chuck asks, getting vibes from Sigmund that he should ask. “The thing giving off the signal, I mean.”

“I know what you meant,” Jolon assures the humans, sheathing his dagger, “but the Zeroc are still are unsure. All we know is, when it appears, it sends an anomalous signal reverberating through the strings binding our Universe to Existence. And, the signal starts at a point that is roughly eight hundred eighty-eight human feet above sea level, synchronistically enough.”

“Oh… shit, that’s bigger than I thought.” Turning to Sigmund, Chuck says, “I guess that rules out that bullshit from last night.”

“Decidedly,” Jolon says. Then, “The Zeroc Council of Life is aware of yesterday’s psychephrenic episode, it’ll be looked into… eventually. It’s not very high on the list, to be straightforward with you; human children and adults experimenting with high-powered consciousness catalysts occurs more often than you would think on your planet. We usually just ignore it, but since the recent event involved our species’ Dee-eff-Zee-Tee, we figured we should eventually look into it.”

“Wait, yesterday’s what?” Chuck demands, entirely confused by the alien’s morphing of his most-favorite and least-favorite words. “What did you just call it?”

Psychephrenic. It’s our symbol for when a mind-manifesting experience takes a certain turn, coined by the Council of Creation. Pay it no mind Charles, you specifically are past those days; besides, the term schizophrenia is a beautiful string of sounds, you shouldn’t allow hearing a similar word to lower your vibrational frequency. And, nothing for nothing, in most human cultures outside of your Untied States of America, those referred to as schizophrenics are bestowed a similar reverence as your politicians once were.”

“Well that’s certainly good to know,” Chuck says, giving his ego one hell of a massage, happy ending included. “So now what? You comin’ with us to look for the signal?”

“I…” Chairseat Jolon begins, not sure whether to be flattered or put off by the human’s ambitiousness, “…had not considered that possibility. You would be willing to assist us?”

“Hells yeah, boi!” Chuck celebrates, “C’mon, how often is it that extraterrestrials come to Earth in search for an anomalous signal that just happens to be emanating from the very patch of hairy land that Sigmund and I just happen to be visiting while giving some kid the experience of a lifetime for winning a contest that was my idea in the first place?”

Turning to Sigmund, “Speaking of which, this has to be the most underwhelming, lame-ass prize for winning a contest that kid’s ever received. We should do something about that.”

“I concur, all he got was a drug trip that he only embarked on because he inadvertently took some less potent drugs you had laying around your office. The poor kid… maybe I could throw him in the BioBot chair or something, let him take one of the drones for a spin.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Chuck says, contemplatively stroking the hairs of his chinny-chin-goatee. “You know, he seemed kind of put off by me too, can’t imagine why. We should fix that.”

The humans turn to see Jolon staring at them, patiently waiting for his turn to speak. “I will have to confer with the Council before I can give you an answer regarding my joining you, it may take some time. In the interim, why don’t you try to bridge the gap you’ve wedged between yourself and young Jack, Charles?”

Chuck’s vertebrae realign themselves, then, “Why do y’all outer spacey types keep calling me that, by the way? My name is Chuck.”

“Because you need to have some respect for yourself. The name you choose to go by rhymes with the word fuck, it makes you seem like a degenerate lowlife.”

“But that’s the point! The rhyming with fuck part, not the lowlife part. That’s cool though, take your time, big guy. We’ll get a jump on the mission and fill you guys in when you’ve cut away enough red tape to fit through the doorway.”

Jolon opens his mouth to say something but closes it a moment later, this human’s arrogance utterly lost on him. “No, I believe you misunderstood me. I need to confer with the Council regarding your inclusion in our operation, not the other way around. We already have two teams scouting out the area; if you or any other human is seen searching the forests for our anomaly, you will be disintegrated from this Universe on sight. Under no circumstances are you to go looking for the anomalous signal; one wrong move in this matter and the whole thing goes up in flames, metaphorically speaking. The fate of this Universe quite literally hangs in the balance, and at the moment, that balance entirely rests on your inaction.”

The Local Hotspot

“YO!” Chuck shouts as soon as enough of his molecules have been reassembled in the belly of the Dirt Eater Mk I to do so. “Jack, Hippie Dude. Where y’all at?”

“We’re both right here Chuck, what the hell?” Jack says from the couch, controller in hand and a lack of Sam sitting next to him.

Chuck sees this as soon as the eyeballs form in his head, causing him to feel foolish. “My bad. SO! We talked to the alien in charge of the ship, pretty cool dude. Got this whole Native American vibe going on, I dig it. Anyway, he said that there’s an anomalous signal protruding from deep within the forest behind your house and that it’s our duty to go find it. I tried to correct him by saying that it’s our privilege to do their job for them, but then he got all shy and hid in a corner. Real cutie pie, you would’ve liked him.”

“From my forest?” says Sam’s voice from inside the television screen. Chuck and Sigmund, once the girth of Sigmund’s large body of bodily mass finishes reassembling, turn around to see Sam on the screen, hanging from the U in the word PAUSE that’s superimposed over a brawl between three popular anime characters. “It’s probably that weird-ass mountain I climbed the other day, the one with the old dude living on it.”

Jack resumes the anime fight. Sam lands on the blonde character dressed in an orange sweat suit. The combatant does a summersault, then turns into a demonic red fox and tries to eat Sam alive, but stops when Sam pulls out a large cartoon hammer and turns Foxy into a stain. Then one of the other fighters, this one wearing a blue tee with a rendition of a fishing bobber on the back, summons a ball of lightning in his hand and attempts to decrease the number of fighters from three to two, but is stopped by a bald kid with an arrow on his head who controls the wind. The two then join forces and bumrush Sam. He blinks onto the couch a moment later, following a flash of colored light.

“Well that was a fuckin’ trip if I’ve ever taken one. Woo!”

Chuck is quite amused by these antics, as is the wallaby that’s perched on his shoulder. Then his tummy starts growling.

“Okay, before we explore that whole old man on the mountain thing, I need breakfast. Is there anything good to eat around here?”

“Oh yeah, Jersey’s got the best breakfast in the country,” Jack touts. “The whole town’s deserted though. I doubt anybody’s gonna be working.”

“Well we can still try, can’t we?” Sam adds, having hardly eaten anything since yesterday. “Let’s hit Alps, I haven’t had a tee-ache-cee in a minute.”

“A place called Alps that sells Tee-acHe-Cee, you say?” Chuck confirms Sam’s saying. “Well that sounds like a hotspot and a half! Or a hotbox, I’d be okay with either.”

Jack ughs at Chuck, then, “No Sam, we can’t. Besides, I think you’ve had enough tee-ache-cee in your life for all of us,” knowing quite well that his brother is referring to a Taylor Ham and cheese but choosing to lob insults anyway.

“First off,” Chuck says, his hand leaping into the air and landing on Jack’s shoulder, “you need to learn to speak for yourself, lil’ homie. Second, you’re right. We can’t try.”

Sigmund, knowing exactly where this is going, walks over to the fabricator and peels off all his clothing (except for his underwear) so he can feed the garments into the IN closet. Then, he takes out his tablet and taps the screen a few times.

Trying to ignore the sudden odor of soggy potato chips, Chuck continues. “What we can, and more accurately will do, is break into the establishment, preferably by throwing a big-ass rock through the largest window they own. We’ll raid their fridge, cook up whatever y’all use for food around here, and leave a note with Karen’s phone number telling them to contact me so I can buy their business and replace their window for free. Boom, simple as cake… speakin’ a’which, how we feelin’ about pancakes?”

“Nah I just had them yesterday, I’m good. I’m not really hungry anyways, I’ll just uh, I’ll just wait here for you guys. Somebody’s gotta watch the bunker and all, make sure Mom doesn’t find out we have guests over without her permission,” Jack says in an obvious attempt by his subconscious to exclude himself before anybody else has the chance to do it.

It’s too bad that Chuck, terrified of this clone of his younger self, isn’t having it.

“NO! You need to get the wax out of your ears, make it into candles scented by the various herbs and berries that probably grow all over in this actual jungle of a fuckin’ forest y’all live in, sell said herbaceous candles for money, and use the profit to buy yourself a fuckin’ backbone, kid. I mean really, free breakfast from the future owner of the local hotspot? Ain’t nobody turning that down.”

“That’s another thing, they’re prob not gonna sell it to you.”

Chuck rolls his eyes, then realizes he’s got his sunglasses on and melts them away, rolling his eyes again.

“No, he’s got ya there Chuck. Alps has been in business for like. Probably forty, fifty years now. They wouldn’t sell it to you if you offered them a million bucks.”

Chuck looks bewildered. “Why would I only pay them a million bucks? That’s hardly enough to buy a good jetpack, like, what do you take me for? Besides, it won’t be the first time I’ve bought a business that’s been around longer than I have.”

“So it’s settled!” Sigmund says out of left field, suddenly clad in a very roomy gray sweat suit. “I got all dressed up already anyway, so we have to go. Don’t want these threads to go to waste!” the word threads said in a way to attempt to come off as trendy.

As our squad of humans file up the ladder into Jack’s bedroom, prepped and ready to break and enter, one room over in the Monta household a certain Daisy opens her eyes, the lids audibly creaking and making her hangover headache all the more intolerable. With her head buried beneath the seven comforters she sleeps with, she reaches a hand out into the cold air and blindly searches for one of the several wine glasses she keeps on her night stand. After the sound of shattering glass stops bouncing back and forth between her pounding ear drums, Miss Monta wobbles out of bed and drags her feet up the stairs, wincing in pain as her hips pop and crackle with every step, the bones of her legs snapping in and out of their sockets.

Jack opens his bedroom door and, after hearing the pops for himself, immediately closes and locks it, spinning around with a worried frown to address the rest of the group.

As I said above, The 2020 Event |The Main Event| is a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. It is also the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Exit Strategy – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (28/66)

Hello Commons, here is chapter 9.333 of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. Please enjoy. See the bottom of this post for more info.

Chapter 9.333
Exit Strategy

Ray And Wolf

“I don’t know, I just feel like they might perceive this as a threat.”

“The bogey’s in sight, approach is clean,” Rose reports, ignoring Wolf’s attempt at last-minute cop out. “MERCs, prepare for jump.”

“Really? Nobody else thinks that maybe, just maybe we should reconsider this whole plan?”

“We were given direct orders Wolf, if we go back without results then we’ll end up like freakin’ Gary. Are you really tryna piss motor oil for the rest of your infinite, unbiological life?”

“…Fair point, kid. Fair point.”

Streaking through the skies of Northern New Jersey in broad daylight without even a single cloud to obstruct its cloaked hull from the view of the animals and other nonhumans still occupying the mostly deserted town of Treering, a human-controlled Zerocian Jettison craft makes its approach towards the mysterious foreign object that entered Earth’s atmosphere early this morning. Behind the wheel is none other than Rose, the fourth recruit to undergo Apex’s experimental Mercenary Enhanced Reflex Conditioning program, or as acronymized by the program’s father Doctor Edvard Torpol, the MERC program. She’s joined by Ray and Wolf, number six and seven, globally unmatched experts of blade- and projectile-based combat, respectively, and also by the craft’s original pilot, codenamed The Prisoner. That one’s locked in the storage closet and restrained by chains composed of solidified kinetic energy, the same energy used as ammunition by all seven of the guns Wolf keeps tucked away in his various pockets, and he was only brought along just in case things go haywire and last-minute repairs need to be made to the craft.

While Rose is more than adept at flying spacecraft, mechanics have never really been her thing, similarly to how soldiering has never really been Wolf’s thing. She’s utterly useless with a wrench unless you need her to cave a skull in; in that case, she’s your girl. Neither Ray nor Wolf can really be bothered with under the hood matters either, and unfortunately the team’s mechanical expert is naval-deep in the pit of mud that serves as his sleeping quarters at the moment, so The Prisoner had no choice but to tag along. Well, The Prisoner rarely has a choice in his actions, but whatever.

Ray is pretty sure The Prisoner has a name but, always one to read a room, he’s never asked. The Prisoner is only brought out of his solitary confinement in the most extreme of situations, such as the stealthy boarding of what he described as, “…a warship that could turn the entirety of your apeish species and this blasphemous concrete jungle that houses the worst iterations of your kind as they fester within it to dust with the flip of a switch.”

He’s always had a dramatic flair though, don’t mind him.

‘You two are sure you want to do this?’

Wolf turns around in his seat and faces the sealed closet door, almost certain he just heard some muffled language attempting to escape. He glances at Ray and sees the boy not paying any attention whatsoever – he’s focused on the task at hand, just as he was trained to be. The Gunman, not to be confused with the Gunborg, stands, the thought, ‘Give it a break kid,’ running rampant through his mind, and gingerly approaches the closet.

Knock knock, “You say something in there, big guy?”

A staticy white noise fills Wolf’s head and then fades, as if a radio operator was going to listen to today’s hippest pop tunes but decided to listen to the sound of insects dying against her windshield instead. He waits a moment before knocking again.

“C’mon, if you have any words of advice for us, I’d like to not get eviscerated today. Spit it out.”

“Dude just give it up, he’s not gonna speak to you,” Ray calls out, strapped so tightly in his seat that he can’t turn around. “I’ve tried, we’ve all tried; he just doesn’t see himself as part of the team. I don’t think he ever wi–”

“That’s probably because he can’t see at all. Speak when you’re spoken to, Knifebuck.”

“For once, you undomesticated dog,” Rose chimes in, “I agree with you.”

Gunman shakes his head. “I’m sure Ray and I are gonna die doing this stupid shit today, so can I at least know your name? The thought of a sentient creature named The Prisoner makes my skin crawl.”

A tense moment of anti-gravity engines humming is followed by nothing. As Wolf turns to walk away, he hears the mumble again.

“You’re definitely doing that on purpose,” Wolf says, discreetly pressing his ear to the door.

After another moment of a lack of mouth noises, Wolf stomps his feet as if he’s walking away.

The mumble, finally audible to Wolf’s brain, hums, ‘Unless you have an exit strategy, you are correct. Maybe you humans aren’t all as senseless as I still firmly believe you are.’

“HAH!” Wolf touts, “Caught ya!”

A heavy exhale, then, through the door, “Very well, ape. You have earned my council. What will you do with it?”

“Well let’s start with your name, unless you like being called The Prisoner, you kinky thing, you.”

“The noise used to label me matters not. I know not which of the Chairseats mans that ship, but I can sense their energy, human. If you’re planning on going inside, you’ll have to fight your way through that energy, and believe me when I say it: you will not survive the transition.”

“Oh?” Wolf says, refusing to show the buildup of nervous futterblies inside his gut. “What exactly are we dealing with here, and what’s a Chairseat? It sounds redundant, does it know we’re comin’?”

“So concerned with labels that you miss the meaning conveyed underneath. You are a mouse, ape, and the cheese is waiting for you on that ship, hidden in plain sight in the mouth of the barrel of a loaded cannon that’s programmed to fire at anything that moves.”

“Are… you’re saying this is a trap, aren’t you?”

“That’s actually impossible,” Rose snaps. “We’re cloaked on thirteen visible spectrums using their own technology. They’ll never see us coming.”

‘It’s no they, just one. And while I know not which one lays in wait, I do know they’ve seen you coming since the moment you were birthed into this Universe. You’re different than them, Wolf. When it’s offered, take your leave.’

As The Prisoner watches Wolf’s aura walk away trough the solid wooden door, he bows his head, resting his chin on the searing energic chains that bind him. His skin is so scarred, nerves so burnt out… he doesn’t even feel the pain anymore. It used to keep him grounded, used to remind him that even through this unending, twisted internment, he’s still breathing, still alive and kicking, still feeling something. But now there’s nothing, just the dull roar inside his head. ‘It will all be over soon… it has to be.’

“This’ll never be over, you know,” nudges Wolf as he sits down on the ceiling-mounted seat next to Ray. “The missions, the fighting, the espionage. It’ll never end.”

“Well sure it will, we only have a ten-year contract. When that’s up we’re free to go.”

“That’s exactly right,” Rose cuts in, not allowing Wolf to further elaborate on this obnoxious fear that he keeps reanimating. “We’re approaching the drop location, strap in. I’m lifting the gate, good luck boys. Don’t get mauled too hard down there.”

With the pull of a lever, the floor beneath their chairs splits, both halves sliding into the body of the craft to chamber off the jumpers. As icy whirlwinds whip around the MERCs, a screen blinks to life on the wall in front of them, displaying a countdown that’s depicted as words, not as numbers.


Wolf sighs, then, “I love ya kid, but you’re either–”


“–stupid, naïve, or a shitty combination of both.”


“The day we fuck up, we’ll be put down and turned in–”


“–to cyberslaves. If we get the chance to run today–”


“–we need to take it. We might never get the op–”


Ray and Wolf plummet down to the dusty surface of the invasion craft, the latter’s warning lost among the maelstromic rushing of the atmosphere being torn apart around them. Or maybe it got lost in the rushing of Ray’s blood to his brain, excited to get another mission under his belt for that post-Apex resume he’s been imagining ever since he signed up. Regardless, as they watch the shimmering ghost of the cloaked jettison ship disappear into the horizon, the booster jets underneath the seats of their chairs reverse their downward propulsion and provide the MERCs a safe landing roughly halfway between the middle and the edge of the invading vessel.

Ray unstraps himself and leaps out of his chair, landing with a roll before priming the teleportation belt to zap him back to the ship just in case that planet-dusting bullshit The Prisoner was spewing has any merit. He watches his comrade do the same, and then, his brain pumping pure adrenalin, Ray brandishes his overarm hidden blades, striking the daggers against one another and losing himself in the harmonious sounds of steel clashing against steel.

“You ready for this, old timer?”

“You didn’t hear a word of what I said, did you?” Wolf groans, unholstering two palm pistols and spinning them on his fingers to re-familiarize himself with their exact mass. “Fuck it, we’d best get to it.”

Staying low to the ground, their black combat suits taking on a powdery gray tone as they wallow through the last wingspan of a passenger jet’s worth of space dirt, the MERCs approach the center point of the craft. Ray takes out his communicator and brings up the schematics of the ship, provided by UltraVi’s many scans that The Prisoner was electrocuted into detailing for them. There should be a tunnel of some sort, a smooth, metallic, cylindrical passageway that leads directly to the ship’s largest interior cavity, the entrance of which is buried under the dirt up here.

Wolf, after hearing Ray talk about the tunnel, asks, “Then why’s there a statue standing where there’s supposed to be a hole?”

Great question. Standing in the exact location of their purported porthole is a statue, no more than eight feet in height, composed of what seems to be the cloudiest purple gemstones and dullest silver ever brought to Earth. It depicts a Zeroc, that much is obvious; the figure is gazing off towards the horizon with its arms to its sides, the pale mauve body of the sculpture draped in once-resplendent silver robes gilded with amethyst and flowing with the wind. Whomever crafted this thing definitely deserves bonus points for realism, like, weaving silver and gemstones into an actual cloak? For a statue? I guess artists really are nuts, human or not.

The closer the MERCs approach, the more detail they pick out; the face of the statue is decorated in black war paint, two rigid lines run from the center of the forehead and drop down at the temples, and one traces the midpoint between the model’s eyes and breaks off diagonally at the nose just to drop straight off his face at the glass-cutting cheekbones. In the hands of the sculpture are two weapons, a tomahawk and a curved dagger, both sporting blades blacker than the void of outer space; surely this is commemorative of some lost Zerocian warrior who had slain legions of enemies in his day, forever memorialized as the hood ornament of an otherwise drab spaceship.

Wolf and Ray stop in their dusty footprints when the weapons fall from the suddenly open hands of the statue. Its arms raise up and pull the hood down to reveal a war bonnet, a blaze of feathers dyed scarlet red no longer shrouded by the cloth. The statue, clearly a very advanced from of animated extraterrestrial sculpting, flexes the muscles in his hands and the weapons, untethered, return to him.

Without turning to face the MERCs, the obviously not a fucking statue decrees, “I know not how you boarded this craft, but it will be the last glimpse of this physical plane your bodies have the privilege of perceiving.”

Wolf reaches his arm across Ray’s torso and guides him back, putting his own body between the alien warlord and the kid. Ray takes Wolf’s arm and uses it as leverage to spin him and throw him to the side, hidden blades at the ready. His focus is so tight that he barely hears Wolf questioning what the fuck he thinks he’s doing.

“If your drop your weapons, your death will be merciful and swift; if you choose to engage, I cannot promise the same courtesy,” warns the Zeroc as he turns to face his adversaries

Ray bends at the knees and dashes towards the alien, putting himself far too open to the impact of the alien tomahawk that’s now spinning through the air for Wolf’s liking. Wolf acts fast, releasing a hailstorm of searing plasmic bullets that do little more than divert the flight path of the tomahawk, forcing it to impale and impair Ray’s teleportation belt rather than his skull. A crippling electric shockwave travels through Ray’s entire body but he stands firm, not even allowing himself to fall down on one knee.

“Kid, DOWN!” Wolf shouts as he leapfrogs over Ray, bringing his hands together to fuse his palm pistols into a proper hand cannon as the tomahawk returns to its sender. He fires a kinetic cannonball at the alien in midair, the projectile flying wide but self-correcting its trajectory just to be split perfectly in half by the twisted blade of the dagger. The two halves of Wolf’s secret weapon bound out and curve back together nearly ten yards behind the alien. The resulting explosion sends a ragged sandstorm of space dirt billowing across the mid-air battlefield. When the dust settles, the warrior is standing mere meters in front of Wolf.

The giant tilts his head to the side, holding an emotionless stare at the ballsy human before him. “You were given a choice today, weren’t you, human?”

Wolf’s blood stops flowing, then, “He set us up, didn’t he?”

‘No,’ says a powerful foreign voice inside Wolf’s skull. ‘You’re just incapable of understanding the true stakes of the orders you so blindly follow.’

Wolf leaps backwards just as the blade of the dagger comes down and clangs against the metal shell of the craft buried beneath the ultrafine spacey substrate. He’s at Ray’s side in half a second, the resulting dust-laden wind catching up to him after he removes his primed escape belt and latches it to Ray’s waist.

“Listen kid, you need to go. This is the end of the line; either one of us makes it off this ship or neither of us do.”

“Fuck you, I’m nah–” Ray begins to say before he’s dropkicked in the gut and sent flying backwards.

Wolf stands and turns to face the Zerocian guardian. “I know you couldn’t promise merciful, but how about swift?”

He then takes off, sprinting past the alien in a blur. Jolon gives chase, pursuing the MERC on foot and struggling to keep up. In mere seconds, Wolf reaches the end of the craft and stops on a dime, struggling to see through the resulting cloud of dust to make sure he’ll hit water when he jumps the fuck offa this thing.

Footsteps approach from behind him but stop short, Wolf not bothering to turn around. As the tomahawk viciously twirls through the air, it shaves a single unkempt hair from the back of Wolf’s head, nearly missing the layer of scalp that Jolon was aiming for. The handle of the tool slaps back into the alien’s hand as Wolf’s body slaps into the water of the Wanapo.

As I said above, The 2020 Event |The Main Event| is a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. It is also the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

An Extraterrestrial Invasion Of Earth – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (27/66)

Hello Commons, here is chapter 9 of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. Please enjoy. See the bottom of this post for more info.

Chapter 9
An Extraterrestrial Invasion Of Earth


‘Is this some kind of trick or something?’ Jack thinks to himself, his backpack arching his back in a way that forces him to gaze into the thick canopy that’s blocking out the unusually dark morning sky above his house in the valley all too well.

Nobody seems to want to join him at the bus stop this morning; not Isabelle, not Jarome Wolffe, not even the bus driver. Sure, it’s kind of a dreary day and it’s a tad bit humid, but it’s not like it’s raining. There’s no reason the bus driver should be this late, Jack should have been picked up nearly an hour ago, but the street’s been as dead as he almost was after taking that crazy space drug last night. Yeesh, never again.’

Getting tired of standing here and waiting by himself while his Mom, brother, and the four strange bipedal creatures inside the as of last night Dirt Eater Mk I parked below his bedroom sleep off an excruciating night of binge drinking, drug abusing, and Moksha Medicating (specifically in that order), Jack finally decides to take his glass rectangle out of his pocket and call Dakota. Surely Dak’ll know what’s going on with the bus, he always knows what’s up.

Good Ol’ Zane Bucknick

Exactly an hour and a half before Jack gets inspired to do something about his isolation, Dakota gets a phone call that serves as the alarm  he forgot to set on his phone while he fell asleep last night waiting for Isabelle to answer an admittedly risky text message.

“Who the fuck…” as he wipes the slippery wet drool off his face. “Oh, it’s Zane. Good ol’ Zane Bucknick, I’ll tell ya.”


“Morning homie, what’s good?”

“Don’ call me homie, shitwad. Also, luh’da fuk out ya winder!”

In the background, Dakota can hear a faint little girl’s voice yelling “IT’S PRONOUNCED WINDOW, YA DUMBFUCK! DO YOU HAVE YOUR SHIT PACKED YET OR NOT?”, followed by Zane’s hand smothering the speaker and a muffled, “SHUT DA FUCK UP LACEY, GO TWIRL ONE DEM TAMPONS YA GOT IN YEH SUITCASE! OH WAIT, ya don’t need ta use ‘dem yet, neh’dew yeh? NEH’DEW YEH?!”

“Jesus dude, go easy. She’s your little sister,” Dakota hesitantly says into his solid rectangle of glass, the sound being carried across the street and exiting Zane’s glass rectangle by the miracle of corporate innovation into communications technology.

“I’mah lit’rally press yah buttlips to a porkyahpine’s… pines. Neh’fuck a duck and look out yah,” as his voice travels away from the phone again, inhales, then, “WHINDEHR!”

Dakota, not sure if he should be laughing or concerned, looks out his winder and drops his phone onto the hardwood floor of his bedroom, the shatterproof glass construction preventing the impact from damaging the device whatsoever. In fact, the phone seems to be working better now; the camera, which usually doesn’t focus for shit, is able to perfectly capture the gigantic floating chunk of planet that’s either the galaxy’s slowest moving planet-shrecking asteroid, or, the much more likely alternative that a certain VidTuber Terry Telascopesaplenny has been building anticipation around for almost four years now, an extraterrestrial mothership.

Earth has officially been invaded by extraterrestrials, it seems, and the ship is hovering over the Skunksville dam. It’s about damn time!

‘Holy shit,’ Dakota thinks to himself, feeling a call to action shared by every other conscious human in the entirety of Quarryville and, as the sun climbs higher into the sky and becomes obstructed to some by the floating filling of a crater, eventually greater Treering area (other than Zane Bucknick. Good ol’ Zane Bucknick, I told ya): ‘Fuck everyone and everything else, me and my family need to get the fuck outta here!’

The Ottoman

“Hello? Jack?! Fuck dude, are you okay?!”

Jack lowers the phone and looks at it with a very dramatically confused and contorted face that nobody else can see. Then, holding the radiation emitter back to his head, he says, “Yeah, I’m fine. Still waiting for the bus. What gives?”

“What do you me– oh no…”

A rumbling approaches Dakota from his six, accompanied by the smell of pink-on-the-outside hamburger patties and panting the likes of which a sweating dog couldn’t even manage. From the Jack end of the line, all that comes through is a struggle mixed with labored breathing, and then, “JACK MONTA! Where are you?! You need, to get to school, right, NOW!”

Jack can feel the man pointing at him.

“UH, g-good morning Coach Thenure, sir! I um, I-I, I–”

“NO exCUSES! I checked your private attendance records in the office yesterday when I didn’t see you at practice!”

‘He has access to my attendance records?’

The assistant coach of the girl’s high jump team continues, “If you aren’t present, in my school, in FIVE minutes, then YOU’RE, NOT RUNNING, in the BIG, CHAMPIONSHIP TRACK MEET, on SaTuRdAy!”

“What?! You’re not even my coach in the spring, Coach Th–”

“DON’T BE A KNUCKLEHEAD!!” The sheer volume of his words throws a gust of wind through the wireless phoneline. Jack then hears a loud clack, which he deduces is Dakota’s phone being thrown against the layers of rubbery paint slathered long ago over the cinderblock wall.

A moment later, “Hello? You still there?”

“Yeah I’m here, what the heck was that?”

“Well you’re clearly being a knucklehead. Anyway, what do you mean what gives? Dude, me and my family got the fuck outta Quarryville at the crack of dawn! Did you guys… like, not?”

“Nope, everyone is sleeping lahmayo. You must not know my family very well.” The we got the fuck out bit clearly didn’t register.

“Dude… why are you so, like, nonchalant about this? I guess the Terry thing went pretty well yesterday?”

Jack’s hunger is getting the best of him, drawing out that deep-seated apathy for everything going on around him that he’s so often haunted by. After skipping breakfast, the most important meal of the day, just to catch a bus that never showed up, he’s having trouble seeing the importance in any- and everything that God, the Universe, or Whatever The Heck’s In Control Of All This keeps serving to him on increasingly tarnished silver platters.

Suddenly, Jack’s small intestine temporarily attains sentience and crawls out of his anus like a snake. Jack then watches in real time as his organ slithers across the street and into the small patch of forest between his neighbor’s houses, tastes the scent of a chipmunk on the air, proceeds to track, pursue, hunt down, strangle, and swallow said chipmunk whole before returning to Jack’s body the way it came and repositioning itself in his gastrointestinal system, which transmutes solid foo–

“Uh… yeah, I guess you could say that. Definitely memorable.”

“Okay, Mister I’mTooCoolToDroolOverAliens, Mister Humble over here, Mister, Mister, freakin’, UNH.”

Jack, more weirded out by his friend’s behavior than he is about the whole chipmunk thing, waits patiently for him to continue. In the other corner, standing five foot six and weighing in at a beefy one hundred ten pounds, Dakota waits for Jack to see the monstrous floating extraterrestrial craft that a blind man couldn’t miss while staring backwards through a pair of monoculars.

After three and a third seconds of silence, Dakota finally cracks.

“You really have no idea, do you?”

“Not a one.”

“Jack… look up.”

Jack looks up, the leafy canopy of the trees looking mighty fine this morning despite the weird twilight-esque state of the dawn. “I see trees man, what are you getting at?”

“Oh god, that fuckin’ valley… okay, uh… drop your stupid-ass backpack and take a walk to the dam.”


“Just do it.”

“But I need my backpack for school, it’ll get sucked into the mud.”

“Dude are you fuckin’…” sigh, a pause. “Listen,” a deep breath, “put your backpack inside, although I doubt you’re going to make it to school anytime soon, and ju–”

“Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Mothafuckah PLEASE!” said in the voice of hip-hop legend Doctor Andre before Dakota hangs up the phone to tell everybody that Jack’s about to meet the al–, he means, extraterrestrials, for the second time this week. “Who else but that sweet, tart, pasty little pastry, am I right?”

After walking back to his house at an intentionally slow pace to drop his load, Jack hits the street and jogs down to the dam at speeds barely suitable for a freshman’s warm-up. Well, he jogs in the direction of the dam, stopping about halfway there when the canopy breaks and he looks up to see a gigantic extraterrestrial spaceship blocking out the majority of the sky. An hour later when he wakes up laying in the middle of the street, after batting the pebbles, cigarette butts, and dirt from his hair, he comments to himself that he needs to get a buzzcut soon and turns around to head home.

A few seconds into his return trot, Jack opts to take a detour when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees a singular overturned fishing boat floating out on the open waters of the Skunksville Reservoir. Upon closer inspection from the bottom of the old road that used to lead into the sleepy town of Skunksville before, well, you know the rest, he sees that the boat has a green paint job emblazoned with the word Monark in big, gold letters on the side.

Jack sprints to the Wolffe household. In a flurry of frantic fist-punches he nearly knocks the door off its hinges, the boy atrophied into a huff and a half over the fact that he thinks Old Man Mikey was out fishing last night and flipped his boat, meeting a tragic and water-logged demise, but nobody answers. Next he tries Isabelle’s house, and then the Gobblers, but nobody seems to be home. He debates running up Frick Hill but, in the interest of not learning what size straitjacket he wears, Jack simply returns home.

On his way across the street his phone buzzes. It’s a text from Coach, his track distance coach, assuring Jack that he’ll be running in the meet on his birthday no matter how many days of school he misses this week.

When Jack opens the front door, the momentary relief that had swashbuckled over him fades as he catches Sam just as his long hair is walking down the three-quarters of a staircase towards either Jack’s or their Mother’s bedroom.

But probably Jack’s.

Sam turns around, his hands clamped around two jars that are absolutely stuffed with Cannabis buds, and beams.

“Good morning brother! I have a favor to ask you, followed by some good news. Before that, though,” the following phrased as a statement, “did you get my text last night.”

“Nope, sorry. Dakota and I were uh… watching… Terry. Yeah, that’s what we were doing. Just watching our TerryTeamTwenty all night.”

Sam stares at his slightly panicked brother, studying his facial microexpressions and fidgety body movements, and decides that his brother must be so edgy because he missed the bus and now has to explain that to Daisy.

“I bet y’all were. So I have this fay–”

“I don’t have time Sam,” Jack half-whispers, pushing past Sam and attempting to either knock the Cannabis jars to the ground or knock Sam down the stairs. Jack fails at both, of course, the stoner’s prized possessions more secure in his hands than the lost stacks of gold are in the abandoned Fort Knocks base down in the recently renamed city of ButtFuck, Kentucky, and Sam being more secure on the stairs than the townsfolk of ButtFuck, Kentucky are about their identity. In the aftermath of the attempted assault, Sam follows his little brother to his bedroom.

“Dude can you listen to me please? I think you’re going to like what I have to say.”

Jack, his hand on the doorknob, contemplates this. “Fine,” he says without turning around. “You got thirty seconds. What do you want?”

“Well, I want you to have these.”

Jack spins around at a blinding speed, the resulting whirlwind nothing compared to the Kriegmiester level of rage he’s about to unleash with his verbal whip. “WHAT?! HOW MANY TI–” he begins to howl before stopping himself, not wishing to wake the werewolf side of his slumbering Mum. “How many times do I have to fuckin’ tell you Sam, I–”

“Don’t want to smoke? Yeah, I know. Me either, surprisingly enough.”

Every lifeform in a four-hundred-and-twenty-foot radius of the Monta household, sentient or otherwise, stops dead in their vibes.


“Yeah man. Last night when I was camping out with Tyler I had something of an epiphany. I realized…” he trails off, trying to decide which of the two less-traveled paths he should wander down, “Uh, I realized that I don’t need to smoke Cannabis every day in order to function.”

Jack, eyebrows to the massive UFO in the sky, beckons, “I’m listening.”

“Well, like, I just kind of figured out that the human body is supposed to be self-cleaning, for lack of a better term.” He pauses, deliberating over his word choice for a moment. “Autonomous, that’s what I’m looking for. What I’m trying to say is–”

“That you don’t need to smoke drugs every morning, afternoon, and night, and in-between those times, and in-between those times in order to live? Yeah, no shit dude.”

“Hah, yeah…” Sam says to the floor as he rubs the back of his head with the fuller of the two herb collections. “So, I want you to have my jars; hide them from me, somewhere I wouldn’t be able to find them. I’m gonna do a detox type thing, let my system clear itself out.”

Sam smiles a triumphant, very satisfied smile. It’s obvious that he’s very proud of himself for saying all this, for conjuring up the words in his head and laying them out all nice and neat in a cute little pattern for Jack to hear. No unsightly clouds of hot halitosis, nothing to scratch nor sniff, he even a waver in his voice when he spoke. Almost as if he had practiced, almost as if Sam was plotting a ruse.

“So whaddya think? Will ya help me out?” Sam asks earnestly, not expecting such a drawn-out period of silence.

“Oh I think you’re full of shit,” Jack says, blindly judging Sam and attempting to decide whether he should slit his throat or let him step off the scale before he gets hurt. “But… I mean, that looks like a lot of pot. Is that really everything you have?”

“Yep, just picked up the other day. Tyler smoked a bunch of it last night buh–”

“Yeah, look, you don’t need to go into details.”

Jack apprehensively takes the jars, the weight of the drugs heavy in his virgin hands, and tries to fit them into his pockets to no avail.

“All right, well…” Jack says, unsure of what to do with the jars now that they’re in his hands, “…good talkin’ to ya.”

Jack tries to balance one jar on top of the other so he can crack his door open to the width of a piece of paper and slide in, but Sam, not wanting his five hundred dollars to end up littered with shards of glass and floor juice, gets the door for his very kind and helpful brother.

“SAM STOP, NUH–” but it’s too late, Sam’s already breached the sanctum of Jack’s bedroom to see… nothing out of the ordinary.

“What? Lahmayo I know that it’s been a while since I’ve been in here but I’m not like, infected with some evil brain-eating disease or anything. Jeez dude…” as he follows Jack’s petrified gaze to the small circular rug that’s covered, for some indeterminable reason, by the inconspicuous black ottoman with a not-so-sneaky interior storage compartment.

“Hey, is that a new area rug?”

“Uh. Yes.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Uh. Dakota. Gave it to me.”

One eyebrow matching the Arc de Triomphe, “Oh yeah? You guys uh, y’all just go rug shopping together? That right?”

“Um.” Then, after a pause lasting exactly sixteen-point-eight seconds, “Yes.”

The laughter inside Sam’s head that sounds strangely unlike his usual thinking voice quells down, then, “Oooohkay, I’ll just pretend that’s not a sex thing. Well, can I see it? You have the ottoman over it.”

“What ottoman?”

Sam stares dumbly at Jack, then the ottoman, then the Cannabis jars, then back at Jack, wondering how his brother managed to get such a wild contact high from solely handling the jars. “Okay, that’s a magic trick you’re gonna have to teach me.”

A disgruntled Jack, his head drawn back two inches and cocked off to the side with a disgusted look smeared on his face, growls, “What?”

“Uh, nothin’.”

Sam waltzes right in, just making himself at home, like he owns the place, like it’s his freaking bedroom, and goes about rearranging the piece of furniture in Jack’s bedroom. Without, by the way, the required handwritten forms of consent that are required to do so, according to the rules Jack spent the better part of twenty minutes writing out on the white board that’s magnetized to the back of his solid wood door.

“Just…” as he looks for a place to permanently hide the wastes of Sam’s money, the money that Sam doesn’t even have or make to begin with. “Just don’t walk on it. Please.”

Sam says, “And why the heck noWAAAAAAaaaaahhh,” until he thuds against the area rug that doesn’t do much to cushion his fall against the uncarpeted floor of the Dirt Eater Mk I, his tone of voice changing drastically as he shouts up the ladder chute. “Dude what the fuck?! Is this, like, a bunker? Dude how long have you had this?? And who… is that a fucking alien?! Hell yeah, I’m two for two!”

“Whatever might you mean by that, young human?” Ace asks from the couch with a video game controller in his hands. He picks up the second controller and throws it over to Sam; dude catches it without telling his brain to move his hand.

‘Huh, neat.’

“It is neat, isn’t it?”

Sam drops the controller upon the sensation of a foreign voice in his head. Then he catches it, drops it again, catches it one more time only to fumble the thing in his hands as if he was juggling a single bladeless chainsaw. Eventually he firmly grasps it and says, “How’d you do that?”

“I could ask you the same thing, handsy,” Ace grins, inviting Sam to join him on the couch with a pat on the cushion. “So, what was that about two for two?

“Oh, uh, I was in the woods yesterday with a friend and we ran into some aliens. He didn’t remember seeing them but I’m like, a solid twenty-one percent sure that I didn’t see them.”

“Hm. Well that’s an interesting way to phrase that. What were you two doing out there in the woods? I can’t assume you were looking for aliens, can I?”

“I mean, if you wanna be an ass you can assume all you want!” as Sam lands on the couch, not shaking Ace one bit. “We were uh… do you know what eL-eSs-Dee is?”

A slow, knowing smile spreads across Ace’s face just as a sullen reciprocal of the expression spreads across Jack’s. “Yes, I certainly do, but I’m not sure your brother has the same understanding.”

Jack, who looks at Sam looking at him, thinks, ‘He actually has the audacity to roll his eyes at me? Dude, if you had any idea of the shit you’re getting into… I don’t even care anymore.’

Waiting for a conversation to erupt but getting blue ears, Ace continues. “So tell me, what did these aliens look like? Me?”

“No, no they were like…” as Sam snaps his fingers and claps his hands together in a rhythm, all in an attempt to trick his brain into accidentally firing along the correct neural pathway. “They were these weird bug things, they had mostly purple like. Chitin, I think is the word… their skin was mostly that exoskeleton armor stuff. Skinny yellow arms and legs, chitin at the elbows and knees and joints and stuff. Um… I dunno, I’m still pretty hazy. Ring any bells, Mister Spaceman?”

“Only the necessary ones.”

“HEY!” Jack interjacks. “Can you two please stop flirting? This is getting so weird. Where’s everybody else?”

Ace holds up the three inside fingers on his hand, lowering them in a countdown sequence that ends with his middle finger. Then, a flash of colored light erupts from the television and Sigmund appears on the couch, sitting all over poor, defenseless, toothpickish Sam. As soon as the muffles register the likelihood that Sigmund’s world’s comfiest couch didn’t suddenly get very uncomfortable, he stands up and peels a flattened Sam from the cushions, shaking him out like a dirty towel until the brown-eyed boy resumes normal, four-dimensional form.

“Okay, so how about Chuck and Fleurna? Where are they? And why is there a… is that a… is that a fuckin’ condom wrapper on the doorknob?!”

“Yes, because,” Chuck says as he walks out of the bedroom that Sigmund was foolish enough to think he was sleeping in last night, “I didn’t want my new friend to be disturbed whilst she slept off the ravaging I bestowed upon her sleek, lavender body last night,” the word ravaging said with more husk than Farmer MacDonal would find in the field where he grows the corn he feeds to his livestock.

“In the past I’ve put a whole assortment of random shit on my various doorknobs in an attempt to stop Sigmund from breeching the quarantine; cowboy hats, tube socks, cups, tube socks, banana peels, fucking tube socks. But, his ignoramus-ass ass always came in anyway, so I figured I’d have to be a little more blunt. Speakin’ a’which,” cupping his hands around the goatee around his mouth, “AY SUGARTITS!”

The second from the left bedroom door flies open, staying securely attached to its hinges, and through a cloud of spliff-style smoke walks a mid-inhale Fleurna.

“Chuck, if you ever call me that again… it’ll be far too late.”

Seriously?” says Ace, Sam, Sigmund, and Chuck all at the same time whilst Jack tries to figure out why someone would waste perfectly good granulated sugar by pouring it on a woman’s breast, an exposed woman’s breast, no less. Like, are they trying to sweeten the milk for the baby? What gives?

Fleurna shrugs them off. “Yeah, why not? Not like we’ll be seeing each other again anytime soon,” as she approaches Chuck and gives him a fist bump. “By the way, you got it backwards.”

“Oh yeah?” Chuck playfully sneers, his hand suddenly behind Fleurna’s hip. “Which part?”

“It DoEsN’t MaTtEr!” Jack accidentally yells, clearly frustrated about all these shenanigans going on mere meters below the very bed where his Mother sleeps. Have they no shame? “There’s a gigantic alien spaceship outside, I think your guys’ ride is here.”

“Wait, fucking what? You let me go through that whole shit with my Cannabis jars and you didn’t mention the spaceship?!” Sam demands, expecting a rebuttal but receiving only ignorance.

Ace and Fleurna exchange a glance of uncertainty. Then, out of Ace’s mouth, “Uh. ¿Que? That doesn’t seem right, our ship surely wouldn’t be described as gigantic… what’s it look like, boy-o?”

“Honestly, it’s like a big rock. Nothing for nothing, I feel like whoever designed it left a lot on the table.”

Both of the Zerocians hinge their heads backwards, look to the ceiling, and sigh, wondering between themselves why there’s a freakin’ invasion ship sitting in Earth’s lower atmosphere.

“Earth’s being invaded?!” Chuck shouts, impressing Fleurna with the new trick he learned.

Sigmund and Jack, shocked, look at Ace and Fleurna, who return the same look to Chuck. Finally, Ace speaks up. “I… I don’t know, I’d have to take a look.”


So they all take their look and it’s official – Earth, the homeworld of the human species, is being invaded by the Zeroc.

“Why are they fuckin’ doing this?” Ace rhetorically asks the lower lifeforms around him, and Fleurna. “Like, so rude.”

“Wait, they’re really not here to pick you guys up? Then… then why are they… why are they here?” Jack squeaks, suddenly feeling the same fear that gripped the hearts of all his neighbors just a few hours earlier.

The aliens look at each other and share a small chortle, very condescendingly explaining that they, they being The Psychenauts, are the ones who come and get, not the other way around.

A moment of intense gravity ensues, all parties looking up at the humongously threatening extraterrestrial craft floating in the sky above the more paranormal area of this already abnormal little town.

Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time something like this has happened in Treering; as the sudsy bar-top story goes, and Sam actually didn’t argue with this one, during a January taking place in the back half of the Psychedelic ‘60s, a smallish body of light the shape of a basketball with a football thrusted through it, roughly nine feet in diameter, was spotted doing acrobatic tricks over the Bored end of the Windbeam mountain range adjacent to the Wanapo Reservoir, the very same mountain range where Sam spends the majority of his free time. It wasn’t spotted by trippy drug-addled teenagers or that weird dude who owned all the telescopes (well it was, but that’s neither here, there, nor anywhere) but by actual, credible human beings; volunteer ambulance workers, patrolling policemen, even the acting Chief of Police.

What’s more, following the incident, about thirteen different so-called “explanations” were handed out by United States government officials, ranging from the normal helicopters and weather balloons to the more inane and frankly insulting swamp gas and ball lightning stories. The presence of black military helicopters probing the skies above Treering for weeks after the incident did not lend credibility to Gruncle Fred’s tall tales. There were even allegations of strange, pale bald men in black suits going door to door and threatening the townsfolk to not speak about what they saw, or else.

“Or else what?” you, along with many of the stupefied drunken storylisteners, may ask. Nobody knows – as strange as this piece of local folklore is, one thing is undebatable: the photograph, taken the morning after the sighting, of the thirty-foot hole that was melted into the sheet of ice covering the Wanapo that some random out-of-towner dude wearing a trench coat happened to be carrying on him that night in the bar. For the rest of the evening, until the town drunk started rambling on about bigfoot, there was only one question on the minds of the patrons – not who are they, but why are they here?

“So why are they here?” Chuck inquires, followed by Sigmund loudly asking the same thing because of how invisible he’s felt ever since the extraterrestrials got here.

Ace and Fleurna exchange a worried glance, the whole speaking without speaking thing they keep doing beginning to wear on Chuck, before reconfirming with Sigmund that the Dirt Eater Mk I was capable of being used as an operation base.

All-Knowing Extraterrestrials

“We’re… not sure what the rest of the Zeroc are doing here,” says Ace to the wall-sized computer monitor underneath Jack’s bedroom. “And honestly, we don’t really care. We have to get back with our crew soon, they probably miss me. Plus, we have some shit to do, preparations to make, et cetera.”

A flustered Sigmund stammers, “What?! Well, well–… then why are you commandeering my, my, my lowly Earth technology, then? Hm?”

Awh, Sigmund thinks that the aliens are leaving on his accord, poor dude.

Ace turns around, astounded. “Sigmund relax, your tech is top notch. As are you, in general. I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend more time together during this visit, but there’s really not a whole lot we can do about it. We mu–”

“It’s ready,” Fleurna says, hearing Ace’s thoughts and cutting the conversation short before he runs out of validating nonsense to spew.

“What’s ready?”

“Your in. Ya see Sigmund, and Chuck, while we don’t really care about this whole invasion of Earth thing, you guys clearly do. You asked us why they were here, and we couldn’t tell you, so the least we could do is get you an audience with the Chairseat in charge of the ship.”

“And how the fuh–” Chuck begins to say before he and Sigmund simultaneously disappear, leaving a short juvenile human and his taller brother alone in the presence of the seven-and-eight-foot-tall otherworldly beings.

“Where’d they go?!” Humey One shouts, obviously only having started paying attention when things got weird.

Fleurna crouches down and brushes her hand against Jack’s cheek, calming him immensely. “We’ve beamed them up, Jacky. They’re inside the invasion craft now, they’ll be back soon. We won’t be here when they get back, but they’ll be back soon.”

“Wait, but I just met you guys! Don’t tell me y’all are leaving already,” Sam whistles after finally regaining full functionality over his flattened windpipe after being crushed by Sigmund’s bulbous… bulbousness.

Not giving his brother a chance to be answered by the wise, all-knowing extraterrestrials, Jack continues. “Is that even safe though? Like, won’t they be seen as a threat? Just like, popping in out of nowhere?”

Ace chuckles, unable to help himself. “A couple of humans? No, my boy, goodness no, especially because of the fact they’ve been teleported in using one of the secret encrypted Zerocian channels. The member of the Council that’s spearheading the invasion will know the humans didn’t get there by themselves. Besides, there’s nothing your species could really do that would be perceived as a threat to the Zeroc… as long as – yanno, strictly speaking in hypotheticals here – there’s not an opposing force of humans brooding outside of the little loop we’ve got goin’ on here who try to, I don’t know… forcibly board the ship from the outside, the invading force shouldn’t see humanity as a threat, thus giving them no reason at all to respond with the appropriately deadly force.”

As I said above, The 2020 Event |The Main Event| is a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. It is also the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The ‘Roc, The Myth, The Legend – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (26/66)

Hello Commons, here is chapter 8.88 of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. Please enjoy. See the bottom of this post for more info.

Chapter 8.88
The ‘Roc, The Myth, The Legend

The Sharpest Blade This Side Of Fuego

Moments after Chuck lights the blunt precariously pinched between Fleurna’s soft, smiling lips, as per his new tradition after embarking on an hours-long tremendously sensual sexcapade with a confirmed voluptuous purple Psychedelic-drug-doing alien, a large mass enters Earth’s atmosphere in total silence. At first, to the nobody that notices it, the mass appears to be a chunk of a planet that was ripped from the rest of its original planet, the top vaguely shaped like an ice cream cone after the toddler holding it licked his delicious dessert to an almost, but not quite, flat surface.

The roof of the object, or ceiling, depending on whether or not you’re inside the craft, follows the curvature of a celestial body that’s approximately one ten-thousandth the size of the dissipated patch of space dust once known as the Onyx Moon, which for you humeys was almost as small as Earth’s moon, albeit significantly less artificial. It’s rough, dusty, and littered with craters, although the craters aren’t nearly as big or worn out as old woman Luna’s.

The underbelly of the craft is a jagged collection of stalactites, growing in size from the outer rim to the center, the central spike of course housing the massive anti-gravitational engine that keeps the craft from impaling whatever planet its pilots are instructed to hover over before the impending invasion can begin.

If, that is, the Zeroc Council of Life, one of the three Zerocian High Councils that remotely govern the important facets of life on their homeworld of Fuego, has ordered a planet to be invaded. This is not always the case; ChairElder Ealdra, the elder of the Council of Life and the one who gets the final final say in most, if not all matters which are brought to the attention of the Council, will often first send out a small expeditionary team to do some exploration and reconnaissance work. These teams are almost never officially under an oath of loyalty to the Council of Life, and even more often the team is not a team of Zerocians at all, but Zeroc-piloted BioBots disguised as a different species of sentient lifeform altogether.

As for which species the Psychedelically advanced Zerocian BioBot technology mimics, well, the Zeroc have many go-tos, favorites chosen based on how good of a fight they put up when their planets were reclaimed by the Zerocian empire: the Diba, which look like the more insect version of a cross between a dragonfly and a wyvern; the Hibi’Ra’X’Ckx, a large plant-based race that look like ten-foot tall flowers until all their pedals open up to reveal rows upon rows upon rows of razor-sharp, constantly regenerating and rotating teeth; the Kayemells (pronounced camels), beings which are identical to Earth walruses in body, mind, and soul, except for the fact that they possess complex telepathic and telekinetic abilities and, of course; the Boolevarians, a race of elephant-headed bipedal primates who stand a colossal three foot nothin’ that, for some indiscernible reason, are just terrible at picking up on cyclical patterns, especially when it comes to the fluctuation of temperature on their home planet Tlactrol.

That’s right, the Boolevarians still inhabit their homeworld, as do all the extraterrestrials that have been visited by the Zeroc. As the current holder of the title Master Race of the Universe, the Zeroc are the champions of a certain expected level of respect that should be held between lifeforms of a certain level of consciousness – the only planets that get reclaimed are satellite planets, because stealing a race’s homeworld would be, just, so impolite. The Zeroc would hate to lose their Fuego to the hands of a lesser race, so why would they take away some other lifeform’s Fuego?

 Consciousness, like autism, sexuality, and colors, operates on a spectrum here in Universe W-2020. Unlike that of autism, sexuality, and colors, the consciousness spectrum is vertical, the higher beings leading a much more aware and intelligent existence than the beings farting around on the lower levels. How it exactly works is a tad bit confusing; aside from the fact that one’s current consciousness level has to do with the vibrational frequency of one’s spiritual energy, which fluctuates on a moment to moment basis similarly to the value of interplanetary cryptocurrency, I don’t understand it all that well. I’m just scrivening whatever the mysterious source that’s beaming all of this into my brain is beaming into my brain when I slip into that lovely flow state that some humans claim miraculously heals them of life-threatening ailments. Anyway, I’m not really sure where I’m going with this, let’s close the door and flip the deadbolt.

Ah, that’s right; so, the Council of Life will often send a crew of temp workers to scout out whatever planet they’re trying to invade, but Earth is no average planet. It’s the most average planet, and a planet this meticulously mediocre deserves a special team to ensure that everything doesn’t go as wrong as it possibly could. And who, of all the thousands of active Generals, Admirals, and Captains of the various arbitrary branches of the various arbitrary martial bodies under the command of the Council of Life, was chosen to lead the reconnaissance team?

The ‘Roc, the Myth, the Legend, of course.

The one and only.

Admiral Derrick Bolt.

Among the first appointed Admirals of his martial body, Bolt has served the Zeroc Council of Life for longer than he’s capable of remembering. After achieving the status of Captain in the blink of an eye of only ten short decades in the ranks, Bolt swiftly made headlines with his sharpened wit, able body, and proclivity towards assembling the greatest teams in Zerocian thistory.

Not his-story, this-story.

Greatness does not appear out of thin air,” he once said in a speech that he dicted upon his first graduating class. “No, it is forged in the thickest smog bubbling from the hottest fires captured from the brightest star and pressure-cooked in the collision point of two rogue planets. Yes, my recruits, you may only be Grunts today, but you are some of the most talented, and more importantly, the most skilled Grunts I have ever had the pleasure of training.

“Let’s talk about that, those two symbols I mentioned, talent and skill. Talent, well that comes naturally; it’s like wanting to smith and being born with dulled nerves, incapable of feeling heat and pain. Skill though, skill comes from eon after eon spent beating on your craft, taking that hot steel out of the forge and hammering it until you get the sharpest blade this side of Fuego. Then, you take that blade and pierce the guts of anybody that told you that you wouldn’t, and if they said you couldn’t? Well… I’d like to think I taught you better than to associate yourself with low-frequency energy like that.

Admiral Bolt trained the finest legions the Council of Life had ever ordered, and amazingly enough, he accomplished everything in his life without the use of the Moksha Medicine – he’s one of the only surviving Zerocians still living life in the ways of the old age of the species, before the power of harnessing the Z,Z-DifZoral Tryptamine crystals in their brain was realized. It was actually one of his own teams that brought the breakthrough to the race, the first team he ever put together maybe that’s why he never dabbled in the mystic side of life.

The new age is for the young, I’m of a different time. When you’ve been doing things one way for so long, you tend to perfect that way of doing things. Why fix what’s not broken when you can help others heal their wounds with what you have?

Truly a great being, Bolt’s legacy will forever be an inspiration and role model to an innumerable number of Grunts, Captains, Admirals, Generals, and Chairseats alike with his recklessly clean record, save for that one, tiny, Onyx-black blip, the very blip that sent him spiraling downwards in a clockwise direction directly into the dark, frothy liquid bubbling inside of a darker brown bottle that he couldn’t breach the surface of even if he wanted to.

You see, no wall is truly impregnable, no strength is without weakness; even the mightiest shield can be rendered useless with enough blows from a quad-barreled shotgun loaded with dragon’s breath shells. Everyone has a breaking point, and for Bolt, that point broke along with his heart when he blew that moon to smithereens. It was the only call he could have made, and despite the various other options, it was the right call to make; he was sincerely acting in the best interest of his entire species, nay, of the entire Universe, but none of that mattered. All he can remember from that day is the frightened look on that little girl’s face when he tucked her into bed moments before he pressed the button and watched from the safety of Fuego as her whole world went up in flames.

‘All because I pressed that button…’

“Admiral Bolt, sir. We need you to press the button.”


Of course that was many, many decades ago and Bolt is far past his prime these days. He’s only called on for very specific types of missions, missions of a very specific gravity. Like, for example, the mission to set up a small base of operations in the forests of a certain settlement on Earth where an anomalous signal was picked up, the likes of which hasn’t been detected since before Bolt was even born.

This Earthly morning, just like that fateful day in space, Bolt is stared down by a choice he must make that will doubtlessly impact the lives of all involved, albeit in a significantly less mortal way. Below him are two bodies of water, one shaped like a horseshoe and one that is much, much larger, the larger being closer in proximity to the anomalous signal he and his crew were sent to investigate. Two reservoirs, two squads of highly trained extraction teams, one call: who goes where.

“All right slacks, listen up. Beta team, you will report with your Captain, Merciless Rex, to the lower lake. He will submerge your submersible and travel…” as he follows the imaginary line running through the almost river-shaped lower lake to the far end where it literally becomes a river, “…here, to the feeder point. That patch of forest, isolated from the potentially hostile population, is where we will set up basecamp. I will take Alpha squad,” as he smacks the projection, leaving another scuff on the wall of the terrestrial invasion craft, “to the upper reservoir, here, and do a quick sweep, reporting back to Rex if we come across anything that calls for reinforcements. When all is scanned and accounted for, I’ll jettison over the falls and link back up with you at camp. Soooouuuuunnnd acceptable?”

The nineteen Zeroc draped in their form-fitting, light-bending and projectile-stopping martial armor click their heels and salute their superior. Moments later, after Bolt’s superior gives him the okay, the ships are launched, Rex’s dunking into the waters of the Wanapo Reservoir on the lower side of the Skunksville dam, and Bolt’s plummeting into Skunksville herself.

The water is murkier than Bolt’s perception was for the entire century after he destroyed the Onyx Moon. A plume of debris spouts up from the bottom and shrouds Bolt’s craft in lake muck before he can even look out the observation glass. He activates a proximity scan – no signs of life. That’s a good start. Cranking up the power, two portholes open beneath the observation glass and release slow-moving torpedo-like projectiles, armed not with a payload but with sensors; they travel to the other end of the lake and back in seconds, reporting a total lack of any and all life in the entire lake. The ground sweep reveals the ruined remains of a long-dead civilization and entire battalions of weapons that seem to be designed for fish to use.

A cold bead of sweat trickles down the side of Admiral Bolt’s head. “Computer, analyze the composition of all the debris in the water.”

The computer does just that, and the results send Bolt spiraling into an episode of brain fog-laced PTSD that his crew is not ready to witness.

“No wonder there are no fish in this lake… they’re all dead!

Suddenly, after he’s tossed a Grunt clear across the floor to be caught by the unsuspecting bodies of two other Grunts, Bolt’s in the driver’s seat. He spins the craft and jets off towards the dam between the two lakes, leaving the torpedoes behind to be found in just a few moments by a very confused fisherman and his constantly stoned daughter.

Captain Rex, halfway to his destination on the far side of the Wanapo, gets very different results from his scan. Plenty of fish, an abandoned subterranean bunker-style structure that’s been devoid of inhabitants for at least five years now, a few house-like structures, and an ancient mass grave or two; nothing too out of the ordinary… that is, until a large blip approaches his submarine from the rear at speeds that shouldn’t be possible coming from a native population of such primitivity. He tells his warriors to man the guns, which they do, but no shots are fired; none except for the lasers coming out of Rex’s eyes when he sees Admiral Bolt flying past him, obviously in an attempt to beat him to the rendezvous point so he can brag about it later. ‘Asshole.’ Whatever – let the old dog have his day, it’s not like he’ll be learning new tricks anytime soon.

As I said above, The 2020 Event |The Main Event| is a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. It is also the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Continued Interspecies Mingling – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (25/66)

Hello Commons, here is chapter 8.5 of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. Please enjoy. See the bottom of this post for more info.

Chapter 8.5
Continued Interspecies Mingling

I’m Not Tripping Anymore

–was some kind of subconscious thing.”

Sigmund, intrigued, joins the little huddle around Chuck. Jack almost turns the triangle into a square, but then he hears everybody talking about him and decides to just crack the bedroom door and eavesdrop from the comfort of Chuck’s shag carpet.

“Like, maybe when Chuck told him about the Cee-Bee-Dee, some deep-rooted and misinformed fear of getting addicted to drugs manifested itself into… what’d you call it?”

“A golden… god head, I guess,” Ace shudders, the memory of those empty, glazed eyes peering through him as if he wasn’t even there still fresh in his mind. “I’ve never seen anything like it, it was larger than life. I know the psyche of the human species is fucked to all hell but… I don’t think it’s capable of conjuring something like that, not on accident. It was way too powerful.”

“And why not? What exactly is wrong with the human psyche?” Sigmund verbally elbows, not wanting to get left out of the loop like his parents would always do to him as a kid.

“Oh, no reason buddy. Hey, can you go grab me a Cee-Bee-Dee juice?” Ace requests with a smile, nodding towards Chuck’s fridge. “I don’t care what flavor, before you ask.”

Once Sigmund is out of earshot, Ace leans in close to Fleurna and whispers, “See what I mean?”

Fleurna simpers. Then, “Oh, by the way, I pinged Zaxus. He and the other two took the ship back into orbit. Apparently the boys had a pretty bad time with the other guy. All things considered, I think we still got the better tripsitting gig.”

Sigmund comes back and hands the juice to Ace. Ace hands the juice right back to Sigmund with a perplexed look on his face.

“Why are you giving this to me? You just said you were thirsty.”

“Huh? No I didn’t, I, yo–”

“Yeah you did,” Fleurna chimes, offering Sigmund a reassuring smile. “It’s okay Siggy, you’re probably still a little shaken up from to–, well, now technically yesterday’s events.”

She winks her purple eye at Sigmund. Sigmund assumes that he did, in fact, get the juice for himself.

Once Ace finishes rubbing his eyes, “So what are we gonna do? Just sleep here, in the city?”

Choosing this as an opportune and hopefully what will appear to be coincidental time to walk out of Chuck’s bedroom, Jack shouts, “No!”

Not meaning to randomly shout at all the new friends he’s made, Jack follows it up with a smooth, “I-I, I mean, you guys can uh, can sleep here tonight but I like, need to get home. I have uh, school, in the morning.”

“Ah, Jack. I was wondering when you were going to come out of there,” Ace says, twisting around to smile at Jack. “Didn’t hear anything you didn’t like, did ya bud?”

Jack’s cheeks take on a rosy tone and his tongue dries instantly. “What? Uh, what-what-whatdoyoumean? I was uh, I was in the bathroom!”

Ace and Fleurna giddily look at each other, each of their minds filled with the other’s laughter. Sigmund looks at them and shares their smile, thinking he understands the whole fucked psyche thing.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, son.” clap “Well! If Jack has to get home tonight then we should probably devise a plan to get there, shouldn’t we? Fleurna, you have any more circle dust left? We could teleport everyone.”

Jack, his head simulating the thought of his Mom walking into his bedroom when she wakes up at three and then four-thirty in the morning to make sure the room is still empty and finding him, two strange men, and two purple-skinned aliens, says, “Noooono, no we can’t do that. I told my family I was sleeping at a friend’s house tonight. Besides, you couldn’t all fit in my room, so.”

“So?” The Zerocians ask in unison, about to suggest that they simply stitch a pocket into the fabric of space to make the room large enough to accommodate everybody whilst still appearing, from the outside, to be unchanged. But no, they’re beaten to the punch by a foggy pair of glasses.

So, it’s a good thing I have the perfect solution!” Sigmund beams, so much more than happy to finally prove his worth to the extraterrestrial overlords.

Ace claps his hands together and points at Sigmund without separating them. “That’s right! You mentioned a pocket-universe earlier, right? Very excited to see the human version of that.”

“Oh, uh…” Sigmund sulks. “That’s actually. Um. My, my team of robots are still working on reverse engineering that. Ah-hahah, as it turns out, Zerocian technology is a lot more advanced than what I’m used to dealing with.”

Ace, trying to hold his excitement while at the same time feeling the exhaustion creeping up on him, quietly brings his hands together again and says, “Okay, that’s cool. So what’s your solution, then?”

“Well, uh, well you see, we have this… vehicle, of sorts, that Chuck usually uses as a gym and I usually use as a base of operations for the space missions I send Chuck on. It has,” as he counts on his fingers, “four bedrooms and one common room that has a very comfortable couch, so we’ll all have a surface to sleep on. It’s also got a couple closets that feed into and receive from the very early prototype of an invention I’ve been working on called a fabricator. It–”

Sigmund was going to continue but Ace and Fleurna both blurt out, “You have fabrication technology?!”

He waits for them to continue and, when they don’t, he picks up the slack. “Well, it’s a very early prototype but yes… why, is that… is that a big deal?

The higher lifeforms share an astonished look. Then, out of Ace’s mouth crawls, “Yes, yes it is. The Zeroc are the only species in this Universe that’s been able to crack the code on fabrication. Nothing else ever has. How did–”

“I figure it out? It’s kind of funny, actually, it came to me in a dream the night after I invented the hemi-atomic nanobots.” Dusting off his spotless shoulders for his entire species, Sigmund continues, “Humans, I’ll have you know, have historically reached quite a few breakthroughs whilst dreaming. The only reason we even have a scientific method is because a man dreamt up the process.”

Jack is surprised at this because all his dreams usually end in one of three ways: with his Mother chasing him through a dark forest carrying a pair of racing shoes with drills where the spikes should be, with his bloody-eyed brother overdosing on heroin, or with Jack himself falling endlessly through a pit lined with snapping needle-nose pliers that can talk at a normal volume but choose to whisper demented nothings in his ears as he plummets.

“That… explains more than you realize. Very, very interesting.” Ace looks over at Chuck, still stoically traversing one astral plane or another, then back to Sigmund. “Well I would love to see it! But what’s this vehicle have to do with getting Jack home?”

“Well it’s a subterranean vehicle, its outer layer is a membrane that’s embedded with octillions of tiny little arms that reposition the dirt around the craft, allowing it to travel underground without leaving a cavern in its wake. Helps to avoid sinkholes, I find.”

Ace nods his head slowly, then looks at Fleurna who is also nodding her head, her face taking on an impressed scowl.

“Very well, Mister Durham,” Ace commends, giving Sigmund that hit of validation that he’s been craving ever since he learned that he had nothing to do with the visitation of these extraterrestrials to his planet. “As soon as Chuck comes out of his trip, we’ll shove off!”

“Oh, I’m not tripping anymore,” Chuck says without opening his eyes or moving in general. The entire setting, including the characters within it, turn their attention to him. “I came out of it yesterday, I’m just afterglowing hard as fuck.”

Ace looks off at the nothing in particular that’s floating above Chuck’s desk in the other wing of the office. Then he stands, gathers himself, runs towards, and jumps out of the large square gap where there was once a wall-sized window, not even so much as yelping as he plummets to the ground below. A few minutes later, after Chuck’s legs regain feeling and he’s left a note on Karen’s desk telling her to order a few replacement windows from a business that Cape doesn’t own and then buy up the company if the salesman, and I quote, “isn’t a douche”, Ace greets everybody when the elevator doors open and they all ride to the most basement-est floor in the building. Then, after a half hour of cleaning up sand, dense fluff, and all the rest of the spilled innards from the punching bags that Chuck eviscerated in his rage earlier and piling said scraps into the fabricator’s IN closet, Sigmund kicks the engine into gear and it starts to warm up.

“How long’ll it take us to get home?” Jack inquires, not nearly as amazed by this marvel of human engineering as Ace and Fleurna are, “Will I make the bus?”

“Well, that entirely depends on what time the bus comes, Jack,” Sigmund answers, irritated.

“Six’fifty-two aye-em.”

“Yeah you should make it, it’ll take us abooouuut five and a half hours, depending on traffic.” Sigmund turns to Chuck, who wasn’t paying attention at all, and assures him the return trip home will be much faster once the dirt’s been rearranged once. “In the meantime, can I give you all a demonstration of the fabricator?”

“YES!” Ace shouts, not expecting to be the only being who’s outwardly excited to see the likely underwhelming human version of extraterrestrial technology. He turns around and looks at everyone else’s lack of eye contact with him. “What’s wrong guys? Don’t you want to see some stuff get built at an atomic level?”

“Eyedeekay, I’m kinda tired to be honest,” Jack yawns, looking around and trying to figure out which room is his so he can “sleep.”

“Yeah, me too…” says Fleurna, equally as “tired.” “It’s been a very long and very… difficult day.”

Sigmund and Ace both put their disappointed helmets on, but fortunately SuperChuck saves the day.

“Tell y’all what, how about I just show Jack and Fleurna to their rooms, in that order because Jack is tired and whatnot, and you guys can play with the machine? Or whatever?”

“Sounds like a plan to me!”

Ace and Sigmund, too engrossed in the production of a waffle maker using only the atoms that once composed the shredded-up punching bags, don’t notice the twice repeated dual clicks of doors opening and closing. They spend a good majority of the next hour feeding random creations into the fabricator and getting randomer fabrications out of it for no other reason than the fact that they can. When they start making exact copies of the newspaper announcing the impeachment of Barake O’Ramma, the last elected president of the United States of America before non-violent anarchy gently fell into place, they decide that it’s getting late, pinky-promising to each other to come back and revisit the fabricator another day, after all is said and done with. Then, Ace gives Sigmund the hug he’s been wishing for in his mind all night.

After Sigmund gets changed into the onesie that he always keeps in his back-left pocket – the blue one with the little rocket ships on it, to be exact – he and Ace play a game of rock, paper, scissors to determine who gets the last bedroom. Ace wins, of course, when he puts his hand in the shape of a llama’s head and claims that it has some type of higher significance back on his homeworld of Fuego, Sigmund drooling with belief over each and every word. Following their game, Sigmund wishes Ace sweet dreams before shutting off the lights, noticing that Chuck must have left his bedroom door open. This is very unlike Chuck, he always sleeps with the door closed!

Being a good friend, Sigmund carefully tiptoes over and, not noticing the empty bed, turns the nob prematurely as to not make a click sound when he closes the door. Then he curls up in a not-so-little ball on the couch and gently drifts off to sleep, very thankful to himself for installing soundproofing in all the walls. He would be so freaking embarrassed if the extraterrestrials heard him snoring. Especially Fleurna!

As I said above, The 2020 Event |The Main Event| is a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. It is also the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Interspecies Mingling – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (24/66)

Hello Commons, here is chapter 8 of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. Please enjoy. See the bottom of this post for more info.

Chapter 8
Interspecies Mingling


With his late-night meditation session coming to an abrupt end, Sam jolts awake on top of the boulder overlooking the smoking fire pit at his campsite, called The Hillside Commons by the way, the pit still slightly aglow from the slowly whispering embers of a once roaring fire. His butt kind of hurts, and tiny little pebble fragments deroot themselves from his bare ankles as he stands up without using any hands. Tyler’s still fast asleep, doubtlessly exhausted from today’s Acidic highking trip, but Sam’s having some trouble getting there. It’s not the visual snow or the slight ringing in his ears that couldn’t stay on pitch to save its life, nor is it the feeling of his brain being so exhausted it can’t stop arbitrarily firing neurons for the hell of it. Those things all contribute to tonight’s insomnia, sure, but what’s really keeping Sam awake is the WHOOP he heard in the distance shortly after Tyler hit the hay.

There’s an old story about the woods of Quarryville, and the details always shift around regardless of who you ask. The only part that stays true is this: where there is now the Skunksville Reservoir, there was once the village of Skunksville.

As one man’s version of the story goes, before the unsuspecting residents of Skunksville had their land forcibly bought out from under them to be flooded by the US Government in the 1980s, there was this little circus attraction of sorts that loved to set up shop in the sleepy valley. In the final days before the flood, in an attempt to squeeze the last specks of evaporated milk from the shriveled udder of Treering’s favorite heifer, the circus’s owner Mister Bahrleigh purchased a very expensive bipedal ape creature, named Tiny Tim of all things, from some rich dude who was somehow able to procure said ape creature back then. On the night before the flood, Tiny Tim is said to have escaped the circus, and according to the legend, still resides in the forests bordering the reservoirs to this very day.

The creature, which Sam always thought was Treering’s made up version of a bigfoot, is said to communicate with its kind by whooping, and if you were ever hiking around in Treering’s forests after dark and you heard a whoop, it meant you were being hunted by a tribe of bigfoots (bigfeet?). But, if only one specimen of this invasive species was introduced into the local environment, and said specimen was male, as beings named Tim often are, how would it reproduce? How would there be more than one bigfoot if there was no lady bigfoot for Tiny Tim to practice his multiplication with?

This plot hole hatched the frankly asinine bar top rumor of the forest bride; the bigfoot, feeling the urge to pay forward its genes and promote the survival of its species, would spend its time lurking around the shallower parts of Treering’s forests, constantly on the lookout for any female human it felt was capable of bearing the load, so to speak; this woman was usually abnormally tall, rotund, and very hairy, which is a coincidentally accurate description of the wife of the man who was telling the story the one night Sam snuck in to the local watering hole. Humans are monkeys, just like bigfi are, so it totally makes sense, right?

It certainly did to Mister Daniels anyway, so he kept on telling the story. Until, that is, Sam interrupted him to bring up the fact that the entire premise of the forest bride was idiotic and it would never work because if bigfoot, or, sorry, if Tiny Tim was real, and it came from a tropical island off somewhere in the Specific Ocean, then its genetic makeup would be waayyy too far off-center to splice with that of a human’s, and the baby would come out a wet lump of snot-looking stuff. If it came out at all.

Neither Mister Daniels, the crowd around him, nor the bartender took kindly to Sam’s thrashing of one of the town staple’s favorite drunken rants, so the suddenly underaged boy was immediately thrown out of the establishment, along with quite a few empty beer bottles, the sandy remnants from which are still scattered in the parking lot to this day. That night, Sam walked home through the woods, being too young to drive legally, and was very unsurprised when he wasn’t hunted down and eaten by any bigfoots, or their forest brides, or their trademarked whoops. From that night on, he made it a point to go night hiking at least once a week, just to see if he would ever run into the fabled Tiny Tim, but in the years since he’s started this tradition, he never has. He’s heard the yelping of coyotes, sure, but never a bona fide whoop. Never even heard so much as a wip.

Until, that is, hardly an hour before the transition from the night of April 21st, 2020 to the morning of April 22nd, 2020, after he had spent his day cortex-deep in an LSD trip, the same trip in which he encountered a band of insect-like alien creatures in the woods that his tripping buddy Tyler has no memory of seeing.

Yes, it’s undoubtedly a fear that’s keeping Sam awake on this most average of nights. Not the fear of being eaten, not the fear of being mistaken for a skinny female bigfoot because of the long, unkept hair sprouting from his head, arms, and legs, but the fear of plummeting into insanity.

Years ago when Sam was still young and trapped in high school, his Principal would hold an annual assembly detailing the risks of taking drugs; he especially warned of the dangers that lie in wait for users of hal-yew-cinnogins, also known as Psychedelics, with a capital P because Sam likes them so much. Sam was warned that ingesting this Universe’s version of his favorite author’s Moksha Medicines could cause schizophrenia time and time again, but he never listened. The disease is considered the worst-case scenario as far as the mental health industry’s professionals are concerned while, at the same time, being considered the best-case scenario as far as the pharmaceutical industry’s professionals are concerned. His entire family is pretty crazy at baseline, and it’s not like he’s never felt any of the symptoms; unshakeable paranoia, auditory and visual hallucinations, coming off as an asshole to everybody around him and being treated as such, insomnia… hell, he’s felt all of these symptoms in the past twelve hours! Could it be that his sporadic drug use over the past few years of his life has irreversibly changed how his brain works… forever?


Sam begins to cry, unsure if the tears spilling from his eyelids are real or not. Then, self-aware over the fact he’s standing alone, in the dark, in the middle of the woods, crying by-and-to himself whilst his unparanoid friend sleeps soundly in a tent, he crouches down in the fetal position and continues to cry, sobbing all over his favorite tie-dye shirt and dribbling snot all over his exposed knees that are stretching the frayed holes of his favorite pair of jeans just a little bit wider. He can hear the words of old Mister P in his head now, almost as clearly as they sounded back in his straightedge days at Hoffman High: ‘Your neurons will catch on fire and burn out if you try them even once, the resulting sizzling causing you to see and hear things that aren’t actually there!’ Well he definitely hears the WHOOPs, ‘Oh fuck, there it was again,’ and he definitely thinks they’re real. He also thinks those eyes looking directly at him from up the trail are real. Those glowing, yellow eyes, hovering about eight feet off the ground… wait… what?????’


Sam takes off sprinting down the side of the hill away from The Hillside Commons, light on his feet and gaining speed as heavy, unlabored footsteps begin to follow him. Meanwhile Tyler, sitting on the throne of a kingdom in his dreams, is explaining to a machine elf why his buddy Cassio was allowed to fly so close to the sun.

Sam hits a quad trail that was once used to transport logs via horse-drawn carriage and skids, drifting so hard his bare callused feet begin to bleed – he feels every second of it, too. It’s not like when he wears those five-fingered toe shoes that runners love to hate; he likes to say that running in those feels like running barefoot, but the truth is, even with the minimalistic design, there’s still a hearty layer of rubber sole and cotton toe-sock between the flesh of his feet and the unforgiving crust of the planet, the same rubber sole that isn’t here to protect Sam’s exposed feet from the jagged rocks, splintering twigs, and rusty horseshoe nails that jut out from the dirt that makes up the unforgiving crust our soon to be mental patient prays doesn’t give him lockjaw as he beats feet away from his pursuer. The very pursuer that, as Sam reminds himself over and over as his feet grow rawer and rawer, might not even be there.

Whether or not Tiny Tim is actually chasing him down right now, Sam knows beyond any reasonable doubt that the dismay in the pit of his stomach is real. He legitimately feels like he’s going to be captured, maimed, and likely roasted over the campfire at his campsite until Tyler wakes up and meets the same fate, and maybe that’s all that matters. Maybe the splashing of bipedal ape feet through the muddy stream that Sam just leapt over isn’t real, but the dread that’s inching up his chest in the shape of a beefy, callused hand just dying to rip the heart from his chest is real. There are two ways to face fear at the end of the day, and they’re both conveniently hardwired into the human brain: one can fight it, or one can take flight. And, facing the fact that there’s a very tiny (Tim) chance this towering ape creature actually is real and attempting to fight it would be the textbook definition of a fool’s gamble, Sam has one option: take flight.

He bites his bottom lip to distract himself from the foot pain and focuses, putting into action all the bodily control techniques he’s learned through his self-guided meditation practice. ‘See only with the third eye,’ Sam says in his mind, ‘let it all fade, see only with the third eye.’

These symbols, meaningless in ninety-nine percent of the other times Sam’s repeated them to himself, activates something inside him tonight; he feels a pressure, like someone was poking him in the forehead, and he senses what feels like a torrent of fluids rushing up his spinal column. The forest brightens just enough for him to see the log that’s fallen across the trail ahead of him before he trips on it – he hurdles the bastard, landing on his feet that suddenly don’t hurt anymore.

Sam picks up speed and the hot breath he felt on the back of his neck a moment ago backs off. The stomping doesn’t slow down, but it quiets, the distance between the two monkeys growing until Tiny Tim can hardly see the human who he’s just trying to have a simple conversation with.

Tim WHOOPs in succession three times, hoping to convey to the human boy that he’s an intelligent being and not a bloodthirsty cretin as he tears down the trail in hot pursuit. Tim leaps across a stream, not wanting to get more mud caked in his already matted leg fur, and mounts a hill just to be taken by gravity as he carries himself deeper into the forest. Eventually the old logging road delivers Tim to a graveyard, the relocated (as detailed by the nearby sign that he reads) graveyard of the family that founded the town which held that blasted circus attraction that stranded him here in the first place. Maybe stranded isn’t the right term – it’s not like this is a terrible exchange for the island home he can never return to on account of the indigenous fruit having trouble growing from charcoal – but the isolation is beginning to wear on him. One can only talk to coyotes so much before one feels that dire itch of mange.

Tiny Tim searches around the wall lining the graveyard and finds no signs of humanity. The trail ends here, where could humey possibly have gone? Gah – questioning himself has never gotten Tim anywhere, why should he start now?

Always a bit sketched out by graveyards, Tim-nah’tee does one more sweep of the perimeter before giving up and finding a suitable stick to carve a circle into the exposed dirt around him. He then sits down in that circle in the lotus position and starts throwing hand signs, ending with a loud clap that causes his entire hulking figure to be swallowed by a radiant orb of white light. The orb then floats off the ground and shoots into the sky over Bored Mountain, taking a sharp turn and flying over the forest until it lands on that strange mountain that Tim can only sometimes find when he’s exploring around back here.


Back at the campsite, as he’s engulfed by the foul-smelling smoke that billows from the fire pit as he pisses on the embers that he figured Sam would have extinguished before he packed it in for the night, Tyler sees an orb flying through the sky and lets his dick dangle, rubbing his eyes and immediately regretting the decision when he feels a light drizzle on his feet.

The same orb that Dakota, sleeping alone in his bedroom as he does the entirety of his nights, confuses for a robot, giving him an excuse to late-night-text Isabelle.

The same orb that Isabelle sees from her bedroom window moments after ignoring yet another weirdly provocative text from Dakota, causing her to debate late-night-texting Jack. She wimps out and texts Tyler instead, asking if he convinced Sam to teach her some of his magic tricks yet.

Tyler doesn’t answer this text, just like Sam doesn’t answer Tyler’s Goodnight, asshole grumble as he crawls back into his tent. Sam would have clapped back with an equally grumbly Goodnight, holeass if he was half-sleeping in his tent, but he’s on the other side of the woods right now, peeking out from behind the metal tower marking the grave site of the late Mary Skunks who passed away at the young age of eighteen years, ten months, and eleven days back in the early 1900s.

Now, more than a century later, this little lady’s burial ground was used as a hiding place for a boy who isn’t even sure that he just witnessed an otherworldly orb rise into the sky, and she’s none too thrilled about it, either. Her family built their town from the ground up on one principle – certainty. Nobody else had the vision of her dad, saw the potential he saw, but nobody else needed to, a sentiment that Sam feels as it emanates from the dirt that fills the gashes in his feet as he walks over the decomposed casket that holds Mary’s bones on his way out of the graveyard.

On his walk back, this newfound yearning for certainty in his life inspires Sam – while he doesn’t know why his family is so broken, he decides right then and there that one thing is for certain: he doesn’t want it to be broken anymore. And what’s the one thing that his family feels separates them? His drug use, specifically the Cannabis. Don’t get him wrong, if Sam’s family knew about the LSD they wouldn’t exactly throw him a party, but he’s managed to keep those papers out of his mom’s filing cabinet that she uses as a bottle stash this long. Our lost wanderer takes out his cell phone and, after setting up an alarm to go off a half hour before the ass crack of dawn, he brings up Jack’s contact page. Sam formulates a text that he knows will get his brother’s attention, regardless of the fact that he’s sleeping up at Dakota’s house tonight.

A Minute Before Midnight

One period of time equal to the delay between the sender sending and the receiver receiving a text message, Jack walks out of the bathroom in Chuck’s skunky bedroom with his hands clenching his stomach. He feels his pocket buzzing and takes out his cell phone, the nausea kicking right back up when he reads Sam’s name on the screen. By the time the phone bounces against the carpet, Jack is heaving into the toilet once more, wishing his body would just finish cleaning itself of that nasty CBD shit that he didn’t mean to drink earlier so this dreadful rebound anxiety can stop.

Out in the office, Fleurna is keeping a very close eye on Chuck, still peacefully sat in his lotus position, showing no signs of having a bad trip. Ace and Sigmund enter through the office doors, the former walking and the latter waddling because their jaunt around the roof exhausted him so much. They’re engrossed in a very loud conversation, which at least one of the pair obviously wants the entire room to hear, about Ace’s lack of any fucking idea regarding a transmitter…

“…or whatever you called it. That’s not why we came here. If you looked up to and respected my species as much as you claim to, you would have listened earlier when I told Chuck that we came here specifically for him to trip on our space drugs.”

Sigmund’s proverbial tail is dunked between his legs and held there until it drowns. His plan of peer pressuring Ace to admit that they came here for Sigmund and not Chuck failed miserably.

“Well… whatever happened to it, then? Your satellite sent me coordinates, which I followed to the twentieth decimal point, may I add, and there was nothing there. I just don–”

“That’s not my problem, humey. If it weren’t for that hippie kid earlier, I swear to Energy I would be harboring a whole new disdain for your entire species. Ugh!” he ughs, slowly watching himself become the very thing he would hypothetically disdain. Catching himself before his frequency drops too far, Ace approaches Fleurna and sits on the opposite side of the circle to face her.

“How’s he doing?”

“Well, the building hasn’t collapsed, so that’s a good sign. When he commanded the Dee-eff-Zee-Tee with such ease earlier I thought he would go in and out, twenty-minute trip. But it’s literally a minute before midnight now and he’s still wading through it.”

Wonderful. Well, at least the planet isn’t finna rumble again. That shit was… I mean, what the hell? What could that have been?”

“I don’t know…” Fleurna wonders, sensing Jack’s gastro-intestinal distress. “At least Jack’s back to his old self. I liked the Moksha version, but I suppose true enlightenment has to be earned.”

“That it does, that it do. Hey, at least he’s in some form aware that he doesn’t have to be so neurotic all the time.”

“Yeah… hey, maybe it–

As I said above, The 2020 Event |The Main Event| is a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. It is also the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Space Drugs II: The Afterglow – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (23/66)

Hello Commons, here is chapter 7.75 of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. Please enjoy. See the bottom of this post for more info.

Chapter 7.75
Space Drugs II: The Afterglow

Jarius And Bill

When he comes to, the moon is halfway across the sky. It’s not quite midnight yet but it’s pretty damn close, close enough to warrant the generation of end of day reports in Apex’s shipping department, anyway. Having kept a sturdy lotus position throughout the duration of his strange hallucinatory experience, Sean Hymarc unfolds his legs and stands, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and intently picking out the one he flipped upside down when he first opened the little cardboard box.

As he lights his cigarette, Hymarc’s quite amused when he sees Edvard holding not just one, but both of the aliens at bay with his disintegration pistol, the formers looking none too thrilled about being stuck in this bullshit situation. All they were trying to do was carry out the will of their current Universe, and what do they get? A fucking weapon pointed at their heads.

“Doctor, lower your gun. What they said was true, their space drugs indeed sent me on a journey. I was alone in a forest, a clear path laid ahead of me. I ascended a mountain trail that led me to a wise old man who lived in a cabin, and he let me in on a little secret.”

Edvard, gun still trained on the unruly purple creatures that made multiple attempts at his life during the shockwaves resulting from all that commotion across town, asks his boss what secret that would be.

“My place in the Universe, my Good Doctor. The purpose of my life; who, or rather what, I truly am.”

Sean turns his attention to G1-Zm0, Ray, KingPig, and Wolf. They all have their individual weapons trained on both intruders’ various body parts.

“Boys, do any of you know when the girls will be back?”

“I can send out a return request,” G1-Zm0 clanks. “They could all be back here by tomorrow morning.”

The rest of the three grunt in agreement, not taking their eyes off their assigned alien limb that doesn’t have to stay attached to its purple body, necessarily.

“Good, do it,” as he turns towards the window, taking a surprised step backwards when the lack of daylight graces his brain. “Well, I didn’t realize it was night already. Wasn’t… didn’t I sit down in the afternoon? And, is that… what’s that smoke coming from my future base of operations? Is it on fire or something?”

“Yes, sihr, but you vere out for quite some tiem. I vas actually quite vorried, hence vhy I have zeese griftas under ze point of mine gun. Vhi–”

“Oh for god’s sake, just let me explain it,” Wolf groans, unable to deal with Doc Torpol’s Nazi-ass accent. “While you were tripping something happened across town boss, some kind of explosion or shockwave or something. Ray and I, and Gizmo and Kay-Pee, technically, although they didn’t have much of offer… anyway, we all discussed it thoroughly while you were entranced.”

“Okaaay,” Hymarc begins, now with two lit cigarettes hanging out of his mouth, one half burned and one lit just a moment ago. “And? Get to where you’re going or don’t get to going, Seven.”

“Well, the running theory around here is that the tower belongs to your prime competitor, whoever that may be, correct?”

Off in the corner of the room, hiding underneath window planter Alpha-Beta, Alvey Fratto begins to perspire, and without even a banana peel to wipe up the sweat. He knows that nobody told him to eat the peel, he doesn’t need to remind himself, but he gets very hungry when he’s stressed. And overworked. And tired. And cranky. And hungry.’

“Well, that said,” Wolf continues, actually unaware that Alvey is still in the room, “it would be logical to assume that, as the first major stockholder in this city, he is aware of the second major stockholder in this city, the latter being you. Now, follow with me here: maybe he’s planning something. Or she, maybe she’s planning something, something big. A weapon of some sort so he can buy up your acquisitions and assets to assert a more dominant grip on New Manhattan.”

“We don’t know what percentage he owns,” Ray adds, “but it can’t be much more than yours. That kind of wealth, even in this metropolis, it just doesn’t exist like that. You own eight percent, he probably owns ten or twelve, and if he can’t make that a flat twenty, he likely at least wants to get it to what was once the legal driving age.”

“Hah, you ‘member dat slop sheit? Forcin’ us to go tha Dee-Em-Vee ‘nd driave ‘round in circles wit’ sum creaky old lady, just hopin’ she’s in a good mood and she don’t fail us. Fuck it, fuck it all,” KingPig drawls.

Hymarc waits for the explanation to finish and, when he realizes it had, he lazily shakes his head and meanders over to the window to gaze at his next achievement. “So… why the smoke?”

“Oh, uh,” Wolf fumbles, “we don’t really know. It probably blew up in their faces, whatever they were planning. Or maybe it was unrelated, there’s really no way to be sure.”

“Okay,” Hymarc mumbles, his brain working overtime. “I have my plan.”

“Hold that thought, big man!” Bill shouts through the barrel of Torpol’s disintegration pistol, the trigger mechanism of which could have been better designed by a two-year-old back on Fuego. “Our job is complete, we need to go home.”

Sean looks at the aliens out of the corner of his eye, realizing that they never told him where they came from and not caring even a microscopic bit.

“No, no I don’t think so. You see,” he says, pulling out a blank sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolding it – the back, just for clarification, is blank too; Sean Hymarc just carries blank pieces of paper around with him, just in case he gets a little peckish – “I have a mission to do, a mission fueled by my newfound purpose and power in this Universe. I haven’t felt this woke in a long, long time. So, you won’t be going anywhere until you complete my commands, the list of which I may add to at any time.”

He takes a bite out of the piece of paper and puts it back in his pocket, commenting that it helps keep him regular when everybody gives him a weird look.

A platform then lowers from the ceiling, loaded with a notebook, a pencil, and two black collars with large blacker cubes sewn to the sides. KingPig and Ray each come over and take a collar, strapping them to both aliens’ necks. The aliens share a glance, their eyes bursting with laughter like the Onyx Moon when Moron detonated the less-than-faux explosive, sans the laughter. Then, the weapons are pointed at them again, which is getting so old.

“On this list, when it’s done, I will have a few com– I mean, and meant, demands. One: you will provide me with more of that… Doctor, what did they call the drug?”

“Zhey called et Tryptamine, to vhich I argued seeing how zhere are literally oodles of tryptamine compounds in zhe human brain, not to mention zheir likely inclusion in zhe neurochemical makeup of zhe aliens’ own brains. I do not trust zhem, sir, not vhun bit.”

As Hymarc speaks, he scribes along in his notebook. “Very well. One: you surrender your entire supply of the so-called Tryptamine to myself, The Good Doctor, KingPig, Gizmo, and-slash-or Ray,” leaving Wolf feeling more left out than Alvey, who still has yet to be acknowledged by his freshly woke boss. “Two: you will give me a detailed explanation of how the crystal changed, from solid form, into a gaseous powder and then into a perforated tab of paper similar to that which one would use to distribute and consume lysergic acid diethylamide, the only psychedelic drug acceptable for human use. For now. Thir– what the fuck?”

Jarius and Bill literally vanish, their collars landing on the tile floor with a cheap plastic clack. The shell of the collar once around Jarius’s neck cracks upon impact. The MERCs are embarrassed and, following Doctor Torpol’s lead, they all holster their weapons.

Hymarc gingerly approaches and looks around. He then stomps his foot on the floor where the prisoners were standing, hoping to find some sort of trap door or something that would have allowed such a daring escape before remembering that this is my goddamned building and if there was a trap door here I would damn well know about it. You’re an idiot Sean, you’re a goddamned fool.’

Across the city, over top of the building Sean sweats over daily, also known to a very select few (including you) as Cape Enterprises, Uncorporated, a drastically less visible than carbon monoxide silver flying disk floats about fifty feet skyward before adjusting its angle and shooting off into the stars, leaving no trail, causing no sound, and alerting nobody in the city, especially the two Zeroc that decided to stay behind in the Cape headquarters.

“This… does not make a difference,” Hymarc says, practicing the rage management techniques he acquired from the classes that he was made to star taking ten years ago. He only had to attend ten classes, the classes running five times a week, but he’s been showing up ever since. Not necessarily because he enjoys them, and certainly not every day, but because the classes offer a fantastic networking opportunity. Where else would he find humans stupid enough to accept a job as a research dummy to a large corporation they’ve never heard of? If they’re dumb enough to believe anger can be managed, they’ll believe anything!

“Ray, Wolf, you have a new mission as of tonight. You are to go to the warehouse,” turning his piercing daggers towards G1-Zm0, “the warehouse where we lost half a man and came out with two-thirds of a cyborg,” returning to Ray and Wolf, “and retrieve the extraterrestrial device we recovered from the crash. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to activate it. When KingPig and Rose originally brought the thing there I had them lock it in the trunk of one of my old cars for safety, so as long as you don’t open the trunk, you’ll have no problems. Clear?”

“Crystal!” they say in unison, one significantly more excited than the other.

“Excellent. Doctor, I need you to embark on a search. I don’t know where Fratto ran off to, but we must find him, I have a very special assignment brewing that only he can handle.”


Alvey almost gets up and spr– well, does his version of sprinting over to The Good Doctor and President Hymarc, but he is literally wedged beneath the planter, his body fat swollen from the stress of sitting in a crammed position for so long. Alvey Fratto is trapped in what nobody else in their right mind would describe as a crevice, with no idea how to get out.

“And KingPig, you are free to go wallow in your mud. After, I shall add, you prepare the common room and the girls’ bedroom for their return from their mission and-slash-or missions. Good?”

“I like ta wallow in da mud, ye!”

“Beautiful. Now, everybody get the fuck out of my sight, and more importantly, my office.”

All of Hymarc’s employees file into the elevator and ride it down to the various floors they need to be on. Even Alvey, who’s body was lubricated just enough to worm his way out of the crevice by a sudden hot-flash-induced sweatstorm, joins Doctor Torpol to look for Alvey Fratto The Coffee Man. Meaning The Good Doc doesn’t recognize him by face, by voice, or by smell. This is good for Alvey, at least that last part is.

President Hymarc, on the other hand, goes to his desk and picks up one of the novelty bottles of sand that he purchased from his last vacation to Hawaii with Doctor Torpol. He removes the crumbling cork stopper and, after digging through the part that gets stuck in the bottle with the secret pen he carries on him at all times, he spills the sand in a neat little circle next to the wall-windows that line his office. He then sits down in this circle, legs folded under him, and closes his eyes, sinking deep into meditation over the implications of what he learned during his spacey alien drug experience.

As I said above, The 2020 Event |The Main Event| is a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. It is also the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Chuck Refuses To Experiment With Space Drugs – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (22/66)

Hello Commons, here is chapter 7.5 of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. Please enjoy. See the bottom of this post for more info.

Chapter 7.5
Chuck Refuses To Experiment With Space Drugs

What If

“Well, I suppose there’s only one thing we can do,” Fleurna says, looking towards the office’s entrance. “Go get Ace and force him off the roof.”

Just then, a muffled ding squeezes its way through the crack between the glass doors. A moment later in walks Ace, his hands clasped behind his back and closed around a sizeable Z,Z-DifZoral Tryptamine crystal that nobody else is aware of.

Before anyone has a chance to say anything, Ace singles out Chuck and backs him into a wall. “Hey there friend, it’s your turn.”

“What in the fuck did you just say? I’m not doing that shit, you hear me? Chuck refuses to experiment with space drugs. Refuses.”

“So, funny story: you actually are going to experiment wit–”

“Ace, no,” Fleurna chimes in. “It’s too dangerous, what if–”

“Who gives a fuck what if?” Ace scolds, then turns his attention back to Chuck. “Listen to me, human. I’ve been kicking around this starscape for millenia of millenia, you know what that means? I was born literally millions of years ago, as far as you know, and nothing like that has ever happened to anybody who’s taken this stuff. Never not once… do you concur, Fleurna?”

Fleurna says nothing, knowing Ace has a point but decidedly staying very averse to taking a risk with these psychotic monkey creatures.

“My point exactly. It was a fluke and I handled it. We handled it. It got a little dark, buh–”

“A little?” Jack pips. “Fuck you, alien, that wuh–”

“Before you finish that sentence, you pale-skinned hairless ape, you better decide whether you want to talk about the first three quarters of your trip or that last forty-two seconds you lack memory of. Because, for me, I focus on the good instead of wallowing in the low-frequency bullshit like a pathetic little Krathi who thinks big is stupid because I’m the size of a fuckin’ walnut. You crackin’ my egg here? Fryin’ my yolk?”

Jack genuinely debates arguing with the epochs-old being, but decides the attempt would be null. Especially when he can be tricked into doing that drug again.

“Fine… I don’t really want to admit it but… the first part of the, whatever you want to call it, the trip… it was beautiful. It made me understand things that I had never understood before, things that I completely forget now, by the way. What’s that all about?”

That is the Universe doing what it does best: being smarter than you and doing what She needs to do. Through me. Everything that happens…” sigh “happens because it’s supposed to happen.” To Chuck, “And Fleurna and I came here to give you a trip, Chuck. Not Jack, not Sigmund, but you.”

“Then why dih–”

“When a choice opportunity to pop open an adolescent human’s tightly locked doors of perception came about, I seized the moment, carped the ass out of that diem. Unfortunately, it resulted in a neuro-electrical seizure, but we all got out okay. Not that many humans died, relatively speaking, and the ones that did die were supposed to pass, so says the Universe because, well, because it happened. So,” as he turns to Fleurna, who’s already uncorking the vial that contains the circle powder. “Wow, you’re way ahead of me. I love it!”

Ace backs off Chuck and hands him the DfZT crystal, returning to his position at Chuck’s desk, this time hovering lotus above it instead of sitting in his seat. Fleurna does that magical hand-waving that Chuck loves to watch and readies the circle, this time making it just big enough for one human to occupy. She then looks over at Chuck and winks, gesturing to the circle.

Chuck makes an audible gulp sound and slowly walks into the circle, causing himself an immense amount of pain by folding his legs overtop one another and forcing himself into the lotus position once more. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, the crystal dusting and reshaping itself into a small bong this time around, complete with a bowl full of Cape Cookies Redux: The Sexy Alien Edition. Slowly but surely he brings his ringed middle finger to the mouth of the packed bowl. A small flame flickers from beneath his fingernail.

Chuck looks back at Sigmund for confirmation. Sigmund gives Chuck a shrug, nonverbally telling him that he has no idea what the right move is, so Chuck looks at the back of Jack’s head and decides that he won’t get validation from there, either. Chuck then looks to Ace, who serves him up a platter of a more dramatic version of Sigmund’s reaction. Just as he’s about to extinguish the flame again, he feels a soft pair of lips kiss him on the cheek.

‘Greatness does not appear out of thin air, Chuck…’ Fleurna begins in his head, Ace finishing the sentence out loud with, “…it is forged in fire and pressure-cooked in the collision point between two rogue planets.”

Ace then turns to Fleurna, smiles, and says, “And I’m sorry that I forgot that.”

With his lungs filled with smoke milliseconds after the kiss lands on his cheek, Chuck falls into a deep trance, managing to keep his body upright for the duration of the trip while entirely missing that nonsense that Ace and Fleurna were going on about.

As I said above, The 2020 Event |The Main Event| is a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. It is also the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Let’s Jump Off The Roof – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (21/66)

Hello Commons, here is chapter 7.25 of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. Please enjoy. See the bottom of this post for more info.

Chapter 7.25
Let’s Jump Off The Roof

Perfect Harmony

“Hey buddy. How uh, how ya doin’?”

Ace says nothing, the being suspended in perfect stillness as he watches life happen around him in perfect harmony, a harmony that once made sense, that was once real; now, it’s nothing more than a veil, a shroud, an illusion to distract the fools oblivious enough to think they have a handle on it from the murky blackness that lies in wait underneath, salivating, hungry. ‘So voraciously, unstoppably hungry.’

“But you stopped it, though.”

Ace twitches. He does not like it when humans read his mind.

“Ace, listen to me. What happened in there… out here… it was real fucked up. I know because I watched it transpire, I sa–”

“You… what?” Ace mutters as he descends to the roof, his legs unfolding to catch his body on the ledge. He then spins and advances on Sam, clutching him by the throat and flying him across the roof, slamming him down on the opposite edge, the human’s curly brown locks dangling freely off the ledge.

“You insolent little fucking termite, you parasite! You watched all that transpire and you didn’t intervene?! The Zeroc are GODS to these lower creatures, you twit! You, you… I don’t even fucking know you!” as he lifts and bashes Sam’s skull against the concrete beneath him, causing the nanoconcrete ledge to crack. It repairs itself with a liquid haste. “But I can sense you, there’s a great power lying within you… an evidently fucking dormant power, but a power nonetheless, one that rivals my own, maybe even surpasses it… yet you dared to sit idly by on the sidelines, you befoul the strikethrough that separates you from the rest of these mere mortals and you have the audacity to come up here and say it to me?! To my fucking back no less?!”

Sam attempts to speak but his words come out as wet gargles, so Ace slightly loosens his grip. Slightly.

“You were facing away from me, how else co–” choking noises.

“My fucking point exactly.”

As he spits the word exactly, Ace raises his free hand towards the heavens and a dark cloud forms in the otherwise clear sky. From this cloud a bolt of lightning strikes, drawn to Ace’s open palm as if it was a lightning rod and leaving an impossibly sharp and jagged dagger in the place of a burn mark. He spins the weapon and grips it by the handle, bringing the tip down and resting it on the middle of Sam’s forehead, in the same spot that, on Fleurna’s head, a third eye opened.

“For all I know, you caused all this mayhem. Give me one reason I shouldn’t dig your pineal gland out and find out for myself what makes you tick, fiend. One fucking reason,” before loosening his stranglehold just enough for oxygen to pass through the human’s windpipe.

“Because… you… stopped it…”

Ace tightens his grip once more, scrutinizing the noises that he allowed passage through Sam’s mouth.

“What do you mean?”

When Ace loosens his grip again, Sam explains. “It wasn’t me Ace, I would never do something like that. Whatever it was inside Jack’s head that caused this Universe to tremble, you stopped it. It’s true, I sat on the sidelines and watched, but I was strapped into those sidelines. I was barred down, incapacitated, restrained by who even fucking knows what.”

‘A cold, dead hand.’

“I tried everything I know, everything you taught me, and more, to break in and save my little brother, whom I love more than he’s even capable of understanding, more than you’re even capable of understanding. But something stopped me. Something blocked me, and I don’t know what it was–”

‘That dreadful maw.’

“–but the thing knew I was coming, it expected me. Or, at least… something did. And that something was clearly on the side of… of… whatever you encountered in that most sacred dimension of reality.”

‘A golden, human-like face, gleaming in Jack’s light.’

The dagger disintegrates, mentally reduced to a fine dust before being swept away by a gust of wind on this otherwise still evening. Ace releases his grasp on Sam’s throat, leaving visible ligature marks on the kid’s neck.

Sam throws himself past Ace and lands in the middle of the roof where he begins to gasp for air, his lungs verbally berating him for allowing them to go so long without that goodgood. He thinks he hears Ace say something but it’s hard to be sure, what with all the struggling and flailing around he’s doing.

Finally, a few minutes later when he returns to balance, Sam croaks, “What?”

“You said that you tried everything I taught you. This has been a… strange day, to say the least, and I’ve seen my share of strange days through my wide-open doors of perception. What I’m trying to say is… well, frankly, some off-ish timeline nonsense already happened today so… I suppose it’s possible that you’ve met me, but I have yet to meet you. I suppose.

Sam, wobbling to a stand, brings his hands together repeatedly for a slow cap that does not help his cause right now.

“Sorry, but from my point of view you’re just catching up. Yes Ace, you’ll be meeting me soon. We share some crazy experiences together, I think, and you’re the closest thing to a father I’ve ever had. You always looked out for me, even when you were blinded.”

‘Blinded?!’ as Ace puts on a shocked face, to which Sam replies, “Metaphorically speaking, sorry. But… yeah. You and I have a lot of shit to go through yet, said from your end of the table, and we aren’t going to be able to go through it if you don’t bring that shit to the table, or that table to the room that I assume the table is in, for that matter. Look Captain, something unexpected and impossible happened to my brother and you saved him; it may have caused a lot of damage to the city, but imagine if you didn’t intervene! That shit could have spread to more minds than just my brother’s… yanno, maybe. I’m not really sure how all this works, I just kind of appear and disappear to be honest. Everything I say just kind of pops into my head as I’m saying it, it’s sort of uncomfortable. What I do know, though, is that everything that happens happens because it’s supposed to happen, so why are we crying over spilled milk when a cat came and lapped it all up?”

“So what do I do then, Mister Guru?” Ace snaps. “The integrity of the Dee-eff-Zee-Tee dimension is compromised, it’s not safe to trip there anymore. That’s all we have… it’s a fucking bottomless well, sure, but it’s all we have.”

“What do you mean it’s compromised? If that were true then we’d both be nonexistent, and so would Fleurna. It was breached, maybe, or maybe there’s been something living inside of it for a long time. Who knows? And who cares? The threat’s gone, you saved the day. And as a reward for doing so, you… what, sit alone on a roof, doubting your purpose? Oh, Existence threw us a curveball, let’s jump off the roof, durr-hurr. Like, really? Questioning your own existence? Man give me a break, that’s the weakest shit I’ve ever heard. And I’ve heard Zaxus’s comedy.”

A shiver runs down Ace’s spine at the mention of those last two words that shall never be repeated. And then, somehow, he smiles. “Fine, but what do I do now?”

As I said above, The 2020 Event |The Main Event| is a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. It is also the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~