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TiL 5.1 Obviated/Unused Stuffs


There came a knock on the door. I bid the knocker to enter. It was Dave, smiling. I had a low feeling in the pit of my stomach when I saw that smile. I knew it meant nothing good. There was lunacy afoot, and here I just wanted to be a quiet little wallflower, working at designing my own horror section of the park. But, no. Life with Dave was like clinging to the roof of a speeding train, feeling the wind around your cheeks, in your eyes, between your clenched teeth. And I felt we were barreling to an uncomfortable place, and I was powerless to stop it, able but to sit slackjawed watching hell come, or, if I were lucky, I could sit in the office in peace while Dave pulled the world down on top of him like so many bowling balls from a top shelf.
"Come see what Fergal is doing, Der" said Dave. "It'll change your life." I thought not. That wasn't Fergal, and the mercurial Dave was now taken in, so I had to try and stop him. I knew this was futile, and I could only watch Dave, feeling that his mind was squirming like noodles pouring into a collander. I could only walk away after the sickening plop sound at the end, maybe.
"You know he isn't Fergal" I said. "Fergal died. Fergal's twin died!" But these were mere details, I thought in the back part of my brain where the light never penetrated and the spiders were big as dogs. Big dogs. Ashley Judd dogs.
"I pulled one on Orpha" said Dave. "He came back. I found him! He's got to be some kind of saint or something, like an icon. Could you imagine him on the ground when the park opens? It'll be great. He'll spit on the children and stare at the women in ways that make them uncomfortable and follow the men into the restrooms(once those are added to the plans and installed, of course)." Like a cretin, I laughed into the smiling face of Dave, unsure if he was being serious or not. It was fortunate that I did not know, because the truth might have made me angry.
"I love you, matey, and I know I'll be the one that ultimately kills you, like you were but a beloved pet that strays under the wheels of an automobile."
"That's the nicest thing you ever said to me" said Dave. "Give us a hug, big guy." Here I had a vague memory of making the actor Samuel Jackson sick, while "doing something" with Dave, in an effort to make him leave us be.
"It's notions like that which are going to shorten your life" I said. "If you die anytime soon, don't you realize your life is the equivalent of a Jackson Polack painting? It has neither rhyme nor reason, except for a pair of John Linnen spectacles-just a hint of detail. This is probably how you want to be remembered."
"Geez, Der!" said Dave. "I just want to show you what Fergal is doing! Come on outside!" He grabbed my arm and lead me out of the water closet, back through the little office to the outside, where Fergal was gyrating as if having a seizure.
"My GOD!" I said. "Hold him so he doesn't swallow his tongue!" I ran over and tried to grab the energized Fergalthing, but to no avail. He immediately slipped from my grasp and continued his fit. "No" I said, "on second thought, I'm just gonna watch him die. Again."
"Derek Okra!" said Dave. "You want to see everyone dead. You're a morbid-minded piece of work, you know?"
"This means nothing to me, Dave" I said. "Can't you see? You're different perhaps, but fake Fergal, Burgersen, Mr. French can all go to bollocks for all I care!"
"We need to adjust your perspective" said Dave. "So let' s go back over to Manhattan Hill with my beer can replica of the Twin Towers of the World Commerce Center."
"That's such a stupid idea" I said, meaning it. "I'd rather watch this cretin die. Maybe his corpse will morph into it's true state after death and prove you were right about the Riptellians all along." This was all spleen. But I did want to unmask the loser after he fell dead.
"ORPHA!" said Dave, becoming obviously fearful. "Do you think Fergal2 could be an Orpha trick? To put a mole inside the park?" Here Dave had an obvious Orpha phobia, though he had once dreamed of appearing on her show, spreading his message of love and shellsuits and interstellar monarchs. He could have been the moonchild of Jimi Hendrix and HP Lovecraft, if those two Riptellians had not been born infertile, for he had a touch of the macabre, like my style, plus he had the weird acid trip vision of far-flung worlds, like of interstellar gypsies musing over sunset and sunrises on foreign worlds, ala Hendrix. Would I chance to murder him again on Manhattan Hill? Would I not? Do you tell me I am mad, for I hear his vile heart beating, pounding, pulsating against my ears?!
The workers had gathered around and were busy watching Fergal in his spasms. I hoped they were ignoring us, perhaps finding a case to make Dave suffer legally as the guardian of poor Fergal. It would serve him right. And maybe that would be the easiest way to finally "get" Dave, as a neglectful guardian. And one day the nation would have something called "Fergal's Law" in which insane persons would not be allowed to look after incompetent persons, or vice versa, as it were. It brings back the whole notion of Who Watches the Watchers, or The Fox Guarding the Hen House, or the shouting match between the Tea Pot and the Frying Pan. My God man, the lunatics are running the asylum! Arkham is overrun!
French and Burgersen I recognized, but there were more, a small army of men, some in black jumpers, some in turquoise shell suits. Freaking subcontractors, I thought, bringing in outside labor, scabs. As Dave walked away again, I waited a moment, rolling my eyes in case anyone was watching, then hurried along after, looking back at the group that looked at Fergal. All agents, I thought, making reports to their handlers about everything that went down in the park, and what tales they would tell about Dave's changing whims, and the 9/11 memorial with the yet unseen "memorabilia". It was like looking at a convention of Bond villians though funhouse mirrors, or like looking at Pollock painting of a confused life.
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Re: TiL 5.1 Obviated/Unused Stuffs


We climbed to the top of the hill. I looked back at the people watching Fergal, and I was surprised that the dance was continuing. Riptellian mind control. I thought Dave might have been onto something, that Fergal was an Orpha mole, there to sabotage our efforts and possibly report back to its overlord. At least she didn't send Russie Odonkle.
At the towers of beer cans, swaying in the breeze, ready to topple, Dave looked at me, energized again with madness, and began:
"The jet wasn't a passenger jet; there weren't passengers aboard at all. It exploded, flashing above the New York skyline before slamming into the building, then the buildings were exploded from the inside by specially placed explosives that created the appearance of a jet crash, which there was, but it was recreated, too. Then Silverburg calls while everyone is out searching for survivors, and he says pull Building Seven, so they do that, without fanfare, letting the building fall into the dust, suprising most of the unawares firemen and cops around the area."
"Dammit, Dave!" I said, my ire growing. "You don't know what happened. You're supporting any loonie naysayer with any crazy theory. Remember all those crazy videos? Do you think the Illuminati follows Cones around? YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH". Privately, I had my own 9/11 theory, and it was nefarious, controlling, evil, but not from the expected quarters at all. Maybe I should make a movie about it. "Did you see Mike's screenplay with the Smurfs and the upside down flag behind a superimposed graphic of the smoking towers? That's powerful imagery, mate."
"That's how I know I'm onto something, Der" said Dave. "Mike is always trying to discredit both of us and you know why? He works for the Illuminati. He's one of the bad guys. Look him up. He's evil. Try him on google." (Note: don't really google me, plz. I'm there, but behind a bunch of others, hidden in a forest of other mikes, who live fabulous lives and do fabulous things. Sometimes they get in trouble, too, but that's another story for another Mike.)
"Incredible" I said. I meant it. I didn't believe it, but I knew better than to argue with Dave. I briefly consider rolling him down the hill again, but I knew that did him no damage, instead it revealed my disdain without harming Dave, at all. Most stupendously, he turned my ire into confusion and doubt, like they say Satan would, sow confusion.
"When I see him again, I'm going to pummel him and ask him questions. Until he cries. Then I'll do it again. He and that Alex. Those turds." Dave leaned back then, showing his nostrils to me, pointing them at me, and I knew he was personally offended by Alex and Mike, as I was also, but here was an imperious side of Dave, something self-important, officious and worst of all, hard. A cold chill went up my spine.
"What's this memorabilia you have then, Davey?" I said, in wonder, staring at the beer can towers, pieces moving a bit in the breeze at making a soft tinkle sound. This gave the tableaux a dreamlike quality, a fantastic whiff, that at any moment could morph into that purple dragon that haunts my dreams, or could become a murderous automobile, ready to stalk me across the desert. It looked like the towers, the idea of the towers, like an icon, the vague notion of them, but there were other notions in there, which beckoned memories of dreams, but then also spectres of daydreams that were gross and inconvenient for a creative writing narrative, like Ethelred and Calpurnia, who taught Dave to question, basically because they asked questions like naive children with their mouths hanging open in wonder, pointing at things doltishly.
"You're just gonna get mad if I tell you" said Dave. "And then you'll try to kill me by rolling me down the hill again, which is unseemly, but a bit fun. I may have that as part of the Pike experience: you take the chairlift up the hill, then roll back down like a six-year-old. It'll go over like balls, mate. Good thinking. I figure to let the 9/11 memorabilia be a surprise, duder, perhaps the most imporant pieces of the park."
"More important, even, than the Pabst Blue Ribbon effigy of the towers that you have so painstakingly made?" I asked.
"That was the work of Burgersen and the others, just a heap of empties, but I think I'll keep it. It has a certain dignity to it." I pictured them then, saying goodbye to the day by drinking cheap beer on the hill, getting drunk like a bunch of Mayans, and forming their trashpile into a haphazard replica of the towers.
It was at this point that a noise came to us from down the hill, Fergal squealing for some reason. Maybe he had made bathroom on himself and feared getting the broomstick again for punishment. I hoped he would though, silently.
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"I remember you from Quantico" said French, exhaling bluegrey smoke.
"Hush that" said Burgersen. "Pike might be wandering around nearby."
"He's like a crazy electrified ghost" said French. "Floating around into everthing. Never seen the like."
"They might put him on the Most Wanted" said Burgersen.
"Late for that, isn't it?"
"Not if you want a big PR win" said Burgersen, lighting a cigarette. "Washington Politbureau stuff. Its the optics they are thinking of. And its some kind of heat left over from the Bush days."
"But they can't charge Pike with much."
"I think they hope we have to kill him during apprehension then they can make up what they want. Blacken his character."
"I know they hate Pike, and consider him a liability, but putting him in the same category as UBL is a bit severe, isn't it?"
"I don't know" said Burgersen. "But I'd love to put one in Pike. Shut that mouth."
"Oh" said French. "Me, too. Of course."
The conversation dropped dead, and the two men stared listlessly at the construction site around them, the plastic barrels, pipe of all kinds, moving trucks. The place was alive with activity, but an antiseptic sort, that of the unborn Pikeworld. It was an industrial kind of place right now, with the orange sand, curing concrete, unplanted trees with roots in burlap bags, and heavy equipment moving to and fro. Burgersen controlled it all, having a fake contractor license for his undercover identity, and knowing him as a superagent, too, contributed to his mystique, keeping the others in awe of his superior skills and his will to excell.
"I'm going to the commissary" said Burgersen. "Time for a Pikeburger and some Okrafries. That's Pike: never let up the marketing for a minute. And of course, dragging along his buttboy Okra. Watch your tail, trooper."
"Sure thing, man" said French, stamping out his cigarette and going back inside the office. As Burgersen walked away towards the commissary trailer, a breeze picked up and swooped down towards the ground, then drifted up as it approached him.
While French was beginning to pour over technical schematics and design drawings of the park, Burgersen entered the commissary, passing the turquoise windsuit vending machine and the foldup table table that served as the official Pikeworld bookstore(for now), where they were constantly slashing the price of his books. Finally, at one dollar each, they were selling as gag gifts. There was a burgeoning trading market in which a stack of Pike books bought a favor from some coworker. For two Alices and a Lego911, you could buy a pretty good weekend in the employees quarters, though the recent price cut was throwing the market into disarray. But reading the fodder? No. The workers were still in good spirits, with a shared comradery, and the rantings of Pike were ignored, even as comic relief. It was thought that during the rainy winter season that was coming, the books would be good for a laugh, boosting morale, but not yet, not yet. For now they were enthralled by the man Pike-the electric turquoise Godhead and his ever-inquisitive manmeat Derek. This was not to call Derek a skeptic, but so many would be skeptical in the face of Pike. Derek had been given his own corner of the park, to design and control, and it was the subject of comical speculation as to what Derek had to do to earn that honor. How many times did Derek have to say the words "Mister Pike" or how many weekends in Barbados, soiling a timeshare selling weekend with crying and smelly bodily fluids, even as a salesman pestered them and slung free breakfasts. I imagine the salesman looking for them, going to the suite door, saying "why, it sounds like theyre pushing a truck uphill in there! Call 911!" And when they do get out in the balmy, salt air and sunshine, its all sweetfruits and womandrinks, a topdown Jeep with one of those trendy "Who Is George Romero?" stickers on the rearmounted spare tire.
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The actual vegetable Okra had been banned at Pikeworld, because Pike thought it phallically-shaped, like maybe it brought bad recollections to him. Burgersen thought okra(the veggie), uncut, looked like witch fingers. Nevertheless, the fried potatoes here were called okrafries, after the man Okra, Pike's manmeat. Burgersen got a dish of them and some ranch, along with a Pikeburger with cheese, which the patty was soy, actually having a vague beef flavor. The lukewarm soy patty bled clear fluid onto Burgersen's paper plate, ruining the bun, which was a fancy brown artisan roll. Maybe the chefs did not microwave the patty enough, he thought, shaking his head as he left the food counter.
He hunted a seat, and found Bubby and Windmere sitting together, sharing words while eating. These were both FBI, and familiar to Burgersen from his various field work. He knew them to be reliable as to their own peculiar set of abilities. Windmere was a psych expert, and here she lived, breathed, and slept David Pike. She would write a book one day. A good one, if she got out of this alive. Pike had not yet noticed the blonde staring at him through most of the days here, yet, and he was not one to misinterpret; he was a shady cat with a dark, malevolent turn of mind, for all his talk of love and light. She had a fallback plan: she would pledge a desire to become a pupil, act the loyal fanboy to Pike, if she aroused his interest, latching onto his ego, which jutted out like an erect member, which would also be like holding onto the tail of a fierce dragon-a fierce, crazy, turquoise dragon.
Bubby was usually his second in command, helping to oversee the project and answer phones. Busy work. Bubby was known for his organizational skills-that had made him a top agent in his district, where he managed loads of cases at once with aplomb. He was a little man, the kind you did not give a second look if you saw him on the street, and he knew it, used it to his utmost advantage. He stole Pike's hairbrushes almost everyday, and by now they had enough excess genetic material from those to build an army of Pikes. He looked ever the office boy, but was a tiger, fierce in his own way, becoming a master of subterfuge thanks to a bit of Quantico training. At least he used his abilities for good.
Without hairbrushes, Pike looked like he sounded: insane, hopeless and totally.
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"Dreams die" said Burgersen. It was a lesson he knew all too well during his field work, having seen all manner of scheme and sometimes thwarting them himself, but this was different: this reeked of the judgement of an indifferent God, if there was such a contradiction-a judgement from the God that made Job's life hell and spent his spare time grinding men into dust.
"Can that, Burgersen" said David Pike. He was the leader here, the man with the plan, the guru, the Jabba, the Don and he was hopelessly mad, chasing his disorganized visions, peppering that with tales of conspiracy and monarchs from the stars. He was the Turquoise Godhead, and Burgersen was his Number One, an uncomfortable but fortuitous position for the undercover federal agent. They would need more federal agents now, to fill out the jobs for the construction of the park.
"Connor and Fergal killed it!" screamed Burgersen. "Game over, man! Game over!" He kicked a charred beer empty. It might have been the cornerstone of one of Pike's WTC replica buildings, but it was rubbish now. It was all rubbish now.
"I've tried my best by them, to guide them, show them love and loyalty, like pups" said David Pike. In his own way, Fergal had been important to him, and by extension, Connor, but now the brothers had did what the government had been unable to do, at least temporarily, and that was stop this madness. "They've become savages, but I would still take them unto my busom. And strangle them."
It was known to them that Derek and Hinzman had started a love affair, and it was thought that at that moment, the two were engaged in torrid, hot, stick lovemaking, like a jousting match turned unspeakably dirty. Pike's trust of Derek had waned, and now Derek was on his own plane, and somehow this satisfied Pike, dispite the rift between the two, the suspicion and false comradery: that Derek wanted something and was tending to it. It gave David something he could understand, and though it was outside his sphere, it was something. So he faked being happy for Derek, and bit at his shaking hands in secret, with a jealousy that sprang from Derek's ability to feel genuine love, attraction, intimacy-something that eluded Dave. If Dave had felt love, he would have thought it some form of brainwashing and forsaken it, after the influence of Ethelred and Calpurnia, those two flannel familiars.
In the Turquoise Garden Hotel and Casino, it was Derek then, nude under a blanket, that bade Hinzman come back to bed, though Hinzman enjoyed watching the construction site burn. It was like the surgical removal of a scar from an otherwise unblemished face. "Give me a minute, Honeylove" said Hinzman, staring, like a creep at the devestation of Dave's dream.
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