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Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


"Who's my buddy?" said David Pike, flippantly-perhaps too flippantly, off on a mad Pike tangent again, almost unapproachable. This was purely a rhetorical question-academic-for the most of the world knew who we were, because there had been, over the years, an extensive list of minor crimes and follies. Gee, were there follies, and was a sad note in keeping with the end of the world, and by extension, the end of Pike and Okra. But maybe there could be a kind of half-assed afterlife where Dave and I floated through the ether, speaking our minds to each other to fend off boredom, being like as gods of oblivion, with chunks of the broken Earth swirling by us both, and us just watching them, again, bored, naked in our cocoons.
"I just can't believe it" said Pike. "We're going to survive this one yet."
"Don't speak so soon" I said. "You hear that buzzing noise overhead?"
"OH NO!" said Pike. "I thought Patrick Stewart would change the paradigm, upend the status quo, but it's all just a damnable excuse for an apocalypse!"
IN THE WAR ROOM-
"David Pike and Derek Okra?" said U.S. President Bartock Obumba.
"A purely lucky find, sir" said the technician, a poor young gent who was their for the free college tuition and nothing more.
"Let's go ahead and get them, too" said Obumba. "Give them a tomahawk or some fifty cal-whatever we got available. Paint the target. Total coverage. I don't even want a housefly to crawl away from this one."
"What happened to the love and togetherness you brought with you when you came into office?" said Secretary of State Boris Karloff. "You sure are bloodthirsty for one of those Chicago puss-"
"Shut your mouth" said Obumba. "I got the Nobull Peace Prize, for cripes sake. Trust me, we are better off without Pike and Okra, and you should know that just as well as me. You've read all about their trail of carnage and lies. We could put them in Getmo, but that's probably what those two degenerates want, to be caged with impressionable radical moslems. We'd have some mutant westernized brown terrorist army before long, breathing down our neck."
"You make a good case" came a voice, as if from the walls.
"Shut up, digitized Rumsfeld" said Boris Karloff. Yes, Rummy had watched the Matrix films in the early days of the War On Tarrer, and he had made it a priority to produce a computerized facsimile of himself. Rummy with an inspired imagination was a taskmaster, commissioning a large amount of work to distill his personality and memories into the computer program. It was the pinnacle of Information Technology, something the general public would not know about for a long time, as Digitized Rumsfeld lived in the wires, hovered over the hard drives, and used peripheral devices as his fingertips. He was next to omniscient in the halls of the Pentagon, but he missed his golf, he missed his hunting with Cheney, and he missed his beloved skeet shooting. Shooting some skeet always calmed his nerves and provoked that healthy tunnelvision, the focusing of the mind in a beloved activity, a kind of innervated sleep, but then that was not far away from his current state, though it was using microphones and cameras and keyboards as fingers that set him on end, farting out of printers, illustrating his emotions on the monitors as an intellectual exercise, and prodded by the keyboards and mice by every employee. One had to ignore the minutia, and focus, just like when shooting some skeet, with Cheney or Dr. Rice, or whomever.
"Eat my butthole, Tombstoneface" came the ghostly response.
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


They missed Dave and I by five minutes.
Five minutes this time was a lifetime, encompassing everything that was and had been Dave and I: the paranoid quests for Truth, the drunken scrawl of crayon printing that had been our collected television work, and the powers that be trying to silence and obscure our truth, the one we knew but had yet to prove. This was the technique: construct a crazy theory and then shape and edit the facts to fit that particular narrative(right?).
Despite his infamy, David Pike deigned to create an amusement park in his likeness, which was uncomfortable in certain respects, with all sorts of references to shadow governments and extrastellar overlords. Was all this satire? Was he teaching the kiddies at a young age to disbelieve him? Maybe my friend cultivated a lunatic persona to hide something else, like the fact that he knew practically nothing about football, and did not want to be bothered about it. In fact, when anyone asked him about football, he would become so nervous he would flip a steaming cup of coffee on himself, then go home and cry.
Poor Pikey.
I would be right there at his shoulder on the new adventure, that UN condemned, kid-friendly amusement park. My show was now Most Cancelled for the time being, and I did not want to sit at home drunk, anyways, so I was out and about with Dave, seeing the beginning of his next crazy dream. He gave me a creative consult on the Halloween section of the park, and I was like, "whatever, screw it", but progress was being made nonetheless on the scary section.
What we did not know then was that the place had been infiltrated by government agents. In fact, there were more undercover agents than there were actual construction workers, so in effect, the government became like a sub-contractor for the park. Coolness. This was also why they would not touch on their nuclear resources to eradicate the park, being of course scared of atomizing so many of their own agents. But what a sickly bright orange fire the park would have made!
Patrick Stewart had survived like a cockroach, revealing himself to be practically immutable, immune still to the cataclysms of man's devising and still appearing across the spectrum of broadcasting throughout the day, still as visible as the george washington portrait on the single dollar note. He was an icon without a title, and now he would be forever denied knighthood because of his failed powerplay, and his friendship with Bush. That last was particularly unforgiveable; it had taken the empire time to cleanse its palette of Tony Blair, and none wished to see another crony for a long time. They all wanted to forget-to let the wounds scab over, and to let the empire collectively roll over and die like some great antiquated dragon succumbing to extinction.
John Wusso was unaccounted for, and here at the height of the frenzy for copies of Ben's Revenge; it was like dying while clutching a winning lottery ticket. Had Abbott Hayes tossed a wailing Wusso over his shoulder and carried him into the oblivion of his own dreamscape? One thing was sure: where there was a quick dollar to be made on Wusso's name, Wusso would be there, or was this some sort of an inversion principle, in which his sudden fame caused him to cry uncontrollably and shun people, needing all his time to regroup his damaged personality as his greatest dreams were realized, and he found he came up short in all ways in terms of who and what he was, as if he could finally see himself as he truly was. And maybe that horrified him-maybe it cracked the fragile shell of his psyche like an egg. Or maybe he was busy working at a car dealership, chucking deals at the unsuspecting. Time would bear out where Kristinna Locken and the water-cooled rigid-mounted fifty cal had gotten to, mostly because Lokken stuck out like a sore thumb in her American flag bikini, what with sentiments waining and so forth.
Dave Parker, director extraordinare, became a herald of the apocalypse, cashing in with visions of society eating itself, and gratuitous reference to Lucio Fulci. I am ambivalent on this point. Calamity made him important, the classic doomsayer, party pooper, visionary, that modern-day Matisse of squibs and red corn syrup. He used the Patrick Stewart furor, then, to push his visions upon the world, and in the most benign sense, it was just his time, I think.
The one-fourth Riptellian Printz Gorge would continue to wear cute clothing, onesies of a kind with expensive, hand-made dress shirts, and sticks his fingers up the noses of other youngsters. It was a thing with him. He considered all of the toys in the nursery his, though sometimes he was content to watch other rugrats at play with the articles. All the while, he was being groomed for power, and press conferences, for a life of hospital and zoo appearances, and commencement addresses and fox hunting on horseback. He was being shown pictures of Bartock Obumba, so he would be acclimated with Americans and would not simply freak when he saw one in person-those weird conglomerates; tall with big strong teeth, many pink like Britons but some muddy or even yellow. There were all hoping with bated breath that he would become keeper of the flame, rather than some kind of Bond villian in his later years.
But one never knew what the future held.
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


The flying James Cameron things would not follow us into PikeWorld, again, because there were so many undercover agents posing as innocuous construction workers. It was all falseflag, like the government was subsidizing one of its biggest enemies in this endeavor, the building of the Pike Temple(there would actually be a Pike Pyramid on the grounds, FYI).
We were in the middle of a sea of orange sand, a flat plain punctuated by earth-moving equipment and a single mobile office. "Is this it?" I said as malignantly as I could, looking at all of the man-made desolation. The future Pikeworld. A place with Pikeburgers, Pike calendars, Pike turquoise onesies.
"It sure is" said Dave, a look of glee on his face that bordered on the maniacal. "This is everything-the epicenter. The book store will be located somewhere near this very spot, where you can buy my books, like Lego911. You can buy them signed if you have enough cutter, or not if you're on a budget. It works for everyone."
"Oh" I said disinterestedly.
"Come on" said Dave. "Let's go in the office and look at the plans, the layout of my dreams."
I looked at the plans, and immediately, I laughed at the blue paper. "You've got security checkpoints, concession booths, picnic tables, a huge public address system, and seemingly everything else anyone could ask for, save bathrooms. Where are the bathrooms, mate?" I could not restrain my mirth, imagining people squirming to hold the natural impulses while walking about the big amusement park; some would maybe even take to the foliage for relief. What a mess, I thought.
Dave's jaw dropped and his eyes went blank. I thought maybe he had frozen, overloaded or something, and I remembered how people had played GOTCHA with him in telly interviews, and how he would respond like a freaking nutjob, but then he screamed "OH ROT AND BOTHER!"
"So where will your guests take their cruds?" I asked. It could be worse, I thought; there could be scatpiles all in the walking paths, with hapless visitors walking through it, tracking it all over the park, and the new shiny rides would have brown footprints all over the lower parts. At least give them waterhoses to wash up the mess, I thought. The smell. The flies.
"They can make in their pants until we upgrade the park!" said Dave, hunching over like a gargoyle, looking ever-the-more like a madman.
"That's not feasable, Dave" I said, feeling a pang of sympathy for my poor overwhelmed friend, overseeing such a massive, stupid undertaking. He sighed heavily, and I imagined a jet of hot, infected air exiting his body, all unhealthy for the minds of clear persons, and so forth.
"I knew you would be invaluable here" he said. Yes, I thought, because you need someone sane to overlook your plans before you make these mistakes.
"That's right" I said. "I've got magic mojo. Now fire your architect."
"But I'm the architect" said Dave. And there it was, the truth unmasked, naked as the day it was born, unadorned, unfettered.
"Great" I said, "then order him shot in the head."
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


"Your attitude leaves something to be desired, Der" said Dave. He brushed the plans off the table, where they coalesced into a heap on the sandy floor. This was Dave for you, seemingly forgetting his plans all of a sudden, discarding dreams that meant so much to him at a simple whim. "Let's go ouside. I've got some people for you to meet."
"Very well" I said, feeling like my stick was mired in the mire, in the mud as it were, only it was not mud at all but plaster, and hardening to boot, robbing me of my own enthusiasm for this enterprise which was far from becoming an enterprise. So far it had only been a tax shelter for Dave's football money and book royalties, and it wasn't that Dave had sold a lot of books per se, but that he had written so many, about practically everything. He had a language that he had been taught by his prostate, which he named Jerry after the lump of flesh became sentient and made itself known to Dave. He had Lego911, of course, which no one read, so he missed the Truthers and the kiddies with that one, though it had been a grand scheme to indoctrinate young children into the Truth Movement. The devil was in the details, always, and it just did not catch on, though the public, we all felt, was really very hungry for stuff of this nature.
We stepped outside into the soft orange sands, and Dave pointed to a mound of dirt that sat innocuously, like a big orange turd. We stepped toward this and it was then I noticed a man wearing a black jumper, walking around and around the mound.
"That's Burgersen" said Dave. "He's my assistant." I wondered then if maybe he had made some weird conglomerate, men who were half-federal agent and half-Truther, if maybe his mental state had not infected them somehow, making the agents useless in future assignments. If their bosses knew, then that opened the real possibility of the James Cameron things coming back and laying waste to all of us in one fell swoop.
"I've got something special for you" said Burgersen in his ohsofake Scandanavian brogue. You could tell he was really from the American midwest, but Quantico had trained him to mimick voices to some degree of success, a low standard by my wot.
"Great" said Dave, looking at Burgersen with great interest. I knew Dave would be disappointed by the sleeper agent's surprise, but I held my tongue, not risking a verbal lashing from my bonkers friend.
"We've got the stone owl god statue from Bohemian Grove" said Burgersen. Dave gasped; his surprise was complete. "It has the thundermaking equipment lodged inside. All we have to do is connect a strong power source, and we've got a new attraction: Owlie, or the all-powerful Baal."
"That's Molloch" I said. "There's no need to screw with that kind of mojo. You're going to have golfing puffy white guys climbing the fence to get in and commune with their dark overlord."
"We can teach them" said Dave. "Re-educate them all, teach them love, and turquoise and Truth: all the stuff they lack in their daily, unfulfilling lives."
"I say you take it into the country and chunk it like trash" I said. Burgersen laughed. I bet he was cursing me, somewhere inside himself, that I was ruining his attempt to further ingratiate himself to Dave. He would have "made his bones" with Dave, if my friend accepted the trinket, thinking that his employees had pulled one on the establishment, and in that, maybe they would have, indeed.
"We can put loud speakers inside and pump in low tones that makes the stone vibrate" said Dave. "We make the babyfaces pay money to touch Owlie(was that it? Owlie?) and feel the pulsation of the stone, like his powers coursing through a solid bulk."
"Another day, another dollar, I guess" I said through an exasperated sigh. However he could get over on the general public, whatever lie he could sell them, he would, I reckoned. He still had the ability to catch me off guard with his schemes, though, because he was so wild about it all, so madly energized. Just to be fair, this was not unlike me with Most Ghost when the cameras were on, but the real difference was that I saved my act for the audience, where Dave was always on, like he was putting on some kind of show for everyone around him. I was not sure that I wanted to be there when his facade cracked, because surely the pressure would be some kind of explosion/implosion, bringing his personality to a screeching halt. Would that be dangerous for me? I did not want to find out, so I would just keep watching Dave sell, and nurse my own trepidation.
I knew for a fact that he had a glass encapsulated Sam Jackson Mach Two cadaver that he was planning to show off to his guests in the future, like the actor and tough guy were some dead Russian Tsar. Was it real? I don't know. I'm only his friend. He doesn't tell me these things. Maybe he assumes I know it is not real, basically because Mike made that theory up years ago, that someone had propogated clones of Samuel Jackson so he could appear in multiple films at the same time. Hollywood and Dave, then, would do anything for a dollar. I wanna see Ashley Judd with a dog. A big dog. But I digress. The Sam Jackson replica had like a grasshopper arm that was curled up like he was trying to pump his bicep, but otherwise, in costume, he was a perfect clone, physically. I would hate to put him on a quiz show, though. Clone psychology is not my forte, but I imagine he would be like a jealous twin, unless you were very obvious about licking or kissing his hindend with fake compliments and the like.
I wondered if there would be a Riptellian freakshow, with various specimens captured in different stages of transformation, perhaps in jars with an amber brine of preservative over their dead bodies, but in the real world surely such specimens were hard to come by. Because they don't exist, mostly. Instead there would be a gallery of clever photoshopped graphics with Bush and Blair and Brown and Thatcher, and maybe even Prince Charles with green skin and yellow eyes, as if they were standing at some press conference somewhere and accidentally morphed into their alien guise, the natural one, the bedtime one-not the one they showed to the public, by all means, but the other one. Catch them sleeping and you would think them giant toads, or that's what Dave pushes on people, that they aren't even human. It makes it easier to demonize them, no?
This was Dave, Dave multiplied, like his own clone army, but being in reality just one energetic madman, with the strength of ten, maybe even the will of ten, with a world of idiosynchratic notions inside his brain, being one french fry short of a value meal, but nevertheless trying to sound wise, but coming off extremely creepyzuckerberg.
11/10/2014, 3:23 pm Link to this post Send Email to abaddon1215   Send PM to abaddon1215 MSN Yahoo Blog
 
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


“Look at it, it's beautiful.” I sound off in the building, the big centre piece of Pikeworld.
“It's empty!” Derek says, walking the massive floor space, which is maybe a whole acre in size.
“I see with my imagination only, [sign in to see URL] is why they will come. The 'real' 9/11 museum. It'll be the true history of the event through my eyes and other researchers. There will be genuine artifacts, a waxworks, a guided tour, a virtual ride of flight 93-”
“-Stop!” Derek barks, raising his hand and pointing at me. “That's tasteless, Dave. Have you no shame.”
“The truth must be told.” I reply.
“Virtual rides?”
“[sign in to see URL]'ve secured the rights to two VR machines that can hold maybe forty people each. It'll be view of the real events that took place in the plane, not the fantasy bullshit. The plane will fly in the virtual simulation and then get shot down. Those inside the VR's will feel the explosion and the breakup. The machines can do loop-the-loops, these days. It's incredible.”
“That's insane.” Derek says, dismissively.
“So negative. This is about the truth!”
“Your truth, Dave. Your truth.”

Two double doors open out the back and two construction workers walk in. A beam of light from outside fill the empty, dark shell of a building.

“How's it going, mates!” I call out.
“Problems with the North tower steel again, Mr Pike. Warped steel, I'm afraid, Mr Pike.” One says, on approaching me.
“Oh shoot.” I mutter. “Very [sign in to see URL]'ll have to write another cheque. Get back to work, boys. We're months behind schedule.”
“Artifacts?” Derek says, puzzled.
“What [sign in to see URL] me.” I say, walking out through the building to the rear exit.
“What now?” Derek whines, bored and following me.

I point to the great hill in front of us now.
“Follow the path, you'll like this, Derek.” I tell him, as I stand still and direct him with my hand.

After a lengthy walk, Derek reaches the top of the hill. He's a faint dot in the distance to me now. I begin the climb too. As I get closer, I see the look of pure astonishment on his face. His jaw has dropped, he scratches his head, then clasps both hips with hands. The sight before him a lot to take in. When I finally reach him, he's speechless.

“A wonder isn't it!” I passionately cry, a head-wind deafening my words maybe.
 Derek won't say a thing. Maybe he cannot hear me. He just stares out at it. He looks sombre.
“A smile would be nice.” I say, nudging him.

“Smile.” Derek says with a serious tone, breaking his silence. “What the hell is this.”
His reaction and tone, makes my heart sink. I thought he'd be impressed. This is the one thing that I kept off my park blueprints. The wonder of Piketown. The centre piece of the centre piece. You go though the 9/11 museum and up the great hill and see this.
“This is why you're so broke!” Derek exclaims, angrily.
“All my [sign in to see URL] park and especially this. Years in the planning. My dream realised.”
Derek sighs.
“I could kill you-” Derek screams, clenching his fist.
“-Now, now, calm down.”
“Calm!” Derek says, punching me full pelt in the stomach, winding me. I go to defend myself, but the bastard has pushed me. I find myself falling down the other side of the hill. Violently, I tumble head over heels, ass over tit. Each bump agony. I fall as if it's not me. Like slow motion, the painful thuds knock me more than his punch ever did. For a brief second, during this, I can see at the top of the hill – Derek standing there, a smirk on his face. He's murdering me, I think in that split second. This is how I die. Derek has killed me. Then the blackness.

Hundreds of construction workers gather at the bottom of the hill. An danger alert siren sounds out.
“Go back to work!” I wimper out, consciousness returning, after several minutes of darkness.

“Spearchuckers!” I cry aloud, much to amusement of the construction workers that linger. I don't know why. Then I see him again. Him! That face I'd seen before.
“It's okay, Mr Pike. You're had a little fall on Manhattan hill.” A paramedic reassures me.

I hear Derek's voice somewhere: “He just slipped. He lost his footing and fell over. I thought he was dead.”

“I'm not dead, Derek!” I scream with every once of energy I still have.
A cheer comes out from the construction workers who still remain around.

Derek stands over me, whilst the paramedic tends to my gaping leg wound.
“Has he broken his leg?” Derek asks the paramedic.
“No, no. Severely lacerated.” The lady paramedic says, wrapping bandages round it.
“He's okay then, doctor?...He'll live” Derek ask the paramedic.
“His head has taken a knock, but he'll be fine.”
“Oh.” Derek replies, horror forming on his face, knowing of his failed murder attempt.
“Murder! Murder!” I scream, spitting blood out.
“You slipped, Dave.” Derek says, to confuse me.
“Burgerson!” I bellow.
“I'm here, Mr Pike.” Burgerson replies.
“Who is that man?” I ask, gesturing my head painfully towards a man with hard hat and moustache, who stands alone, isolated from the rest of the construction workers that still linger here and there.
“Him?” Burgerson says, pointing to the man.
“Yes.” I affirm. “Him.”
“Foreman!” Burgerson shouts aloud, standing up.
The foreman steps out from the huddled crowd that linger around.
Burgerson whispers in his ear. The foreman replies, whispering back.

“Fergal Stott.” Burgerson tells me, to some great shock.
“No.” I say, pushing Burgerson away and looking back out for the man, who has now vanished.

“Fergal Stott is dead.” Derek says, looking out at the faces of the contruction workers.
“It was him.” I say, somewhat shocked.
“Killed by the spearchuckers of the underground.” Derek says, remembering our past romps. “Yes. And he had a twin, Connor Stott. Also deceased, I believe.”
“What if Fergal Stott didn't die?” I question, Derek, almost forgiving him for his attempted murder on my life.
“He was dead, Dave. You cradled his cold and limp body, and cried for weeks afterwards.”
“Tis' true.” I say, beckoning Derek to help me to my feet. Burgerson passes me a walking cane.
“You'll need to stay on that for a weeks, Mr Pike.” The paramedic assures me.
“Very well.” I say, now on my feet with Derek clutching me, and a cane in my hand keeping me steady.
 “I'm sorry” Derek says, biting his lip, a tear forming in his eye as he looks at the sorry state I'm now in.
“No worries, my [sign in to see URL] LOOK AT IT. Isn't it amazing.”
“Very much so.” Derek scoffs.
“Burgerson, I want that music played now, please.”
“Very well, Mr Pike. The speakers are fitted. The audio should play on my hand signal.” Burgerson says nodding, signalling to a man in a building labelled audio production.

The music plays. The final climactic finish of ode to Joy by Beethoven plays out. I marvel at the sight before me, Derek looks dismayed. I grab him closely to me and point at the wonders with my cane. The hairs on the back on my neck stand on end and take in a deep gulp of air.
“At the top of the hill, this music will play out as they see this. A half-scale replica of Twin Towers and building number seven. What will they think on seeing such beauty, Derek? Once the North Tower is completed we'll have the whole park ready to open, I think.”
Derek stands frozen, speechless again, in awe of my genius, I expect. I let him go, steady myself on the cane and begin the walk towards the buildings. I feel like Richard Attenborough with the cane and my own amusement park. Dinosaurs his wonder, this mine. Nothing will ever go wrong here though.



---

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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


"Der, I've got someone for you to meet, so you can stop bothering me and get some work done on your little corner of the park" said Dave. He marched back to the little office trailer, which caught me unawares, and I was standing there a moment gaping at him walking away. These were all misunderstandings. Maybe our whole friendship was a misunderstanding. Maybe.
I caught up with him inside the trailer going along the rear hallway, into the bowels of the whale-sized pull behind. He opened a door and said, "Here's your office mate. Now make me a Halloween park, and meanwhile I'll find Mr. French and send him to you. He's the top architect for now; he'll put your dreams into a blueprint." I bet for Dave that meant flying penises and chocolate sauce, but I had to focus on my section of the park. I had already decided to call it Most Scary, mostly for lack of a better name. There would be tie-ins with my old television program, scary settings of old Briton. I decided there had to be something new, too, and I hoped Mr. French would be of some help: the Ben's Revenge Thrill Ride. It was what all the kids were into these days, watching with their tablets in their little mitts, then imitating Ben's coolguy dialogue. Women would dress like Ben's corporation-provided cheerleaders, proving the real power of money, those young ladies. The Thrill Ride would be an experiment in defying gravity, producing real thrills and chills before the ride turned upside-down, coming to a stop at the same time, and pitching hapless riders off.
Here I was in tiny a watercloset-a frigging bathroom-with something like a portable teevee tray as a desk, facing the wall opposite the light. So there was this gloomy shadow, my shadow, over everything I put on paper while in there. Behind me was a sink with the obligatory hot and cold water nozzles. It completed an effect, a futility that I could not put my finger on, but it was also like an echo chamber, despite furnishings, containing little more than what I brought in with me. I could work here, I thought. Hell, I had produced a television show from inside a minvan, so this should be comparitively easy.
Mr. French came. He was a squat man, clad in black, reminding me of a sailor of the northern seas, complete with knit cap. He spoke in a thick accent that I could not place, and smelled vaguely unpleasant, like something bad, but not strongly enough to make it identifiable, and I wonder if it was jets of his hot breath in the little room that I smelled, but eventually I came to the conclusion that it was his clothing, possibly unwashed for some time, that eminated the odor. In silence, he took notes, standing behind me, looking over my shoulder, for there was nowhere else for him to stand. I almost asked him to have a seat in the sink, but I relented.
I handed him a caligraphy squiggle of the track of the Ben's Revenge Thrill Ride, and he smiled. I knew I had something there. It was something new, something to draw them all into my clutches. There were all sorts of corkscrews and dips and peaks, things to keep the ride moving, keep it interesting, and in the vernacular of Doctor Bloodsteve, it had "good action". Then at the end was the surprised, when the guests were dumped on their collective confused asses.
There was also a series of loudspeakers in my section of the park where I would pipe in audio from Most Ghost. Imagine the chill! "How are you?" says Corny, tense. "I don't know, love, because I'm freaking DEAD!" I say in character. Priceless, candy for the babyfaces. And I'll say this: Corny would never appear at my park. Because of her stupidity. Sure, she's cute and kid-friendly, but she's too dumb. She always stayed in a state of fear while we were filming. Poor girl. I could always sneak up on her and scare the wits out of her, and she was forever getting angry with me because of it, because she would pee on herself a little everytime. It added up, I guess, as pints became quarts, and quarts became gallon, and a little woman had expelled a lot of urine at my behest(this is a sentence I never thought I would write; give me Karma, plz!).
Ideas were flying wild. I was going to put out a call to an industry guy, Alex Cones at [sign in to see URL], for a consult on theme, and maybe a few personal appearances. I could imagine him doing his radio show from the grounds, maybe drawing a crowd. His two listeners would come to my little horrorshow, I thought, if prodded by the voice of their dark overlord. Who knows though, if there were ever a money dispute, he would say we were with the Illuminati, despite all of our Truther hoopla.
Mr. French tossed Ben's Revenge promotional materials over my shoulder onto my makeshift desk. There were headshots of the lucky actor who got the lead role. Ever the opportunist/completist, Wusso casted the guy because he looked like Duane Jones, and not because of any residual acting ability. He had difficulty finding anyone who acted at the caliber of Bill Hinzman, so it was a digital Bill that fought Ben in the film, with that murderous "I just woke up" look on his face. It said less murder, than "what the heck is going on, you guys?" or "where is my breakfast sandwich?", because it was a tinge confused and questioning(zombies would be confused, I guess), and speaking of, check out this good stuff:
I wanted a replica summer camp for a slasher adventure, and of course, I could rent the cabins out and put shops and so forth in them. Think of it-a little slice of rural hell in the middle of a modern theme park! I wanted a supreme zombie experience, too, but how to do that was still a mystery. I knew I would need a fanboy, and when that fanboy came, I would have to hide the references to Wusso from him, lest he fly in a rage. Wusso was not respected amongst the elitist fans who gave no creedence to the workingman's writer/director that was John Wusso. As an opportunist, I sort of respected his gumption, but some of his antics made even jaded old me cringe, and frankly, I thought it rather fortuitous that he had gone missing after the James Cameron Flying Things chased us from the coronation of Patrick Stewart I. But there were others amongst the zombie faithful who could be called upon for consultation.
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


I stand in the middle of the newly completed half-scale replica of building seven, save for the interior look that is. Amongst a handful of interior designers, who work diligently to create the genuine 2001 office look, I see him again. On our eyes meeting, he quickly makes haste, knowing he's been spotted by me. Why is he here? I have to wander. If it is Fergal, what does he want? From my brief recollections of this man, and they were brief, he was a man who had Downs Syndrome, was my ticket to fortune, but suffered at the hands of a spearchucker. Thinking back to that moment in the underground, all those years back, makes me shudder, especially now. I was sure this man had died, yet again, I see him right before me and escaping my grasp.

“Quickly Burgerson! It's Stott!” I yelp, pointing in the direction of the stairwell with my cane.
“Righty oh, Mr David. Beige carpets laid, peach tiling in the toilets complete, standard IBM business computers, circa 2000 installed. We are short of a few Guatemalan Teak chairs though.” Burgerson says, still staring down at a design inventory list.
“It's Stott, you blundering fool!” I squawk, bashing him with my cane.
“You what!?” Burgerson cries, before running away in the wrong direction to stairwell, the paper inventory list flying up in the air.
“He went that way!” I order him, feigning my injuries in a weakened voice.

“You need that chair now, Mr Pike?” Cynthia, a young brown-noser asks. I sure she wants to bed me, but that too for only my immense wealth.
“Very well.. Bring it.” I tell her, reluctantly, as though to keep up this pretence of being more injured than I actually am. Yes, my leg hurts, but I can walk without a cane and certainly don't need a wheelchair.
“Now sit yourself down in there, Dave. It's ever so comfortable.” She says, all lovey dovey, but obviously put on and fake. I sneer at her efforts to ingratiate herself into my bank account.
“Yes, it is comfy.” I say, sitting back in the chair.
 “I knew you'd like it. It's like the one the Queen Mother uses. Pure luxury - Gold plated rims on the wheels and your name on the rear of the seat, all bold in a white italic font 'D PIKE – OWNER OF PIKESWORLD' Pilot controlled, my dear. No need to push and wear yourself out.” She smiles.
“All remote controlled, eh?” I say, looking down at this thing as I relax myself in it.
“Pilot controlled, yes. That's What I said.” She says, touching the control and making it move a little.
“Whoa!” I exclaim like a little kid, as it roars away, if only for a mere two feet.
“It's quite a machine. Like I said, the Queen Mother uses this very machine in Buckingham Palace.”
“I thank you my lady Cynthia, [sign in to see URL] very big but- You know my thoughts and opinions on the Royal household and Patrick Stewart's mother is no more a queen than you are.” I say, raising my eyebrows and smirking.
“Oh!” Cynthia gasps. “Except my apologies, Mr Pike. Forgive me, forgive me”
“Never!” I scream back, assuming the controls of the top of the range wheelchair. I speed off, riding off over Cynthia's foot, to which she cries in agony and falls to the floor. I stare back at her, howling with laughter at this pathetic woman.
“Mr Pike!” She rages.
“You're fired!” I shout back.
“What a !@#$!” She fires back at me, catching the attention of everyone on that floor.
“Sorry.” I say, shocked, pausing the motion of the wheelchair.
“You're nothing but a mad man! 9/11 world- You're just insane.” She says, storming towards me now.
“I was only joking. Fired, my foot. I need you.” I reassure her.
“Oh good.” She laughs.
“Yet, use that language and embarrass me like that and you are fired.” I state in a serious and matter of fact manner.
“I'm confused. Am I fired or not?” She asks.
“Yes.” I say. “Now go out would you, or I'll have you escorted from my premises by security.”
“Noooo!” She screams, nearing close to me.
“Security!” I scream back.
“Take this, you jumped up, little Hitler!” She rages, standing to the side of me, grabbing at the wheelchair.
“What are you doing?” I say, feigning ill health again. This time sounding as though I were old, old man.
“This.” She says calmly, tipping the wheelchair over.
“!@#$.” I say under my breath, as I land with a surprisingly pain-free thump to the floor.

“Derek, come in. This is Big Boss Man to Derek, come in. ” I say into a walkie-talkie, as I get up from the floor. Cynthia, now long gone.
“Derek do not have walkie-talkie, Big Boss Man.” says a Chinese voice coming through.
“Who is this?”
“Yan Pu Tang. Head of the Security.”
“Ah, Yan Pu Tang. [sign in to see URL] to it, Derek has a walkie-talkie, right away. Give him radio name ghost-whisperer, please. ”
“Goats Wimpier, yah?”
“Yes, Goats Wimpier is fine. Big Boss Man signing off.”

Burgerson returns, looking flustered.
“We got him!” Burgerson says to my surprise.
“Where!?” I demand.
“He's on the roof. We got him cornered. He has no escape. The roof access is now locked. He's trapped up there, Mr Pike.”
“How sure are you?” I ask, my face forming excitement, knowing of the possible captured prey.
“He's up there. Fergal Stott is on the roof of Seven World Trade. Me and a couple of the interior designers chased him up there and locked the door access. ”
“I've got to tell Derek.” I say to myself, sitting back down in the wheelchair.
“Tell him what!?”Burgerson interjects, angrily.
“He is my friend.” I say, sombre.
“Leave him be. Did he not try to kill you?”
“Yes.” I say, moving the wheelchair towards the windows and looking out.
“Friends with a man who speaks to the dead and paints with his dong. Plus wants to kill you.” Burgerson says, laughing.
“Jealous of my genius, I expect.” I say, turning my head to look up at Burgerson.
“!@#$-” Burgerson blurts, looking at the window as a rope drops down, followed by a pair of feet.
“It's him.” I say, standing up from the wheelchair, as the figure of the long dead man comes dangling down on the rope.
Fergal pauses on seeing me. Again our eyes meet. He pulls a mocking sad face, before smiling and then carefully gives me the middle finger, while he grabs at the rope. He's soon gone, again.
“After him!” I command Burgerson.

---

11/16/2014, 3:39 pm Link to this post Send Email to knights   Send PM to knights
 
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


The office spaces in the building nearing completion, with interiors to match the original building seven, I imagine what it must have been like when the controlled demolition occurred. Starting at the solid base, ripping through floor after floor, each of the four cores gone in a second and freefall speed. A building 50-storeys high, gone in 10 seconds. The world fooled. They expect us to believe it was fires. Derek believes this. Derek also believes he can communicate with the dead. Yet, Derek also fooled the world with his so called 'art'. You only need to fool a few, I believe. Then you have them all.
So as half the size of the original building seven, my building is still pretty big. The two towers more so. I've often woken up in a hot sweat at the thought of this mammoth task, but here I am. So many years of work. This building, the building of my imagination and indeed the whole park, a reality.

As I gaze from the window once more, I imagine the milling crowds of tourists walking in their thousands down Manhatten hill to that wonderful music. I see the children's faces glow and the look of wonder on the elderly. 'Wow' and My Gawd' they will say no doubt. Then, 'Gee, that Mr Pike is amazing' from another, possibly a small, albino child with bright red eyes. I see him now, tugging at his mother's dress as he excitedly sees the giant Dave Pike mascot with open arms at the base of the towers, gesturing to all to come in and see the towers in all there splendour. The thousands stream in and sing my praises. On the leaving the park, they will no doubt tell others and then they will also come. My investment in this place will then be worth it. Sure, I will have some call me a kook, as always, but I did what no other could do. For months after 9/11, I sat watching the film 'Field of dreams'. The quote 'If you build it, they will come' had a profound affect on me, at this time, as I dreamed of rebuilding the towers. They will come, I have to believe. Not in the form of baseball ghosts of course, but patrons, paying each, a hundred pounds each.

As I scrawl down on my notepad 'Plane mascots – very bad idea', Burgerson comes back.
“We lost him, Boss. ” Burgerson says, apologetically.
“My lad, my lad of Galahad!” I chime, for no good reason in an oldie English accent.
“You what?!” Burgerson replies, all confused.
“Don't bother yourse-” I say, but getting cut-off by an alarming voice that booms through the stairwell and corridors on all floors on a loudspeaker.
'EMERGENCY EVACUATION – EXIT THE BUILDING FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY...' The voice demands, droning on the same message over and over.

On exiting the building, a site foreman approaches me as I zip out of building seven in my wheelchair.
“We found this, in one of the mobile toilets.” He says, holding aloft a piece of paper and passing it to me.
“Thank you.” I say, politely, grabbing at the paper.

It reads....

'THE SMARTEST THING TO DO IS PULL IT. BUILDING SEVEN IS RIGGED TO BLOW.

GET THE !@#$ OUT, NOW!

YOU'LL NEVER CATCH ME. I'M THE BADDEST MOFO IN ALL OF PIKESWORLD AND I WILL HAVE MY VENGEACE, YOU SICK BASTARDS.

 DEREK OKRA – SOON TO BE DEAD. DAVID PIKE – SOON TO BE DEAD.

ROT IN HELL.

LOVE, FERGAL X X X X.'

We gathered at the designated safety zone. I sat in my wheelchair, laughing at the note left in the loo. A taunt of course. Then, bang – from building seven. It makes everyone jump, or in my case, squirm back in the wheelchair, arms flailing.
“What the f-” A fat, construction workers says at this precise moment.
“No.” I say softly, eyes focused on the building.
The ground shook and then another massive bang, like a clap of thunder. Followed by another bang. The building was being demolished. I held my hand to my head, as Burgerson dropped to his knees, sobbing like a girl. The building came down in seconds. Fergal had got me. Chaos ensued on the site, the construction crews fleeing like crazies. I was so confused, I laughed. Looking around at the mayhem, I spotted a lone figure on Manhatten Hill. It was Fergal. He gave me the finger again and descended the other side of the hill, slowly disappearing from view.
Tears welled in my eyes. By now I knew my dream would never be realised. The whole site could be ready to blow. I fell to floor and wept in unison with Burgerson, howling in pain at the tragedy that had befallen what could have been the greatest attraction in any theme park around the world. We cried for hours, like two old men, bemourning the loss of a family dog.

Standing at ruins of building seven, now some hours later, a plan comes to mind.
“I have an idea, Burgerson.” I say, looking up at him, from the my wheelchair. “Suppose there are no other bombs and this is [sign in to see URL] could continue work on the twin towers!”
“Yeah, but who'd work on here now.” Burgerson said, doubting me.
“The immigrants!” I holler, all excited.
“Like me?” Burgerson says, all hot and bothered.
“No, cheap labour from all the four corners of say, Peru.”
“Peru?”
“Yes, Peru.” I say, smiling. “I have a contact. He could import workers from Peru in a week. Thousands of 'em. We could save a fortune, pay them peanuts and if anyone says anything, we just say they're trespassers.”
“I see. A good idea, but still.” Burgerson says, pointing at the twin towers “There is no saying that our friend Mr Stott didn't rig those buildings with explosives too.”
“Who cares!” I say, shouting him down. “If all else fails and they blow, this can be the very real ruins of the world trade centre disaster. It's genius. Either way, we win. If Fergal has indeed rigged these building to blow, we win. Don't you see it!”
“Sort of-”
“Sort of brilliant!” I bellow.
“But what of this building, that has obviously been blow up. Maybe that'll put those Peruvians off working here.” Burgerson said, pointing to the rubble pile of building seven.
“Easy!” I shout, laughing at the obvious. “We just explain, it was fires!”
Burgerson claps.

---

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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


Burgersen: "We shouldn't have that fruit wandering about making threats, lord and gov." His shoulders sagged, which to me marked him a wore-out old dog, but he was still a reliable hand, in the best sense. I could see him going after the turncoat Fergal with a fingernail clipper that he pulled from his own pocket.
Mister French: Busy making my horror-themed designs a reality, spending Dave Pike's money. But it is a hell of a vision, and maybe with Wusso unaccounted for, we would not have to pay him anything to use the film Ben's Revenge as the theme for the roller coaster. Kristina Lokken was still in her American flag bikini somewhere, wherever, with the water-cooled rigid-mounted fifty cal on the back of that crappy old truck. What hath Wusso wrought, I ask in the night, thinking of Lokken shivering like a scared pup in the darkness?
John Wusso: Better for now that he is not around, because he would be yet another unstable element in a potentially explosive situation. Wusso and the words "potentially explosive" do not make for a pleasant picnic, I assure you.
Dave Pike: Yes, bleeding money, and I ask you now was this Doctor Bloodsteve's Nazi money that he had talked so much about? Or was this the whole kitty, the loot from all the football, television appearances and dozens of books sold over a strange lifetime? He was building a replica on the hill, a replica to tear down, I thought, at some point, when his deranged mind took a turn. And, oh yes, that day would come. He would take it down; he would call it in like Silverstein. "Pull it" he would tell Burgersen or one of the others, and that would be that. In that case, it would be controlled demolition and he would have multiple video angles, and God help us all if there were artifacts.
Burgersen: He brought in dogs, hungry dogs, big dogs to hunt Fergal like a mangy beast. We hoped Fergal would run like the cur he was, but I found myself with a tickle of doubt in the back of my mind, like maybe Fergal was onto something. Maybe he was sent to lead us, I thought, then erupted in laughter, thinking of Fergal sticking his hands in the back of his shorts then smelling them. Let him be Orpha's magic 8-ball; she could pick him up, shake him and thus incline him to tell her fortune. I did not trust Burgersen though, or his dogs, for the man was just too red, like something was wrong with him.
Fergal Stot: Some sort of Illuminati sleepercell was Fergal, loaded with a sudden hatred for his handler, Dave Pike, bent on taking down the memorial on the hill. Orpha's doing? Perhaps, but it was thought that she was using her teevee channel to organize those yahoos into doing her bidding by telling them what to do, and when that did not suffice, she did the old Tom Sawyer routine of showing something and being like "ooh this is so nice", suggesting ever so delicately that the faithful get off their bums and go out and buy whatever she liked. Hence Orpha's Favorite Things Indoctrination Seminar. Now Fergal was loose in the construction site, doing who knows what, an energized madman bent on destroying David Pike's dream.
David Pike: Let's be honest, here. Underneath all the Truther stuff, he was just a scared little boy, wanting to go back to that cheery pre-9/11 world, where no one wanted to kill us: the Russians were quiet, the Palestinians were given their happy meds by Araphat, and all we had to worry about was a backwards little group putting holes in the occasional Navy warship. Sure, UBL was on the FBI Most Wanted List, but we did not care; he had not touched our lives yet. David Pike wanted it all to go away, so he could have more room in the conversation for Riptellian theory, and other more inane comparisons, metaphors and the like that he wrote about. This was the hidden truth of his book Lego 9/11, and why it would become a bestseller, surprising everyone, and none moreso than Dave, though he would have to bury that surprise and make it all look like it was according to some kind of agenda that he typed up on some rainy day. And again, to be clear, all this talk of bloodthirsty governments and unseen systems of controlzuckerberg was covering a crying little boy hiding behind his bed, afraid to peek out the window at the real world. Maybe that's harsh.
Fergal Stot: Surprise, he killed one of the vicious attack dogs using only his hands and his teeth. That ravenous bastard of a man! I kind of sympathized though, having trying to kill Dave a few hours prior, and I pictured him out there running amok, hair shaking, alive with that crazy electricity, the crazy electricity of a bad brain, where certain circuits had fused. Somehow, those were the types I was always friendly with, though before I had avoided a friendship with him, but now he seemed just the type I could have a drink with. Maybe there was some sort of blockage in his brain, a 9/11 schizm, turning him into a handicapable superman as the brain warred with itself, but I wondered what would be left when the dust settled. Dave would waste him for sure, like accidentally backing over a beloved pet that had gotten too close to the wheels of the automobile.
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


The King's Heir - Part 1

Nearing the summit to the great Peruvian mountain of Worf, the roadside track reaches a dead end. On the soil rich mountainside, masses of local native men toil hard picking potatoes from the sun torched earth. This a spot acclaimed for in Hemmingway's long forgotten manuscript 'Ode to darling potatoes' in which he described the natives as 'Beyond civilized, but the potatoes magnificent.' It's also rumoured to be birthplace of the first European potato. Whether true or not, Worf has yielded many a good crop over a thousand years or more.
These natives, who number about 50 or so, the ancestors of generation after generation of potatoes pickers. The season coming to end soon, the winter cold arriving and the last crop coming out, these humble folk will soon be out of work and with only raw potatoes to eat during the worst of winter, the need to escape the mountaintops and the potatoes, a must. Low and behold, enter on the scene a rickety, old banger of van. It speeds up the mountain on the roadside, picking one up here, then one up there, each new passenger excited and in hope for escape and a new beginning. The van stops at the side of the road, where the potato pickers slave away up on the mountainside.
Benny, a young Peruvian who works at collecting and bagging the excess potato foliage, wipes his sweating brow with his forearm and holds his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he sees that one word he understands 'Trabajo' emblazoned on side of the van. 'Trabajo en Pikesworld – Work in Pikesworld' it reads in full.
'Pikesworld!' Benny shouts to himself as he races down the mountainside, hoping over boulders and speeding past other older potato pickers.
The driver of the van with room for about two more, opens the van door as Benny jumps down to the road from a steep drop. The pot-bellied driver looks down at Benny, and without saying thing he just examines Benny, examining his malnourished body, rancid mouth and teeth, dry and hardened hands. The driver nods and points to the van. Benny, tossing his traditional native, multi-coloured hat to ground and having all but a pair of well worn shorts is ready to start anew. As Benny hops onto a seat, the man next to him offers a smile. Benny smiles back. Benny goes to shake the man's hand, just as the van starts moving again. The other man holds out his stump. Benny nervously shakes the man's stump.
'Pako' The one-armed man says, pointing his good hand to himself.
Benny curiously looks around himself at the others in the van that races back down the mountain now. Despite needing several good meals, he's not as bad as some of the others, especially Pako with his missing hand. What's strange to Benny though, is that all the others seem somewhat unhealthy like himself or disabled. Back at the roadside, there were plenty of fit and healthy fellows the driver could have picked, but he chose the sickly Benny and Bunky, a man with a severe learning difficulty. Bunky is like a child. Benny himself is just unhealthy. Pako is missing a hand. Another is on crutches and the rest are all old men. Benny finds himself looking at the driver's rear-view mirror, the driver grins as though Benny has sussed something out.

Van after van makes it way into Pango-Pango Port, each with the Pikesworld work sign on the side. The vans pull up, the workers get out, receive a meal, are given clean clothes and board the vessel 'The King's Heir'.

A little man sits writing in the ships log in his private room. He wears a Captain's hat.
'The crew and the last intake of Peruvians are on board. Mr Pike has been informed his newest employees are ready for export. Weather condition are mild. We should set sail tonight, providing intake don't riot again.'
The little man gets up from his stool, looks in the mirror and applies some foundation to his face. It is clearly the singer 'Prince'.



Last edited by knights, 11/23/2014, 6:47 pm


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