Loading ...
Sorry, an error occurred while loading the content.

Article #679 (Intercepted Email Transmission)

Expand Messages
  • Mathew Morrell
    Around a caged light bulb hung an aura of smoke that grew thicker and darker as cigars were smoked during the course of the evening by two very large Italians
    Message 1 of 1 , Aug 4, 2008
    • 0 Attachment

       

      Around a caged light bulb hung an aura of smoke that grew thicker and darker as cigars were smoked during the course of the evening by two very large Italians seated at a fold-out card table.  Underneath the caged bulb their faces looked swollen from alcohol consumption, their skin yellow with dissipation, and their eyes bleary and water-soaked.  The air was foul when a slim, attractive, fresh-faced Italian, in his twenties, entered the room and begun coughing excessively as if to protest the smoke. 

                  "Look at this room," he said between coughs.  "How can you stand it?"

                  The men were playing poker and looked up all at once, saying, "How can we stand you?"  Another added, "Hey Gio, what's up?"

                  "Not much," said the kid.

                  "Go sweep the loading dock and you won't have to breath our air, Sunshine.  After the shipment comes, and you unload the truck, you can leave."    

                  "What a crock!" said the kid.

                  "Ahhh, go sweep the floor before I belt you one."

                  "Ahhh your self." 

                  Wafts of cigar smoke hovered in the air, which the boy blew away with his hands in exaggerated motions expressing the same disgust.  The room was small and cloudy.  The tortured body of Billy Bayber hung upside down by its ankles from the ceiling, limp and lifeless in the smoke.

                  "Is he dead?  He looks it," said the Italian kid, now holding a broom.

                  The man in the bloody shirt removed the cigar from his mouth, saying "Maybe, maybe not," then reinserted the cigar and smiled.  A five card flush.  The poker chips were amassed on his side the table.  It was after 7 PM and the Italian boy begun sweeping a section of the warehouse where many cigarette butts were scattered on the floor after a week of smoking, drinking and debauchery centered on the torture of Billy Bayber.  Now that his cries had seized, the long aisles, in-between the tall twenty foot shelves were silent; the cast iron boiler in the basement could be heard rumbling.  The decaying, dusty, lumber-brick structure conveyed the ghostly, time-filled essence of a buildings filled with memories—a century of crime.  Before Sergei Rostropovich helped introduce the Russian Mob to the city—placing the Italian Mob in direct competition with the fiercer, stronger, better financed Tin Clan of Moscow—millions in drug money flowed through the warehouse.  The Tin Clan had maneuvered their way into the Kansas City drug market, and it was mainly because of Billy Bayber's uncle that this amounted to millions in lost revenue for the Italian mob. 

                  At half past the hour, when a honk signaled the arrival of the anticipated shipment, the boy, in his disco attire, propped the broom against the wall and pulled up on the garage-style door; once the door was slid all the way up it revealed a decayed parking lot behind the warehouse and an eighteen wheel tractor trailer reversing straight back towards the rubber tires padding the loading dock.  The rain-sweetened air blew the swampy-smelling scent of the Missouri River into the warehouse, along with the smell of diesel smoke.  This was because the driver never cut the motor.  Oddly, he remained in the cab the entire time, engine running, chain smoking cigarettes in the side-view mirror as the tractor trailer was emptied of its cargo; electronic equipment from Mexico, color TV's, small engine parts, Mexican picture frames, and excellent counterfeit medical equipment.  The boy compensated for his lack of expertise with loading equipment by driving with sheer joy and aggressiveness; a cocky grin on his face; the top button of his shirt exposing his gold necklace; occasionally spinning the tires when an innocent spirit of recklessness moved him to do so.

                  The truck was emptied and the driver pulled away as anonymously as he came, as anonymous as the tug boats moving up and down the Missouri or the anonymous jet craft circling in the midnight air above the downtown airport across the river.   

                  The boy seemed eager to leave—at first.  After parking the fork lift he hurried toward the smoky back offices; sweaty from work and overly concerned about his appearance.  In the office, he started combing his hair.

                  "I'm leaving now," he told the fat men. 

                  "Then go, no one's keeping you here."

                  But then his eyes locked on Billy Bayber once again.  And again, the spectacle amazed him.  "Damned if he doesn't look dead," he said, pocketing his comb without losing eye-contact with the dangling body.

                  "I think he is dead," said the other older, fat man.

                  But the other disagreed.  "Huh, uh."

                  "No?  Are you sure?"

                  "Sure I'm sure.  I see him breathing.  See. . . his ribs moved a little bit."

                  Now they all looked at the dangling body, which was hung on thick gauge rope tied to a wooden rafter that extended across the ceiling.  Bayber was clothed in the same black leather pants that he wore when he was kidnapped ten days ago, and had grown bony and emaciated since then; the skull tattoo all the more pronounced. He was shirtless and welted whip marks were visible on his back, from which his ribs protruded. A current of suffering permeated the pale, thin, dangling body.  Yet the face was shrouded in peace, conveying tranquility in the midst of physical agony.

                  "I don't see his ribs moving.  To me, he looks dead."

                  "Nah, nah.  You don't understand.  He's not dead."

                  "His eyes are open!"

                  "I know that.  He's some kind of freak, though.  That's the way he sleeps.  Maris didn't tell you?  We beat the hell out of this kid."

                  "And?" asked the kid.

                  "And nothing.  He did nothing.  He moaned at first.  He cried.  And he screamed.  Man, how he screamed!  Then nothing.  He slept.  It's as if a trance fell over him.  From then on it was like beating a mannequin.  Nothing was there.  You see?  Nothing was inside.  His body seemed un-occupied, yet was breathing.  Every now and then his face would show signs of life:  his eye lids would shutter; his finger would bend and un-bend; his chin elevated then fell to his chest. Nothing seemed to connect, and he would sink back into some kind of weird trance all over again."

                  The Italian kid laughed.  "That's amazing!" he said. 

                  "The boy's a freak—a fucking freak."

                  "What did he do?"

                  "He's the nephew of Sergei Rostropovich.  That's what he did.  He was born.  Anyone for another hand of five card stud?"

                  The floor was littered with food wrappers, empty liquor bottles, cigarette butts, and electric cables that snaked through the room, connected to a car battery.  It was a torture chamber.  Chains dangled from the ceiling.  A bull whip lay on a crate.  A .45 magnum lay on the floor, just outside the sphere of light that surrounded the card table.  The floor was smeared with old blood.  Fresh blood continued to drip from Billy's scalp as the body moved faintly in pendulum motions; rocking gently back and forth a matter of inches; the finger tips dragging limply against the floor; the face white and corpse like.  The half-closed eyes, without blinking, stared opaquely, catatonically, glowingly, on the man named Vince whose massive three-hundred pound frame consumed a dainty fold-out chair. 

                  His Akashic pictures very graphically prove without doubt that Billy Bayber did indeed escape his captors this evening, when they least suspected it, while they're judgment was impaired by large quantities of alcohol.  The artist was seemingly entrenched in a somnambulistic dream world when his inverted body started to move gently to and fro within the dark recesses of the room; the pendulumic motions incrementally increased in amplitude.  The men were oblivious to the fact that Billy Bayber was stirring from his trance and, in the dark, increasing the pendulumic motions toward a six-inch box-cutting knife lying on the floor. 

                  The caged light bulb created a glare upon the roundness of their cheeks and brows; but cast shadows that extended underneath their chins like long beards.  One said:           

                  "More gin too, please."

                  "Coming right up."

                  "Gin and cards, cards and gin, day and night.  You have to laugh, huh?  How much gin can one drink, and cards can one play, before enough is enough?  I'm telling you, I'm sick of it.  Let's burry the dreamer tonight." 

                  "We can't kill him."

                  "If he hasn't told us already, he never will.  All this talk about the Anti-Christ makes me want to hurt him more, do you know what I mean?"

                  The dealer had chunky, liver spotted hands.   "People say crazy things," he said.  "The kid's nuts."

                  "No, no, he's not!  His art is evil, Johnny, evil!  For God sake, let's burry him.  Let's end the nightmare once and for all.  I can't go on like this anymore.  The sleepless nights, the rants about the Anti Christ, and these, these, pictures every where, evil, blasphemous pictures, which stir something in me and make me want to do bad things.  Besides, I don't want Gio being apart of what we're doing here.  He's too young.  He's twenty, but inside he's ten.  Get out of here, kid, won't you?  You're annoying us.  I thought you had plans tonight.  Huh?"

                  The kid's mesmerized expression remained unseen by the fat men, for he faced the opposite direction from where the cards were being dealt, and was watching Billy Bayber instead.  Now fully awake, his knife-bearing form emerged from out of the dark.  A deranged, almost clown-like smile spread across his face, suggesting madness.       

                  "Huh kid?" the fat men repeated, their backs still turned. 

                  "The kid's deaf," said the dealer.  More gin was poured. 

                  "What's wrong with you kid?" 

                  The kid fell to the floor; his knees buckling, he landed straight on his buttocks and flopped backwards onto his back.  The complete knife blade was impaled in his forehead to the handle.  The eyes remained open however.  Billy Bayber lurched from out of the darkness, into the light.  Just as the .45 magnum filled the room with bright flashes, psychotic flashes erupted in his mind; huge half-word, half-picture, mental hieroglyphs pouring down upon him from the Empyrean Kingdom , igniting the outlines of his etheric aura.  The flashes were the fragmented memories of Astril Johnson and the empyrean kingdom in which they had met and parted, what seemed seconds ago.  Her sound-pictures hovered as if in infinity, even as he chased down the other fat man, caught him, and stabbed him about the face and throat.

                  The message she desperately tried to communicate flung through Space from the heights of the soul spiritual kingdoms, and Billy Bayber was receptive enough to hear it.  The message concerned the fire tonight at Sergei's restaurant.  The word pictures were flashes of light projecting the thought of her self, William's uncle Sergei Rostropovich, and the old man Yuri Isakovsky, along with the word picture of Mafia "runners" splashing petrol on the shag carpeting.  The ether realm looked like an explosion of hieroglyphic images streaming in all directions yet conveying a unity of thought centered on one central idea:  of the room being engulfed in flames; of a match landing on the petrol-soaked carpet, and of Astril, Sergei and Yuri unable to stop the blaze—taped, bound and gagged, waiting to be burnt alive.

                  The consciousness of the somnambulist spread out diffusely over rain-wet streets and limestone buildings, past which he rode on a motorcycle that he found behind the warehouse, jump started, and mounted for the purpose of saving the voices he heard screaming in his head.  Completely relaxed, his face betrayed no expression of discomfort whatsoever, only a golem like detachment against the cold, wet blasts of wind coming at him when the speedometer reached the 100 MPH mark.  The buildings begun to pass by so rapidly that it was impossible to distinguish one from the other; they blurred by, and within the blur everything seemed interconnected within a dream-like atmosphere.  

                  During the ride across town he was a thoughtless, un-occupied, un-conscious automaton driven by somnambulistic impulses streaming down upon him from the empyrean heaven.  Rather than depict the complexity of this truth, future generations idealized "the ride", as well as the scourging and the execution, focusing instead on the symbolic structure of these events.  When remote viewing "the ride", clairvoyants see a void where they think Billy Bayber's astral body should have left an impression of some kind.  Instead they see nothing—a void.  And they fill their empty vision with their own imaginings, the result being yet more untruths heaped upon the multitudinous volumes of biographical information already written on the subject.  Spiritual scientists gaze into the earth's aura and, because they see nothing there, they assume William was uninvolved in the rescue attempts that night; moreover that he was held captive the entire time, and didn't free him self until the next morning. 

                  Those clairvoyants who have succeeded in finding the truth are those capable of elevating their consciousness to the plane extending beyond the earth.  Only in the Arupa condition of the pure Akasha was it possible to see the trail leading from the decimated corpses.  There, in the Akasha Chronicle, in Devachan, the event was clearly imprinted in sonorous word-pictures showing Billy Bayber seated upon a motorcycle—a wide, heavy, loud Harley Davidson.  The brilliance of Saturn and Neptune hovered behind him in this wispy, lovely, dream-saturated background of the Arupa condition, and the Milky Way was the splash of stars under the revolving wheels.  The primal source of the universe, the Logos, surged and flowed around the Cosmic Dreamer, and its sounds was like that of a thousand trumpets shepherding him through chasms of time and space extending to the Sixth Epoch.

    Your message has been successfully submitted and would be delivered to recipients shortly.