Chapter Eight

Twenty years of ongoing silent migration from the barren wastes northward had led Steve's descendents to a place that was to be established as holy, yes we've got proof, Here's-The- Documentation*-Now-Please-Get-Your-Infidel-Ass-Off-My-Land-Or-It's-Going-To-Be-"Allah Kaboomy**" and BOOM!!!, your claim to this area is suddenly invalid.

* Oddly enough, though the parties in question often spoke different languages, their proof of documentation always ended up being the same texts.

**A joyous cry towards the heavens in celebration of one sect's deity. It roughly translates "The God Who Explodes." This skywards cry tends to only be proclaimed by the more unhinged members of said religious sect, who intend on remaining in one piece for a very specific time, depending on the length of the fuse.

Oddly enough the Evolved Cheewahwah's had also ventured north and found it easier to acclimate to their new surroundings. The only problem the Evolved Cheewahwah's had to deal with was gun toting men in their freshly laundered robes and other people that didn't take kindly to dirty, rat-like illegals that insisted you habla espagnol. The most popular reply often sounded like this: "I don't habla illegal immigranty, so git your ass out of Uncle Sam's back yard. You habla that?" This was usually followed by the chack-chack of a gun suddenly being pointed at said Evolved Ones.

"See, seenyor. We're heer for your moneey and your weemen."

In retrospect, The Investigator's would later decide upon visitation some years later, evolving little alien doglike things into people was a definite mistake. Taking little dogs, making them bigger, showing them certain addictive types of foliage, gunpowder and the high velocity lead propelled equivalent of teeth only helped to sink the country even further into the shitter.

As the Cheewahwah's faced their problems, the Descendents of Steve set forth building a temple. The Temple of Scienceology would feature a cavernous basement whose use would be determined at a later time, neon lights on the exterior of the building, a place to store Steve's

designs, thoughts, and notions so they could slowly be leaked into this world's Conversation-Makey's and, most importantly, a cafeteria that would serve the best damn pistachio ice cream known to man or Cheewahwah.

The temple, it must be said, was a marvel of marble, crystal, neon, and possibly even gold plating. It was a lighthouse for crazy people drifting on the calm blue waves and peaceful breezes of complete sanity. And came these people lost in a perfectly normal world to the temple, wallets open and minds ready to believe any dumbass notion because it made more sense to be a gullible jackass than to actually have to think about stuff. This notion, plus the fact it had been given tax-exempt status in North America, legitimized it as a bone-fide religion.

And it was to this temple Igor would report to for his first job. Thankfully, he would have others in the coming years.

* * * * *

It was morning in the von Igor household. All thoughts of karaoke and cases of mistaken sexual preferences had been mostly forgotten about. Igor looked down at what remained of Poppa Igor's bottle of "Cowboy's Delight." It was immediately flushed down the toilet, to be replaced by a fragrance designed lesser to attract and subdue and more to simply neutralize various body odors.

And with one last glance in the mirror, Igor gathered up his no frills flip phone and wallet and headed downstairs.

* * * * *

Look once again at the Temple of Scienceology. Yes, the eye falls upon the exquisite architecture, the use of marble and neon, and such. All perfectly normal. Now walk around it at a distance and you'll begin to notice that, yes, it does look perfectly normal, which is precisely why one would assume there's absolutely nothing that can be honestly described as normal going on inside.

And should you scan you the heavens, and were in the know, you'd realize that the innocuous antenna array placed upon the higher levels of this building is designed to send, receive, and deflect various signals from this planet and from the mother-world, which is still enjoying its prosperous time. Signals sent  and received confirm this lasting peace, much as The Grinch stands upon the mountaintop checking on the progress of holiday theft.

The antenna array that deflects signals is to ensure, so to speak, that the Who's don't come up the mountaintop and slaughter the green monster in his fake Santy Claus outfit and take everything back. After all, if the Jhew Alliance were monitoring this secondary home world, then those with the most toys and expensive Conversation-Makey's would most certainly have them taken away again. Peace most certainly cannot reign*** on THIS planet, because it totally screwed up the last one.

*** If Adolph Industries couldn’t preside over it, it wasn’t worth having. The standard employee affirmation that was taped up to every cubicle in A.I’s HQ read like this: Our Reign Or No Reign At All.

* * * * *

Outside now, the shining Prius of the von Igor family arrives to drop the youngest of the family outside the place of his first experiences with gainful employment. Igor got out of the back seat, and as he did Momma Igor likewise stepped out, tears in her eyes and a hanky in her hand.

"Oh, my baby's growing up so fast," she wailed. Momma Igor then blew her nose through the tears as Igor looked around, embarrassed that someone might see this display of affection. Poppa Igor decided to get out of the car and attend to this situation.

From above, and unnoticed by the von Igor’s, the crashing of glass and an echoing electronic sizzle was drowned out by Momma Igor’s tears.

"Momma, let Igor be. Oh, and tell them to fix their neon, son."

As one, the von Igor's followed Poppa Igor's pointing finger up to the flickering lettering that declared, in bold red letters:

WELCOME TO THE TEMPLE OF SCIENCEOLOGY!!!
(NOT A CULT) 

The electronic flickering was coming from the letters that formed the word “NOT.”

"Igor tell them, Poppa."

"Good boy. Now have a good day." Poppa Igor managed to shout through the constant wails of a mother who knew that this was only the first step to becoming afflicted with that terminal disease known as Empty Nest Syndrome.

"Igor call when it quitting time."

Momma Igor managed to compose herself for a moment to say "That's a good boy" before losing all control as Igor slowly stepped towards the front doors. As he passed through the exterior glass doors, there was a final burst of somber wailing and a moment of Poppa Igor protesting, which was immediately followed with a muffled thwack which could only have been a faux crocodile skin purse containing a brick which most likely sent a father's head into the steering wheel. Then Igor was pretty certain he heard something like an air bag being deployed and was pretty certain it would be followed up by the clack-clack of Momma Igor's high heels walking down the pavement, leaving Poppa Igor to think about his mistakes, with his head upside down in the trunk and the torso trying desperately to find the key Momma Igor threw down the sewer grating.

Inside the spacious, modern and extremely clean lobby were sets of elevators to Igor's front and sides, with staircases to each side of each individual elevator for good measure. In front of Igor sat a receptionist who was unnecessarily cheerful when needed which replaced the inhuman blank stare in her pale face and clouded eyes Igor first noticed as he stepped into the temple's lobby. The medieval style aluminum foil helmet she wore upon her head wobbled as she came to life to greet Igor.

"Good morning! How may I help you fight the alien overlords?"

Confused, Igor simply replied "Igor here to see Grand High Mystic. Igor offered job."

"I see. One moment please."

The receptionist then, to Igor's continued bewilderment, did not pick up the corded telephones upon her desk, neither did she make use of the three shockingly new smart-phones. Instead she stood up, zoned out, placed her hands in the air as if to form a human Y, and began to make a noise which was half hum, half shriek, while also managing to somehow speak in tongues despite not opening her mouth to let the noise escape from.

Igor gave it a moment, then asked "What lady doing?"

For a second the sounds she made continued, then abruptly stopped.

"I’m letting the Grand High Mystic know you're here." She then sat back down, and resumed the unnatural cheerful attitude she displayed earlier.

"Well...okay. If lady says so."

"Would you like a tin foil hat, young man? It keeps the brain eating viruses out."

"Igor fine, thanks."

This should've been the first sign of danger, but for Igor, it was just a casual curiosity. Casual would've become much more formal as the receptionist begin to emit high pitched noises that betrayed her lineage: that of an evolved Cheewahwah.

"Funny, she doesn't look Cheewahwah," is what you should be thinking at this moment in the literary prose. And the fact that she's been set to vibrate is going to be of no concern as well, although it should clue you in on the coming details.

Igor was just about to spin around to look for a tiny shaking dog when the Grand High

Mystic swept into the room and extended his arms in a gracious manner as if to welcome Igor to

his new home sweet home, then said "follow me please, young man," and led Igor to a room

designed for, it seemed, a multitude of many humiliating tests and electrical experiments, would

be conducted.

"What this?" Igor asked as he looked at a bank of various electrical based meters, Geiger

counters, a few science-fiction based scanning devices (obviously broken) from the biggest

syndicated television shows of the last twenty years, and a manual egg beater that was attached to a twelve volt battery for no real discernable reason, although there were dried and crusty remains of egg yolk covering two-thirds of the nearest wall to the table said devices were laid upon.

"You're the technical expert, or so we hope." The smile from the Grand Mystic sent a

shudder through Igor that knocked a few of his extra wisdom teeth loose and were almost

accidentally swallowed.

The Mystic then opened his arms at half extension, letting the elegant fabric of his robes

fold into a somewhat benevolent, papal manner. He then motioned with his left hand, sweeping

over the table of devices while summoning forward with his right hand.

"Can you, young man, identify these devices?" Igor stepped forward, and demonstrated

that he knew what was what. He rattled off their names as he picked each and everyone up, then

put them back down and moved along the table.

"Tricorder, 1960's model. Modern tricorder. Medical tricorder. These Sonic Screwdrivers. This garage door opener. This...why egg beater hooked up to car battery?

"Oh, ignore that. Anderson uses that to combat his erectile dysfunction." Igor immediately

dropped the egg beater, and continued. "Geiger counter, and this..."

"Yes...?"

"This ohmmeter."

"Ah, I'm afraid it isn't."

"It is, Igor know. Igor have three."

"Sorry, young man, that's not an ohmmeter."

"Then, Igor ask, what is it?"

"An S-Meter. We here at the Temple of Scienceology use this to measure...."

"...electrical resistance." Igor added.

"NO! For the last time, it's not an ohmmeter! We keep those in the kitchen! S-Meters are

holy objects brought to this world from a time long forgotten!" The Grand High Mystic then

picked up the S-Meter, and unhooked two hidden alligator clamps from the underside and

extended two more bullet shape probes and a horseshoe shaped antenna from the top of the

housing.

"Please step forward, young Igor."

"What for?"

"Why, a scan of course. We have to make sure you were born to be one with our family.

Of course, there is a fee that goes with the scan, but don't worry, once we've confirmed your

employment, weekly deductions will be take from your pay check to cover the costs of S-Meter

scanning, interpreting the results, and general maintenance covering wear and tear, and the likes."

"How much does S-Meter fees cost?"

With a slight smile, came the response from the Mystic. "An arm and a leg, I'm afraid."

"Oh, Igor can handle that easily." Igor began yanking at the surgical threading that was

holding his right arm and leg to his body. "Igor have extras anyways. Maybe it time to update

Igor's look anyways."

"No, Igor! STOP! We require cash!"

"Certain of that? Leg here among finest of past Olympians. It'd be more valuable if Igor

had the other one, but cousin ended up with it."

Shaking slightly, the Grand High Mystic managed to compose himself while Igor laced up
the stitches he'd cut loose and, when all was reasonably normal again, the S-Meter scan began.
Igor was told to stand up straight as possible, while the alligator clamps were affixed to his ears.
One of the bullet shaped probes was placed under Igor's tongue, and the other, although
somewhat cool to the touch, Igor had to admit was a pleasing experience in his rectum. The
electrical shock that emanated from the probes wasn't. "Do try to hold still," was the only means
of assurance the Mystic offered Igor as the S-Meter continued to do its thing, as a secondary dial was turned ever so gently to the right. As the unknown electrical intensity coming from the S-Meter increased, an ominous smell of  baked turkey and tapioca pudding began to emanate from the hunchback's pores, and as the maximum settings were reached, things really began to get confusing.

Setting Twelve, as it was known, was rarely used and highly controversial. Those chosen
few that were allowed the great honor of utilizing the S-Meter often shared  worried whispers
about what Setting Twelve could be used to determine, as none of them had ever needed or dare
imagine a need for such a setting. Only the Grand High Mystic knew, and the questioning began
thusly:

"Igor, can you hear me?"

"Igor hear..."

A button was punched which sent a random jolt into the many probes. Igor's body
trembled briefly and his eyes began to glow an unhealthy red. Then the tension of his body
relaxed, yet the ominous red glow remained.

"Igor, do you know who I am?"

"Yes."

"Igor, from now on, I want you to refer to me as 'master,' do you understand?"

"Igor understand."

The body shaking button was punched again, and Igor lurched again.

"Igor understand, master."

"I thought as much. Now tell me, what do you know of The Jhew Alliance?"

"........" was Igor's response.

"I'll ask again. Tell me everything you know about The Jhew Alliance."

The silent response came again.

"Do you know who we are?"

"...mass....ter.....yoooo.....rrrrrr......Grrraaand Hiiiii Meees Tick."

"We, Igor, are the Descendents Of Steve, the loving founder of Adolph Industries. The
Jhew Alliance is the greatest threat to our kind. Do you understand anything of what I have just
said?"

"......, massterrr."

"I have a task for you, Igor. A task I hope you are up to. You are up to taking on tasks for
me, your master, correct?"

"Yessss.....massterrrrr...."

"Good. This building was constructed by the Cheewahwah race, as ordered by the
Descendants of Steve, and it will herald a new beginning for this world. There are those from the
stars we call The Jhew Alliance. They exiled us from our home, and in doing so cast us from
paradise. But here, we have rebuilt the dreams and ideals of Almighty Steve, and placed his
creations among the people of this planet. Our network is vast and growing daily. And soon, very
soon, the love and gifts of Adolph Industries will help us overtake this planet, and we shall use its resources to reclaim our home planet. And now we come to your involvement in our plans, young man. There are those amongst the population that have refused the gifts of Almighty Steve. We suspect The Jhew Alliance could initiate these individuals to the cause of destroying this temple and all memory of Steve and his creations. We must not let that happen. Do you understand, Igor?"

"Yesss masssterrr."

"Good."

And with that, the S-Meter was deactivated, and Igor fell to the floor in an unconscious
heap of mysterious aromas and bubbling liquids. The Grand High Mystic took this moment to lay Igor upon a table, allowing him a moment's rest while removing the S-Meter probes and such
from this latest test subject.

After a few moments of some dizzying mental acrobatics the center was found again and
Igor awoke, thirsty and confused. The Grand High Mystic had known this was coming and had a
cup of water ready.

"How are you feeling, my boy?"

"Igor...thirsty...master."

The Grand High Mystic handed the cool cup of water over, into Igor's weakened hands as
both were necessary to hold up such a light weight. The Mystic told him to drink slowly, and Igor never noticed the difference between what he was and what he had become in the usage of the term "master."

"Igor pass test?" Igor work for Scienceologists?"

"My boy, you came through all our screenings with flying colors. And it says here..." he
picked up a random tablet computer, "...that all tests for Jewfluenza**** were negative."

****A debilitating disease that once spread amongst the members of the Descendents of Steve.  It reinforces the common sense of the infected individual, while simultaneously strengthening the part of the brain that refuses to be dominated, controlled, or exterminated by means of physical or psychological warfare, not to mention technological tyranny.

Igor took another sip from his very heavy cup of water and asked "What Jewfluenza?"

"Nothing you have to be concerned with, blessed be Almighty Steve."

The Mystic then looked at Igor to return the praise, but simply shrugged his shoulders in a
sign of weakened dedication to Almighty Whatever. As Igor stumbled off the table, the Mystic did help him make the three foot fall safely and helped to steady Igor as he tried to stand upright.
Then he remembered what Poppa Igor had told him.

"Oh,  Poppa Igor says temple's neon sign broken."

"Wait...what?"

"Don't worry. Igor fix it, master."

"No, Igor that won't be necessary. We will attend to it. Could you wait here for a
moment?"

"Igor guess so, master."

"I'll be right back."

Then turned the Mystic in a flash of speed and he was out the door, through the lobby,
blasted past the receptionist at such a speed it knocked her tin foil head gear off (which resulted in temporary sanity until it was replaced) then through a service door, up the maintenance steps a few flight of stairs, until he broke through the appropriate door which led to the building's roof
and the neon signage which showed deliberate tampering by means of a hammer having taken out
some of the electrical wiring and precision smashing of certain neon tubing.

A note was attached to the hammer, in the receptionists’ handwriting. It simply said:

We're Coming For You, Adolph Industries. There Will Be No Stopping Us. Love, The
Jhew Alliance.

The Mystic crumpled up the note from the offending Jhews, shoved it into an unseen
pocket, and immediately headed back into the building, down the stairs, and to where the main
lobby where the receptionist sat.

"How may I help you fight the alien overlords, master?"

"I'm sorry I have to do this to you Susan. Hold still for a moment."

"Yes, master."

Slowly, he reached out a hand and gently removed the aluminum foil from Susan's head.
The instant it was lifted, Susan's eyes cleared and focused, as if waking up for the first time today.

Then the Mystic grabbed her by the throat, pushed her up against the nearest wall, and demanded
an explanation. For a moment, Susan screamed breathless choking screams until the eyes went in and out of focus, and then illuminated in such a way that let the sent shivers through the Grand
High Mystic. Then Susan's mouth spoke with the devious grinning voice of a transmission from
the planet which Adolph Industries had been banished.

“Hello Wazinski. Long time, no see.”

At the mentioning of his given name, the Mystic released his grip on Susan, replaced the
aluminum foil on Susan's head which sent her immediately back into her standard calm stupor.

"Will that be all today, master?"

"I'm giving you the rest of the day off. Go, now!"


"Yes, master."

And without question, Susan took her personal belongings from her desk and out the door
she went. The instant the door closed behind her, the Mystic took the phone on her desk out of its cradle, pushed the appropriate buttons to activate the intercom system, and issued the statement he felt for certain he'd never give.

"We have been breached. All security and maintenance personnel prepare for lockdown."

And the response, coming from all sectors and corners of the temple, was issued almost
telepathically. It was just two words.

"See Seenyore. "

Chapter Seven

    As the transition from Spring to Summer continued, thus too came the transition from high school to whatever glorious possibilities lay beyond in that mysterious, energetic land pontificators refer to as "The Future."

    Those same pontificators go on and on in books and speeches about How Great It Will Be, What You Will Achieve If You Follow Your Dreams, and another such nonsense which means absolutely nothing. Even Dr. Suess had gotten into this game, but he at least had the sense to say, in his own unique way, things are going to get fucked up, and if you just keep pushing forward,  you'll be fine.

    Graduation night was unapologetically simmering. Out on the school's football field, under a baking, setting sun, Igor sat next to his friend Josh While Josh kept apologizing for the science fair debacle, along with the fact that he won on account of good looks and tight pants, Igor's friend continued to offer almost unheard statements as Igor was far too focused on Amanda, the class Valedictorian, who was sexy as hell. The words she used sort of connected in Igor's mind, even though she was going on and on about how Jesus was coming back again in a few years to enslave the human race so we might as well get used to it.

* * * * *

    Post graduation parties, it seems, exist for one reason: it's the official start of the Coming Attractions of just how fucked up the world is going to be. There's alcoholic beverages, controlled substances, young females with big chest humps of ill repute and, quite possibly the most delectable temptation of all, karaoke.

    But Igor was ready to face all of it. Having slapped on a dash of his dad's "Cowboy's Delight" cologne, he felt he was ready for whatever life threw at him. A group of blurry girls with blurrier chest humps rubbed against him and someone in the group slurred the phrase "Hey cowboy" at him.

    And then there was the live microphone hooked into the audio equipment. Josh and Sunny Jameson were singing an old Sonny and Cher tune, and when that song came to an end, an idea came into Igor's mind into thinking that, hey, one song won't make you a junkie. You can quit ANY TIME you want. Igor knows what Igor's doing.

    The songs shuffled through randomly as Igor stepped up onto the stage, and picked up the microphone. He turned and looked at the machine, which read Escape Club. "Wild, Wild West" was the tune, and by the time Igor had gotten to the bit where the lead singer calls out "...this one's called 'The Outlaw...'" his tongue had twisted back and forth far too much and fell to the floor like a fish slapping itself up against the tiles searching for water to fall back into.

    But...someone, someone, was enjoying it. A soft voice called out "Ride 'em cowboy!" and the lips from which came said exclamation were soon up on the stage kissing Igor's.

* * * * *

    Outside of the sing a long induced haze, a darkened sky lays across the atmosphere. Out there, somewhere, in a part of the galaxy as yet unknown to NASA's inquisitive technology, there is a planet that, when discovered, humanity will realize is remarkably similar to ours. The dominant species, oddly enough, very closely resembles the human race. Even more similar, and stupefying, is how technological giants of their world pushed forward the bleeding edge of discovery so fast and hard that it was mercilessly tearing the minds of the population from their bodies.

    Just five years ago, a simple device called the Ringy-Dingy-Conversation-Makey*
 only went ringy-dingy.

*This device, comparable to the Earth's cellular phone, was designed, built, and sold by Generic Electronics, a benevolent company founded on the principle of delivering quality products at fair market value, while also keeping said products simple, affordable, and easy to use.
After a few ringy's and maybe a dingy or two (depending on your own preferences) someone miles away would answer their Conversation-Makey and friends could catch up on old times. Or the interstellar equivalent of pizza could be ordered. Or even obscene Conversation-Makey's would take place.

    But that was five years ago. And the march of progress goes forward, even if it really doesn't want to. Sitting in a darkened space under their parental unit's living quarters was a man, let's call him "Steve." Steve, admittedly not his real name, would sit looking at his seventy-five inch Movie-Watchy and think to himself: "You know, Movie-Watchy screens are really huge, which makes a lot of sense. Conversation-Makey's are also useful, which also makes sense. Therefore, combining the two should make so sense at all, which means I'll be rich!"

    What was shown on Movie-Watchy's was popular entertainment that only came in two sizes: Huge Ass was for the original presentation in enclosed stadiums, and Damn That's Big for living quarters. Steve believed it was time for Conversation-Makey's to be really, really small version of Movie-Watchy's. Granted you wouldn't be able to see what was going on, and the sound would raise shitty to state of the art, but Steve wouldn't be swayed. It was time to breed Conversation-Makey's and Movie-Watchy's.

    And the first banana peel of their society's collective mind power had been laid.

* * * * *

    The rest of the night was a blur. There was touching. Lots of touching. There was kissing. Lots, and lots of kissing. And that was just what happened in the karaoke bar. A faint memory of long blond hair, skin soft and delicate as dew covered rose petals, a passing memory of lightly scented perfume...

    ...and then there was sunrise pouring in through an unfamiliar window as it lit up a young lithe body with a wash of soft hair laying upon naked shoulders, down the small lean back, and across the sleeping figure's chest. A pink cowboy hat obscured the face of Igor's new love. Igor kissed the small frame of this young goddess in the most delicate fashion possible, removed the hat, and found pink kissable lips attached the most sexiest young man Igor had ever slept with.

    If this sleeping male angel chose this minute to woke up, he would've sworn men off for good. Igor's uncertain reaction to these events was simply this: What The Hell.

* * * * *

    As the years passed on Steve's planet, so came the advances in Conversation-Makey's. Movie-Watchy's had also gotten bigger and now wanted to be overgrown versions of Conversation-Makey's, which wasn't necessary cause everyone already had a Conversation-Makey of some kind. But for the new breed of Conversation-Makey's, made by Adolph Industries, and headed by Steve, the march outwards to conquer other products would seem unstoppable.


    Conversation-Makey's now had maps**, allowed you to order pizza in a far more complicated fashion,  kept you in touch in many new and frighteningly unnecessary ways, and became increasingly complex while also becoming increasingly simpler to use.

** Feeling the need to distinguish themselves from the albeit useful, but admittedly generic, mapping equipment by Generic Electronics, Adolph Industries devised a marketing plan built on shiny objects and trademarks with grammatically incorrect product names. This latest feature was to be known as the i'mLost.
    More banana peels had come loose in the years, and now people could do pretty much anything on their Conversation-Makey's. The population actually forgot to look where they were going simply by looking out in front of them. They had to ask the i'mLost on their Conversation-Makey's where their home was, even though they were just ten feet away from it. They also listened to the Sound-Makey's on their Conversation-Makey's which would only work, and this was important, AS LONG AS IT WAS MARKETED BY ADOLPH INDUSTRIES!

    Adolph Industries had Conversation-Makeys, Sound-Makey's, and then came the bigger versions of their Conversation-Makey's which just shook the bananas out of the tree and peeled them for the population. And progress marched forward while sanity was trodden underfoot.

    Fifteen years after Steve created his first Conversation-Makey that was the embodiment of jealousy of every other technology, Steve was dead but the beast lived on. The Conversation-Makeys could now redesign and remake themselves. They put out new versions of themselves every six months, and the population kept buying them...until disaster struck.

* * * * *

    The lean, taut body of Tristan, as Igor checked the young man's drivers license, was seventeen. In the corner of his bedroom was, predictably, a karaoke setup. As Igor shuffled out of the bed, Tristan slowly rolled over in bed and a flash of bright, sparkling blue gleamed from his perfectly manicured toes. His soft hair continued to lightly cover his physique, as if the setup had been designed for an black and white photo spread for Abercrombie & Fitch.

    Igor lightly stepped his way to the available musical selections near the CD player. After some scanning of the scattered discs, Igor found what he was looking for. True it was ambitious, and certainly out of character. But recent events were anything but keeping with normality. Igor would croon the young man awake, like the sweet chirp-chirp-chirping of birds upon his window sill.

    At least, that was the plan. But, for those of those who've been there and attempted that, knew the terrible facts: the extended cut of "Crimson and Clover" is not for the vocally challenged. Igor gurgled the first words of the opening verse, and Tristan was shocked into a state of consciousness.

    "Who the hell are you?"

    "Igor serenading Tristan. Tristan is guy, but soft like girl. It confuse and excite Igor. Tristan rub Igor's hump?"

    "Your name is Igor?" Tristan look immensely depressed.

    "Yes." This wasn't turning out the way Igor had imagined, so it fit in perfectly with the events from the last twelve hours of his life.

    "Shit, I thought you were Mick Jagger! Get the fuck out!"

* * * * *

    The circus grounds had  been a rather solemn place lately. Only seven exploding apples pie bombs had gone off in the last seventy-three hours. Dr. Flappy's broken body had been wrapped up and sent off to the nearest hospital for medical procedures too gruesome to mention. In addition to the intensive rehabilitation program Flappy would endure for the next seven months, there was the constant lingering smell of bearded woman flesh in his soul. Flappy would never be the same again, despite the prayers of the ever present candlelight vigil and twenty-one selzter salute being held outside every night.

    But life must go on, as it always does, and as best it can.

    Inside Bertha's tent, an exceptionally stimulating dream sequence was unfolding. I, the chronicler, shall be blurring the more erotic details. Bertha, dressed in a nearly transparent leotard with rhinestones upon her more feminine sections, was riding atop an elephant in the most sensual fashion she could manage. Her right elbow was digging into the left shoulder blade of the pachyderm, and her hairy chin was resting in her hand. The right arm was busy waving to the amassed crowd.

    As the elephant train Bertha was part of circled around the center ring, she could see handsome young Victor, wearing his traditional baggy clothing that just seemed to whisper to Bertha "Remove Forcibly."

    Bertha then straightened up, uttered a command in German to the beast she was astride, which then stretched its trunk out, wrapped it around Victor, and placed him on its backside facing Bertha.

    "Victor look handsome tonight."

    "Thank you, Bertha."

    Bertha smiled, and her skin blushed, though it was pretty much unseen underneath the furry face of whiskers. Then she grabbed Victor by the neck, nearly breaking it, and planted an unnecessarily juicy kiss upon him. When she broke the kiss, she nearly broke Victor's collar bone, though the smile remained.

    "Handsome clown give Bertha babies now?"

    Noted psychologists, distinguished thinkers, and the more reputable psychics have discussed the theory of the collective unconscious. Basically it says everyone has access to the same amount of information, be it in conscious, unconscious, or in an altered state of mind. It was Victor's great misfortune to not only have finally grasped this cosmic resource of knowledge, but somehow selected the library of Bertha's thoughts as his choice reading at this very moment. The scream from across the circus grounds rattled tents and shook Dr. Flappy's bandaged body in the local ICU. It only stopped as Victor had attempted to drown himself in the vegetarian lion's watering trough.

* * * * * 

    That night, in his bedroom, Igor contemplated the events of his first failed relationship. Tristan was absolutely horrified that he'd left a horrendously disfigured guy into his bed that wasn't a famous rock star. After all, the general theory about groupies is they'll bang their idols, no matter how horribly grotesque and wrinkled they are. A perfectly example of this is when Kid Rock found himself to be surrounded by exceptionally beautiful women performing sexual acts upon his person in an internet leaked video some years ago. But when you took away the money and notoriety, Igor and Kid Rock are just ugly bastards no self respecting woman or man would touch.

* * * * *

    The often wondrous thing about disaster is, when it's going to attack, it comes quicker than lightning and you can't purchase a metal rod to deflect or channel it to another victim.

    Disaster came when the Conversation-Makey's had predicted the end of Steve's world, and the gadgets had been right. This wasn't a flood to end all floods, huge chunks of sky falling onto the planet, or even the always stated, but never happened rise, of a clean, energy efficient, industrialized society. This was far worse -- an organization called the Jhew Alliance, which thrived on its complete and total lack of any product put forwards by Adolph Industries, had utilized the common sense it maintained and found the way to scuttle the mind poisoning onslaught of the Conversation-Makeys and shut down the world wide link ups, which would coincidentally bring about a million years of peace, prosperity, and happiness on their planet. This golden age was followed by more peace.

    As the shutdown was collapsing, the brain dead believers in Conversation-Makey's were led to an intergalactic cruiser that had been constructed by what remained of Adolph Industries research and development department. The latest advance had been galactic temporal scanners, which pointed to both a time and a place where this generation of Conversation-Makey's users could live in harmony with the current population.

    And, best of all, all the advances the Conversation-Makey's had made in the last decade could, very slowly, be incorporated into this new planet's population. As the final seals closed on the star cruiser, and the calculations were finalized, the people were put into Extended-Sleepy's and headed for that blue green marble which, in its time, would be known as Earth.

    As those locked in the Extended-Sleepy's, being not of Earth, would find comfort in the temples constructed by A-List Movie-Watchy celebrities. And they would eventually refer to themselves as Scienceologists.

* * * * *

    Twenty years ago, they had landed, and not a moment too soon.

    The evolution of the native Conversation-Makeys had seen their leaving the primordial soup of residential areas and were now available in the native four wheeled Get-Aroundy's. At least in the country to the north of the landing site they had. In this odd country, with its sporadic grand temples, rich history and tantalizing coast lines, Conversation-Makey's were mostly operated in immobile boxes with something called "pesos."  Talk about starting at the level below the barrel. Even the natives had thought so, which is possibly why there was a constant exodus north to the country with the more accessible Conversation-Makey's.

    According to the analysis conducted by the ship's Conversation-Makey's, the population was not indigenous to this planet. At least not the big, dirty looking ones that wore rain catching hats and went around saying "See Seenyore."

    What follows is a brief history of the Before Time as uncovered by the invading ship's Conversation-Makey with the new collective unconsciousness probing application:

    First there were Mayans, which although a bit violent and had odd gods and wonderful architectural techniques. The Mayans did all they could with this litterbox country, packed up, offered a final prayer*** to the lands they were vacating, and headed for greener climates.

***  Screw It. Let's Get The Hell Out Of Here!

    Then there was the race of Cheewahwahs. They came in a multitude of tiny spacecraft and landed in this deserted waste of inland country.

    Then came a group of highly advanced, staggering intelligent race of beings known as The Investigators. They likewise landed in this dusty, barren land and found the Cheewahwah invading force. A representative of The Investigator's and the Cheewahaha's decided to meet in Cancun on a starlit evening to discuss plans on becoming the dominant, colonizing race.

    "Listen," the Investigator's representative said, "you're just a tiny, shaking thing on spindly legs. My pet Chupacabra would eat you in a second...and possibly will if I can't find the little bastard to bring it home. So how about we put the best among you into rapid evolution and then you can keep this shit hole wasteland and we'll just move onto a nice place. That sound good to you?"

    "Arf!" said the Cheewahwah representative.

    "Thus it is agreed." And with that the meeting was settled.

    Today the descendents of the original Cheewahwah settlers keep tabs on the Evolved Ones. Though the procedure was highly complicated and astonishingly replete with scientific words and procedures, it can't be proclaimed loudly that it was a success.