Diary of a Madman: Aphorisms, Maxims and Allegories

The Philosopher (Part II)

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This made no sense. – None at all. The bizarre admixture of approval and indignation that was persisting, subsisting, and increasing within me added to the overall nonsensical gauntlet through which I was being put. Just as soon as I would enter a zone of comfort, this region was tactically obliterated; I was left cold and naked in the Super Unknown. Where once there seemed to be knowledge, he would flick it away as if it were a languid fly. This is an awesome authority, you see. Terrible...To possess not only the tools, but also the absolute will, to pry open another’s third eye. Do you hear what I am saying? Do you appreciate what it is that has been opened to me? – Can you…?
Sense. Sense! What a hilarious, heuristic laden world I occupied myself with! – I tried to make sense of this man – if one can call him that. Riotous, I tell you!
“I can see that this is becoming reasonably stressful for you.” He responded to my bare consternation, “Perhaps I have gotten a little off track…perhaps you’ve not been provided with the indispensable backdrop just yet to simply relax into dialogue.” He scratched his chin, then proceeded, “But you are he, I am certain of it. Let us go back again. When I asked you what was real, you responded ‘how things are’” he said, “ – yes, I believe those were your words, precisely. You gave some examples, of which, we concerned ourselves with the, obviously, most meaningful: that of casualty – that of death. There is, however, a quandary with this, old friend. As death, in itself, is not a doing, nor is it a not doing; and it is certainly not something that just is - as nothing ‘just-is’, to use your words again – outside of everything considered as a single thing. Noooo, no, no, no.” he smiled a fiendish and au fait smile, “Death always involves a succession of events, a chain reaction if you will. Humanity lavishes upon itself finalities that are untenable when under the most rudimentary scrutiny. It envelops itself in the mists of defensive reactions to that which it finds to have no explanation, regardless of the seemingly never-ending wellspring of poignant placation that Man has summoned-up as explicative falsehoods. Humanity believes itself to have progressed because it now slavers and slobbers on one knee before the god ‘Science’, instead of more mysterious things; humanity…humanity talks too much. And what it speaks of with respect to death – our concern at the moment – is but the en masse distribution and consumption of Huxlean Soma; the oral equivalent of a swamp: all of the compulsory detritus and miasma crucial to sustain vermin, stink and rot. And this god, this ‘Science’, would have us believe – to know, even – that for life, to be alive, requires us only to draw breath, to have a heartbeat… This god reduces man, his capacities; this deity is the great contraindication to meaning. And I will tell you why: because as this god, this ‘Science’ has stridden the earth, becoming its own titan, it has left anonymity, and all mysterious things, trampled under foot – squirming, and in alarm. Science is a murderer: Science has butchered what humanity might have been. So, while, yes, death is a very existent thing; it is not an authenticity in the manner that humanity – and you have more than proven yourself a member of humanity – understands it. What would you say, old friend, if I were to tell you that you were capable of immortality? What is more, what would you say if I were to tell you that certain people were unable to evade immortality; and that you are one of these people – irreconcilably so; inconsolably so?
The barkeep swiped the bar top with a semi-clean rag in face of us, providing a shifty, and befuddled look. I conjectured what he, himself, might be thinking of this unusual exchange that was taking place in front of him, in his mind, his broken consideration. I thought, at first, that he might find it obverse, like any other nattering that takes place, on any normal shift of his, at this bar, in this tavern, on any given day. I then sensed that it was not – and that he thought it not; that he, upon the overtones of what confronted his normalcy – his molded continuation, that is to say – felt, as I did then, a discomfiture that had dodged him his whole life.
The man did not look at him. - Almost as if the barkeep were imperceptible – completely lacking an existence. I curiously wondered two things: did he? - And, if he did, was the man able to discern such things as that which did, and did not, actually exist. For I was then irresolute of not only the man’s sanity, but also all things I, then, understood to be sane…Sane! – What an obtuse idiom…fictions – Man is laden, fixated, and chasing vapor in a compulsory manner. For as I have told you, the man did imply, and I now recognize, humankind is somnambulance at home in the flesh. I am naught if not greater than the resistance of humanity. And I am beyond the conception of umbrage: the origin of what humanity would label this ignoble creation, known as ‘evil’. For what is evil other than a narrative that humanity has created for itself in recognition of what it understands as dangerous? …A fairytale, an inconsistency – and, this is what this man made me aware of: like a mage of old. But – I don’t wish to get ahead of the chronicle: a true soothsayer will hold his tongue, until the time is fitting. The man, if one can call him that, began again:
“But that is even a breath too far, methinks…What I would like you to tell me of is when you were first made aware; that is to say, gifted with insight, to the nature of Man. If you will, tell me of when you were first burdened with the responsibility of drastic measures against someone whom you trusted; gave your trust to in completeness, only to have it torn apart. Only in so doing, will we be able to continue with that which must – by necessity – occur this morning.”
I felt lost and gliding about in my own angst, traceless as to both the boldness and the foreignness of his query.
I heard myself speak, in deference to that which was unambiguously beyond me, “May I ask your name…?” His slight dismay flattened, all inclusively; he was expressionless, as if to convey a shift of paradigm in our exchange – an important one.
He answered back, terrifyingly devoid of inflection, nearly chant-like, “Me nomine es legionem…”
“My Latin is rusty, but I think you said that ‘your name is many’; you are making a biblical reference – and…and I believe that reference is to the Devil.” More beads of fret thicketed upon my brow; one ran downward, stinging into my eye.
“You are correct, old friend. – Well…something like that, anyway. What was it I was asking you of…? Ahh, yes – tell me of your first murder.”

Ire…indignation…confusion – an amplification, an enlargement. Outlandish and unfamiliar imagery, likenesses, pervaded the frontage of my mind: An invasion of simultaneously unknown, yet familiar events: Déjà vu, with the intensity of a volcanic upsurge, melting to the surface in a cerebral, pyroclastic gush.
I had never murdered anyone. Was this, his lexis, a metaphor? Did I in some way miss his meaning? I thought it unquestionably possible: he had confronted me with so many tangential, and indirect, relations to this point without actually getting to whatever summit he unmistakably had in mind, that I thought everything – and anything – feasible. When so doing, though, the lower order mind – the stage, the drama, upon which Mankind plays their lives out – turns against itself. Needless to tell any true thinker, the constant of relativity is inexorable; it is the administrator of what Man discriminates as factual. I did not, then, as you do not now, encompass any facts…what I did have, however, was an assertion, an indictment, presented as a query: A reservation. Again, I found myself knowing, yet not knowing his objective…Intent! – He was in no more control than I! Comprehension of that which is to come – presentiment – is not control; it is what it is – it is a philosophy: a loved astuteness. For one, it is the bewildering sight of one’s own crucifix off in the distance, while trudging towards it; and, a kindly apparition for another. You think you know anything! …But I am unable to be heated about such an irreverent confidence beyond a moment’s consideration. I am, however, much troubled by the unexamined life. Such a thing is not worth living… And do you know what constitutes examination – a true assessment of Life? I would, and am obliged to, suppose otherwise.
I spoke.
“I have no idea what you are talking about…”
But, somehow, in the recesses of my awareness – I did. I had some manner of appraisal, of comprehension, of his condemnation. And I hid it. – To no avail, I would realize. Nothing – I tell you with the utmost of composure – could be hidden from this oldest, and wisest, companion of knowledge. It seemed as if he had announced himself as the Devil embodied, to my, then, intellect; my then, understanding…but he was much more than such an undemanding imposition of slavish indulgence.
“None, then?” he asked, circumspectly. “Are you certain? Strange…Although I never remember the exacting particulars of our rendezvous, I always remember the generalities. And these generalities are always the same. One of these is that I always have asked you of your first murder.” He paused, and seemed to look out into the expanse – searching his own memory, “Yes – yes, I always ask you this. There are still certain things that do not make sense about this night, as it unfolds, that is…you never remember me or recognize me in the same manner as I do you. And I know that it always makes me wonder, as it is now, what differs so drastically between you and I – what the nature of the difference is; if there is any importance to attribute to the fact that I have, each and every time, an instant recollection of you, and you – well, yours is always slower to fruition. Much slower. You never look as I had imagined you to, either. Indeed, you look…quintessentially typical, if there is such a thing as that.” My heart skipped a beat. “Of course, I remember these things – that they have all happened before – only after they occur. It seems that Eternity finds a rather singular glee in such things, such contented trickery. But, I do not recall ever having thought ill of Eternity for being possessive of her secrets. I suppose that this is, might we say, the fundamental right of Forever? – To be surreptitious and furtive? Ahh…and as I say this, I recall again how grateful I always am for that which she does reveal! After all, the tables could be turned, here, if she so desired. What I mean is that I could have been you in this fix!”
He slapped both of his hands to their respective knees, and lifted his brows high as cachinnation deluged from some speciously abjured inner world of hilarity – in which only he knew the way around. He appeared to reject himself for the smallest moment, but respectfully so. This was the only moiety of humanity that I had witnessed from him thus far. Mysteriously, out of oblivion, I began to question the nature of Divinity; his first words ‘Two thousand years, and no new gods’, – they bore, tirelessly, into apprehension; for a speculation I knew not what. The clock on the wall read “2:32 a.m.”
“Not to insult you, though – my sincere apologies. One must wonder at it, though. Really. What difference would it make were I you, and you I? Neither of us would be aware of the difference, and it certainly would not change the outcome. For that is what is of import: that which will come out of our palaver…It is just that this diminutive clockwork of you and I, here, always at this date and this time – and nothing has stuck to you. None of the generalities, even.” He squinted, spying my look from over the top of his nose, with his head titled slightly. “I find this marvelous. That is all. Don’t you think so…?”
In encore, he was studious. It was like playing psychic cat and mouse. He knew what I knew. He knew what I knew, as it came known – as I became conscious of it. He had an advantage, however, of instantaneous translation of what, to me, seemed to be fanciful lore; but, to him, was not only revelation, but perspicuity – understanding, tolerant, patient of what came to be known to me prior to myself having the remotest grasp of the message. I can call to mind that I thought him the most unexplored killer to ever walk the earth. Equally, that he deserved – was owed – exploration, as no one knew of his existence. He intimated something as epochal as a newly found continent upon a terrene once mistakenly thought to be consummately surveyed – with the discoverer never having made it home to sing of his saga. I was then inherited, as brief as his display of humanity, by a twinge of insoluble sorrow – a sorrow that has cemented itself in my recesses, and persists to this day in its own, miniscule, peculiarity. He continued with a neutral posture.
“One thing I am certain of, however, is how this all ends, old friend; our little piece and play, that is. I know the means, I know the time, and I even know the reason, in the simplest sense of the word. From the moment you sat next to me, we were bound – a fait accompli. There is no going back; there is no escape. Make no mistake: you are a killer; and I am here to…remind you of it – to jostle you awake, to hold you accountable. And you will be held to account. But – not just yet.” Somehow, I could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall: it thumped more like the beat of a heart, “Incidentally, it is equally strange to me that I never know exactly what will be said between us, until, of course it is said. It is nearly as if your presence alone guides my words. – Your eyes; they guide my acumen as well as my acuity. Just like they are doing at this very moment.” I realized that I had been gawking, and withdrew my gaze, “I feel that I simply must ask you again: what was it like the first time you murdered? You must remember. If you don’t we risk a cosmic arrhythmia and who the hell knows what might come of that!” He howled with golden amusement once more, “I’ll have my answer, though. No rush. We have time.” He said as he, again, surveilled the epoch that writhed around his wrist. “I always get my answer. And that is, for me, the summit of our concurrence.”
Upon the canvass of my thought, splattered thick and fractured visuals of my hands wet and caking with stolen life, ruby spatter infinitely dotting my torso, the viscous feel of dead essence dripping from my face – a nexus of inestimable wrath, and labyrinthine intention. What had I done? My god…what had I done…
The necessary. That is what I had done. And nothing besides. This became firmed as absolute knowledge to me; and yet I did not know the minutiae that comprised its formation. Was there any manner of consistency to be drawn from these images; this memento of forgotten restraint and primal rage that made itself known in the fixation of once forgotten time? And what should I then do? – In so far as he indeed knew me better than I had ever conceived myself. In the most generic, if not nameless way, what ever I could choose seemed wrong. What would I gain; what would I lose; by any vocal acknowledgement of his predatory correctness if I, myself, knew not the meaning or the origins of these new found perversions, however necessary I knew their end to be? This became the question. It became an issue of creditor, and of debtor. And this issue strummed at my dissimilar instrument; what was assuredly a reality now accessibly alternate. And, it was – indeed – real, in spite of how this fresh cosmos chose to dress itself in the attire of dissonant seclusion. And so it was: I was presented with a dilemma. To disregard or not to disregard not only what had unearthed itself in my awareness; but, and what is more, to share or not to share these mental renderings with this man, this – this…demigod – if one can call him that. For I was still thinking in terms of self-interest – of self-benefit. As if I could have possibly known what that was! The whole scene took on a palpably pre-determined feel; the endeavor skewed. Who was leading whom? His obvious premonitory capacity did not evoke a management of the situation, in so far as I still felt…No – still knew, that I had – at least – some very convincing illusion of option at clash with the several voices that directed, and made my mind. I was slotted to die, but nearly felt as if I, myself, were willing my own impending death.
A ludicrous sense of intrepidity then compelled me in the face of this man, this demigod, this Death: a compilation of irreverence, and a solitary will to acquiescence – a will to let go. After all, there was I, and there was my killer – justice personified. What had I to lose that had not already been lost?
The recollections came streaming then…I found great satiation in them, a certain calm, healed wounds: in them, I knew what power was – the attribute, of a god.
“I…remember. I remember some things, now. But how did you – “
“Superb.” He said, almost relieved at the moment of interruption. “So then, old friend: what do you have to say for yourself?
“You want to know, or you want me to say?”
“I see no important difference for myself; but clearly there is one for you. So I will indeed say both. This is why I am here.”
“You know more about it than I do, though – why don’t you just tell me?”
“Because this would be in defiance of the purpose of my confrontation. You are being confronted.”
“Purpose? – What is the purpose to this incessant interrogation?”
“As I have said, accountability. You see, without me, there is no you. I am deeper in you than this flippant and infantile bathos of a monologue you’ve provided about that Elizabeth or any other serendipitous sentimentality that has fallen out of your face thus far. I am more in-tune with that which you are than any of your thus far trite and insensate assertions of ‘true’ and of ‘real’. I am your alpha – and you’d better start fucking realizing that I am your omega.” His defiant stare took on an unmistakably dominant nuance.
“You want to know then?”
“Yes. I want to hear you say it – out loud.”
“Do you want to know!”
He leaned forward, towards me; I found myself mirroring his gesture.
“Say it.” He whispered, with an askance look.
“It was stupendous, wondrous, awe-inspiring; and I felt magnificent, new, un-spoiled, absolved – free, you solipsistic prick.” It was if I was being born…
He leaned in further, as did I, “When you did what…?”
For the first time, I felt equanimity of endowment living in the transfixion of my eyes meeting his. I could not remember the last time I, myself, had blinked. An immovable object now faced an unstoppable force.
“When I killed that cunt bitch...”

As the dissimulated quiet of our interface sounded-off in the outline of unspoken yet clearly understood challenge, I found myself unaided – and yet whole – I, the sting of a once felt, and lived, chimera. I was approaching the Real – alive and breathing, for the first time in my life.
I had said certain things out of the deadened sobriety of normalcy; and he had shattered them. It was entirely better that these things were gone – and yet, I had not, as of that center, come to fruition… there is a question for you! When does a Human being come to culmination…? Moreover, when does one surpass – outshine – being Human? Man asks too few of these sorts of questions. – And still manages to blather-on incessantly about ‘meaning’ and ‘morality’.
There was more…Oh yes! – There was more! So very much more than the vaporous exterior that he had drawn into the open, and, to which, made the most decisive of fissures… I would bring it down – at this juncture, I more than knew my intent, my purpose; I would confiscate that which was mine; I would seize upon all I deserved; I was unable, at this position, to enclose any other course of exploit. I began my falling through time. – No longer so much a concavity, as so many others of your Humanity are; but a seedling of Self. Lo! And I would grow! Oh, how I would augment and increase… As I have said: I can only express the account by way of meticulousness and fastidiousness – in the insignia that the article, the experience, represents. Only in metaphor, as I have declared, I am able to reach your inhering in any way…do you understand this, yet? And is mutuality, and ‘understanding’ not what you followers ultimately desire? I am an Orgasm of what can only be delineate as cosmic potential: you will indeed find no small measure of irony in it when I say that I am, only now, free.
A satisfactory guise, anew, seceded the contour of the man’s concern – a unification of Souls was occurring. And, there would be an upshot – there would be a ‘conclusion’ to utilize a term that will, once more, accommodate your level of competence for understanding.
“Alas, I find confessions draconian. And in so far as the guilt, as well as the power you are currently feeling are not quite yours, but the by-product of an ideological proxy superimposed upon your present self, you have no right, as of yet, to either one of them. Perhaps you are too trusting of me…” The man then struck me as a figment of my imagination... I festooned my mind with beautiful things, beautiful words – as he had recommended. And yet wondered if the décor was of him, or I. Like a snake sunning itself, we seemed as one – as an inspired act of whatever god may, or may not, have been attuned to our repartee. But who was the snake, and who was the sun, had yet to be determined. “We walk between the raindrops, in this cold life old friend, as all of the drops of rain in this life are acidic to us. Should we be punished for that which we are? And If I am to understand anything, it is that you, by virtue of actual temperament, not training, are that which you are. For you, or anyone else for that matter, to judge the action you took against her – your Elizabeth – well, what do you care of their reactionary approach to Life?”
“Don’t you want to know why? – Wait…I never said it was Elizabeth...”
“It doesn’t matter. For all that was necessary in our meeting has come to pass…what remains, is…well – a bit of vanity.” He said, with something of a prodding sneer.
“What? – What the hell do you mean it doesn’t matter? It fucking matters to me! – You’re going to blow my god damn head off because of it!”
A nonchalant titter enclosed him – in a decadent inspiration of finality. He fumbled at his own fingers, while looking at them: his own fire, smoldering. He seemed malignly…uneasy. His second, and last, display of humanity.
“Hilarious! Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? – You are the one with the power, here. Just as I promised, we have already reached what was, for me, the summit of our concurrence: You have told me of your first murder. You must now complete your task – that which is, for you, the summit of our concurrence.”
The shadows were shedding their respective skins. The surface awaited me – the plane to which I had always – unwittingly – aspired, peeked at me from ‘round the corner of my Self. It stretched up and over me, as I cathartically orated my essence. He was no longer so much more than me: the playing field, nearly leveled.
“…I loved her, you know.” I posed.
“Mmm hmm,” He answered back. – As if whatever occurred, whatever was said, from some prior point of certainty, already occurred, could not matter in the least.
“Don’t placate me you asshole.”
“Very well, old friend. I suppose the least that I can do is hear you out first. After all, we only have 12 more minutes.” He said, without looking at the clock on the wall, or the watch ‘round his wrist. Life, itself, instantized the significance of the moment… It was 2:48 a.m. Death would visit in 12 minutes.
“I did. I loved her…she was going to leave me. She said that I was becoming unstable; that she didn’t feel safe around me anymore. I was just going through some things – some deeply personal things…I would wake-up, at night, sometimes in our back yard, sitting on the swing. I…I was naked most of the time… I had hours of missing time. She would wake when I would come back in the house to shower…I was inconsolable the first time. After a few more times, she was. It fell to shit from there.”
“Soooo…you killed her – because you loved her?”
“No!…No,” I took pause, “ – it’s not like that.”
“It sure sounds like that.”
“She…she – triggered something in me, when she said she was leaving. Like everything that anchored me was being ripped from the floor of an infinitely deep ocean.” I felt myself bellow-out in relief, and run my fingers through my hair. “Would you like to hear something funny?”
“There is something funny about you killing someone you profess to love? I am afraid that I am going to have to agree with Elizabeth about your stability.” A smile cracked from the corner of his mouth as he nodded sideways toward the clock on the wall. 2:55 a.m.
“You know, you are confusing as hell – you tell me you are here to get a confession, you get it and then act as if it doesn’t matter.”
“Do I…? Well, you see, our concerns are very much the same, old friend. However, as I have already told you, one may go so far as to say that we are little more than two sequences, having our own affect upon something larger, more profound, than even the connotation of import that we both shall place on the events that are to take place during these dark hours of encroaching dawn; there is no small irony that this takes place at the time of day that it does, I can assure you. I have had forever to figure that out - the answer is meant to escape spoken illumination. But are we getting ahead of ourselves…or behind ourselves? For this is a question that now matters: the center is almost now; it is nearly here. This line of thought is, now, in order…but yes, let me hear your ‘something funny’.”
His words…again, they bashed relentlessly into apprehension: ‘I am the man that you were supposed to sit next to, in this bar, right here, right now, from prior to your conception…you are not at all as I suspected…things are rarely exactly as we envision them…’
“I didn’t actually remember doing it, myself, until you – “
‘…our expedition this evening is a shared one… I shall be me, and you shall be you. And we shall find the strength within ourselves to create a heaven out of such a hellish design…’
“Until I what, old friend?”
‘…you have been automata…what do you make of her death… What is it you think that I am here to do, old friend…old friend…old friend…you were given myriad of paths upon the death of Elizabeth. And what do you do… what is ‘Real’?…’
May the gods save us from our presumptuousness! – For very few are able to save even themselves from the silly defenses that inhere in mankind…The images returned to me – clearer, much clearer; as if I were watching a play, or was nothing more than two eyes floating about, suspended in mid-air, witnessing.
I saw the deed being committed…I was repulsed, at first. Arms and hands flailing, sudden jolts, overpowering strength – and brutality. So much blood…a glimpse…a sneer…a whimper…a gurgle…an exhale…silence. Eyes…
The lightest grey eyes I had ever seen, piercing, set to an ever so slight oblique axis; they looked like the eyes of an animal, or as one might imagine the eyes of death seem. I felt with immediacy a profundity behind them that had a direct severity – and command of respect, and no diffident measure of threat. I can call to mind that I thought this man the most unexplored killer to ever walk the earth. Equally, that he deserved – was owed – exploration, as no one knew of his existence. He intimated something as epochal as a newly found continent upon a terrene once mistakenly thought to be consummately surveyed – with the discoverer never having made it home to sing of his saga…
“…You…you!” I screamed.
“That’s right. You have never killed anyone. But I have. I have sent an infinite number of souls into the dark, an infinite number of times. Including Elizabeth – an infinite number of times. And I will do so again…and again, and again, and again. That is, of course, unless somebody stops me.”
“Give me that fucking gun.”
“What gun?”
‘…Would you say that life, to be alive, must do some or another thing… Are you alive…tell me of your first murder…’
“The gun in the ankle hols-…” I dove for the weapon. It wasn’t there.
‘…Make no mistake: you are a killer; and I am here to…remind you of it – to jostle you awake…’
“You mean the gun that you have had in that ankle holster of yours, that you have been using to intimidate me all night? Or morning, I should say, to be more precise.”
‘…I am more in-tune with that which you are than any of your thus far trite and insensate assertions of ‘true’ and of ‘real’. I am your alpha – and you’d better start fucking realizing that I am your omega…’
Mouth agape, I reached down, and felt the outline of the weapon at my ankle.
“Amazing, yes?” he answered.
‘…You see, without me, there is no you…old friend…tell me of your first murder…’
I ripped the gun from the holster, stood up, grabbed the back of his head, and pointed it directly at his face – which now enjoyed a grin of deep approval.
“I’ll do it. I swear I’ll fucking do it.” My hands were quaking.
‘…tell me of your first murder…’
“I know you will. But first, you should know something,” He stood up, and stepped toward me; his forehead now flush with the barrel of the gun, “You should know, old friend, that your love, your Elizabeth, moaned like a whore when I entered her.”
“Shut up!”
“I slid into her ass like a knife through butter.”
‘…tell me of your first murder…’
“Shut the fuck up!”
“She gagged when I came in her mouth. – And then I sawed her fucking head off.”
The heart beat of the clock on the wall pounded away. There was no other sound. Nothing moved. And all of the background was a hazy opaque nothingness: there was only him.
His arms began to rise straight-out from their sides, as if he were a puppet attached to an unknown strength. Cruciform, with palms turned upwards, dangling from limped wrists – he let a smug chortle…and then it happened.
He looked at me sleepily. Impaling me with those eyes, whose lids were closing – slowly…surely, finally.
As his eyelids began their ascent, I watched in wonder as the bullet entered his head. And then made its exit through my hand. The clock chimed three bells.
I am born – again.

“Dissociative Fugue you idiot. How the hell did you make detective, Simms?”
Frank Bell grabbed the dossier from Simms, sneered at him disgustedly, and tossed it on the edge of the table.
“Well what in the world is that?” Simms inquired.
“He’s off in loopy land, never to return. Probably. Or so says his Psyche Eval. Anyway, we got nothing back from AFIS and we can’t find a thing to corroberate any of his story.” Bell poured another cup of coffee.
“Who all was interviewed?”
“You mean besides Mr. Orgasm of Cosmic Potential in there?”
“Yeah.” Simms poked around at 10 hour old pizza that was to his side with the eraser end of a pencil.
“The bartender, obviously. He said that by 2:30 a.m., this guy was the only one left in the whole place. Said it was an unusually slow night.” Bell took a slow sip, whincing. “Securuty tapes corroberate.”
“What else to they corroberate?” Simms said, genuinely inquisitive.
“Well,” began Bell, almost in disbelief of what he was about to say, “this guy walks into O’Reilly’s Tavern at 1:10 a.m. Sits. Drinks – alone I might add – until 3:00 a.m. on-the-nose; gets up, and leaves. Bartender says the guy just left – no incident…you know the rest.” Bell nervously pulled at his collar.
“I just don’t get it Frank…What about this ‘Elizabeth’; do we have anything there?” Simms scratched his head with the same end of the pencil that had probed the pizza.
Bell cleared his throat. “No. not shit: we’ve checked with Missing Persons etc. etc – nothing. She doesn’t seem to exist.”
Simms had a notably more confused look on his face than was normal even for him. “I just don’t get it Frank…if the security camera just outside the entry of the Tavern has this guy, on tape, leaving O’Reilly’s at 3:01 a.m., buck naked, bloody and with a god damn bullet hole in his hand and brain matter all over his arm…I just don’t get it. – The Patrol that picked him up was at what time?”
“3:05 a.m. He walked out, sat on the bench just by the road, and…he just waited. He didn’t have a gun.”
“When do we expect Forensics back with the tests on the Biologicals?
“Anytime now, but I – “
Before Bell could finish his sentence, the door to the observation room swung open. Klaus Sigurdson walked in, eyeing both detectives before closing the door behind him. “I took the liberty of stopping by Jim’s office in Forensics to see if the testing was completed before coming down: you know how he forgets things. Is this guy still talking in circles?
“And?” Said Bell. Simms shifted to attention.
“Well, they’re done.”
“And?” Bell demanded.
“There is an unknown donor.” Sigurdson was matter-of-fact in his reply.
Simms looked at Bell, befuddled, ”I just don’t get it Frank, Wh – “
“Shut up Simms – what are you saying Klaus?”
“Just what I said: there is an unknown male donor in the samples. As you already know, Gun Shot Residue was indeed found, and this man was indeed shot through the left hand with a small caliber weapon at very short range – Ballistics has confirmed that it was a hand gun; and, that the bullet fragmented such that it can be concluded that it passed through something, but most likely someone else before going through that man’s hand.” Sigurdson pointed through the two-way mirrior.
Bell looked down at the floor, tapping with his foot at a crack in one of the floor tiles, then looked up. “What the hell is going on here, Klaus?”
All three men stared at each other – each waiting for the other to speak. Sigurdson shuffled his way over to the two-way mirror, and plopped into the computer chair that had been moved close to it. He reclined a bit, then put his fingertips on the glass. “I have no Earthly idea, Frank.”
Incensed, Bell threw his coffee against the wall, “This doesn’t explain a damn thing!” and stormed-out.
“No…no it does not…” Sigurdson replied, almost inaudibly.
He wheeled his chair over to the intercom switch, and hesitated – then switched the sound to the interrogation room to “ON”.
“Two thousand years, and no new gods…”

the end

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