Chapter 11

The airport ... do I remember the airport ... hmmm ... that’s a yes. A sometimes ... like once a week waking up screaming as I hear the CLICK and see that huge hole pointing at me ... yeah ... I remember the airport ... and the blood and brains I had to scrape off my face ... and the seven hundred dollar outfit I had to burn because it wouldn’t wash ... or dry clean ... yes ... I remember the airport. I remember the sharp bark of the 9 mil and the sound of head of the fella looking at me over the sights of his revolver as it exploded. I remember each tiny click as the hand unlocked and pawl connected with the hammer and the pawl fitted into the ratchet of the cylinder. I remember each fraction of an inch as the cylinder commenced its eternal turn and the snap as the sear traveled past the point of “Holy Fuck” and the hammer fell. I remember it all too well ... and too many times in the middle of the night I hear that slight accent say, “You’re no good to me.”

“Yeah. I remember ... and I will remember ... and wish I didn’t,” I replied. And, of course, Daddy stared bug-eyed at me as I said it. It’s been five ... or is it six ... years since that day waiting in the General Aviation lobby for my taxi ride home ... and it is engraved indelibly ... carved with a dull scalpel deep in my psyche and I doubt it will ever leave me.

<The watch fell from his shirt pocket as his head exploded.>

“It was his watch?”

“Who?”

That was Daddy.

<The Russian.>

“The man at the airport,” I shuddered, accidentally squeezing the counterfeit watch.

The first time ... at my 30th birthday party ... I squeezed the watch at night ... rather late ... so it was dark. I didn’t get to see much.

This time to was early afternoon. I got to see a bunch. Denver is sorta on the very cusp of the mountains. Some ten to twenty miles to the west is the beginning of the massive upslope and to the east is the sweep of the plains. Denver is the “high” foothills. Where the house stood was bumpy lumpy and close to running water. From my vantage point I could see, probably, a hundred miles of high plains. At this particular point in time there was a grass fire possibly fifteen miles distant, the blackened earth giving a hint of the speed of the wind ... the aftermath of the maturing thunderstorm coasting north east, the anvil top at 45 thousand feet and the base high enough that I could see the dark block of rainfall. The side of the white column that I could see was lit with interior lightning, swatches of yellow dancing in the interior.

<Wow! Isn’t that pretty, > thought my nemesis.

An androgynous personage materialized by my side ... male ... female ... whatever. They might be gods. They might be magic ... they were surely trouble.

“Is that any way to think about the giver of Monster Millions numbers?”

“You know the government took almost half of that,” I said.

“Half is more than you would have without Us. Lawyers! Ingrates!” it exclaimed, “As for the other, ‘One man’s “magic” is another man’s engineering. “Supernatural” is a null word’ – Robert A. Heinlein ... or ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’ - A.C. Clarke. We are Not gods ... we’re Engineers.”

“Ok, Mr. Engineer ... how does this watch do what it does?”

“Miss Engineer ... thank you very much.”

“Hold on there Missy ... you’re only the boss ... speak for yourself.”

And They did the impossible.

They discombobulated ... deconstructed. It was truly disgusting. They separated in to their constituent parts ... seven distinctly human forms fought ... argued ... their way free from the center mass and stood before me.

Stood? Floated. Their feet didn’t touch. I looked.

“Oh ... that,” one said.

“Uh huh,” I said. “That.”

“Anti-gravity.”

“How?”

“It was simple ... we ceased to believe it was impossible.”