CRIMONIA:
 

Crimonia, the book, advocates the banishment of dangerous and violent
criminals to a flat piece of land, without any trees--so as to eliminate
the possibility of the wretched being able to make any complex
tools--where the criminals have absolutely no right to anything that is
produced by society, including food, clothes, shelter, protection,
etc....

A criminal who has no conscious and humility does not meet the
definition of a human--which is an entity possessing humility--and is
regarded as nothing but a parasite which causes the virtuous man to be
subjected by an evil far greater than crime: the State.

In CRIMONIA, as several criminals who have been banished for life to
Crimonia argue among themselves, government is viewed as being far more
evil and dangerous than any criminal, and for man to become liberated
from governments, he must first exorcise himself from the
criminal--especially the intelligent criminals who have, in our age,
turned justice into a profitable business: e.g., certain lawyers and
politicians--by exterminating them like any other parasite.

The main character argues that a man who has had his liberties or
property taken away by any individual or government that is not
operating based on rational principles, not only has a natural right,
but actually the duty to use any and all means, particularly violent
means, to combat that which is attacking his one and only life.

Titles of Chapters:

The Glass Wall
The Chase
The CEU
The Gophers
The Visitor
The Law Library
Aryman's Crimes
A Plea Bargain
The Lawyer's Career
If Might is Right
A Prophesy
Crimonia
A bet
The Lake
Man and the Big Dipper
Fate
The Sun and the Moon
The Duty of the Righteous
Coincidence or Mystical Phenomena?
Evolution
A Diseased Dog
Blind Ants
Fascistic Republic of Totalica
Religious Experiences
Embracing Destiny
Drugs
The Fence
The Non-Lifers
Ruthlessness
Exodus
The DNA-ID-VD
The Hell Climber
Unipeculiarium
The Professor
Wisdom of the Waitress
A Grain of Sand
The Hook
A Dirt Road
Don't Fence Me In
Singularity
Wishing For A Friend in Paradise
 
 
  In the not-too-distant future a terrorist named Aryman Akkamesh is sentenced to “Crimonia” for blowing up a financial institution in Los Angeles. Crimonia is a desert wilderness with no laws where the worst criminals are banished to die. Despite extreme security measures and the attempts of a mysterious assassin assigned to kill him, Aryman escapes Crimonia and causes a worldwide apocalypse. Crimonia is a fast paced, action filled philosophical story that is sure to stand out.

EXCERPTS: The following chapters are presented in their entirety, and provide a good overview of the story: Ch. 1, 5,11, 12, 14, 16, 19, 24, 38.

CHAPTER 1

The Glass Wall

It was almost half past eight on a sunny Tuesday morning in early August, and the rush hour traffic in downtown Los Angeles was at its height. The street was packed with honking cars, and black diesel exhaust poured out of a few old busses. With the echoes of various alarms resonating between the tall buildings, as many men and women rode their bicycles on the congested bike lane, with one foot on the sidewalk and the other in the bike lane, stood a tall, handsome man, looking straight up at the city’s newest skyscraper.

A woman riding a bicycle suddenly screamed, “Out of the way!” with a mean, angry look.

“Pardon me,” said the handsome man, with a kind, polite smile, and stepped onto the sidewalk. He didn’t bother to take his glance away from the building. It was a beautiful, spectacular building. One hundred and forty three stories tall, and made entirely of green glass and rock. The upper ten stories were composed of green glass, as were the smaller sub-structures attached to the four sides of it. The four rectangular sub-structures were considerably shorter than the main hexagonal center: two of them were ninety stories tall, and the other two only sixty.

The handsome man stood still, with his head tilted all the way back, his mouth opened, and his eyes squinting at the bright pale blue sky. He possessed a certain charm and charisma which was a-typical of the majority of the people swarming about him. His hair was light brown and combed neatly to one side, his face was clean-shaven, and his dimples made him look kind and innocent. He had dark blue eyes, the same color of his suit, and the slight gap between his front teeth added to his charisma.

He could feel the effusion of the stare of a few ladies to his side; but when he looked at them to greet them, the ladies pretended not to be staring at him. When he reached into his long summer coat for his pipe, he suddenly remembered that smoking had been outlawed in the city.

He took in a deep breath, sighed a little, and walked into the lobby of the building. He looked around a bit and made note of the security guards who stood at the door of a few elevators. He sat down on a brown leather couch near the rose garden, crossed his legs, and started to read the daily newspaper. He did not read any of the articles, but looked at the advertising techniques used in the ads instead; and for some reason he was suddenly reminded of his high school critical thinking teacher. He had failed the class twice because he had a crush on her.

He looked up occasionally, and finally noticed that there was no one standing in front of the express elevator, which was labeled “L-143.” There were many other elevators, each specific to twenty-five or so floors, but there was only one going to the top.

He walked passed a group of people who had just stepped off one of the 50-75 elevators, and he returned the smile of several women and a bald man. When he pressed the elevator button, the elevator door promptly opened, and a computer with the pleasant voice of a woman said, “Good morning. Elevator up.”

The handsome man stepped inside, without drawing suspicion from anyone in the crowd, and smiled at the security camera. He promptly pressed the only button in the elevator, marked “143,” and the elevator said “Thank you.” The superconductive elevator lifted off slowly at first, and then it rapidly accelerated. The handsome man could hear the clicking sounds of the quickly passing floors until the clicks fell into unison.

Just as he started to hum the theme song of an old western TV series, the elevator started to announce the weather forecast, and he quickly pressed the Interactive Elevator button several times to shut it up. The elevator ceased its speech and he smiled with satisfaction. After a brief pause he started to hum the tune again.

He hadn’t finished more than half of the tune when the elevator suddenly started to slow down, and the light above the door read “143.” The handsome man was once again annoyed, and shook his head from side to side in disbelief.

“Welcome to floor 143. Have a nice day,” said the elevator with a polite yet urgent voice. The elevator opened into a vast carpeted area, with a large fountain in the center. The floor was neatly decorated with several plants, couches, and coffee tables. There were many large, colorful paintings on the walls, and directly in front, through the glass wall, he could see the roofs of other nearby skyscrapers; and a hazy city below that appeared still and lifeless.

Two security guards who stood in front of the glass wall placed their hands on their guns and approached him. One of them asked, “What are you doing here, sir?”

“Just wanted to look at the view,” responded the man as he walked off the elevator and into the beautifully decorated room.

“There’s no view here,” said the other guard, “please step back into the elevator and go back down.”

The man uttered an apologetic smile and nodded his head with understanding. He flung his coat off his shoulders with a quick gesture, and the fake arms attached to the coat made a thumping sound as they landed on the carpet. With his two real hands, he raised a shotgun and blasted the first security guard in the head, and the second one in the chest. The blood and brains of the first security guard had not yet splattered against the windows and carpet when the second security guard was shot again, this time on the side, as he was still falling to the ground.

The handsome man quickly stepped up and shot the second officer a third time, this time in the head, to make sure his bullet proof vest hadn’t prevented him from being dead. When the smoke cleared and the blood settled on the furniture, the man looked down, and with a look of disgust on his face, noticed several drops of blood, skin and hair on his new Italian shoes. With the alarm sounding in the background, he walked up to the courtesy table, picked up several tissues, folded them neatly, and wiped his shoes. He spat on a clean side of the napkins and carefully polished his shoes clean. Then he poured himself a little coffee and took a sip. He shuddered at its taste, and poured it back into the pot.

He walked up to a door and tried to open it, but it was locked. He shot the lock twice, producing a hole where the lock used to be, kicked the door open, reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a concussion grenade, and pulled the pin out with his teeth. He threw the grenade inside the room, closed the door behind him, and stepped behind a pillar. The grenade went off and knocked the door off its hinges, also causing half of the wall to collapse. Then he walked into the dust-filled room and fired three more shots.

There were a total of five doors, but he only had four grenades. After blowing up the second room and making sure everyone inside was dead, he took out the sub-machine gun which was strapped to his right leg—because he was left handed. After blowing the lock away with the shotgun in his right hand, he stormed the room to kill all of its inhabitants, but there was no one in the third room. He fired at all the walls, desk, and furniture anyway, just in case anyone was hiding behind anything.

By now a crowd had gathered on the streets below, and the police were frantically piling into the elevator. People were pointing and talking about the exploding noises that sounded like quiet little pops from the street. Some said that it was a problem with the cooling system, some said it was a drug lab which had caught fire, and others said a movie was being made there. Within minutes two police and eleven news helicopters were on the scene.

After having killed everyone he saw on the hundred and forty third floor, the handsome man walked over to the glass wall and waved at a news crew who were hovering just outside. He took a few steps back, and unloaded an entire clip of Israeli made armor piercing rounds into the glass wall. The wall shattered into a million pieces, but it all remained in place. The helicopter started to smoke, and flew erratically to the roof of one of the shorter skyscrapers. As the pilot skillfully brought the helicopter to a soft crash, its rapidly spinning propeller struck a few parked cars and tore them to pieces, sending chunks of the propeller and car parts flying off the roof and onto the street below. The news crew, however, were not harmed and climbed out and continued to film from the roof.

The handsome man saw them climbing out of the wreck to continue their work, and he smiled. Suddenly, realizing that he was running out of time, he quickly walked over to a wooden coat rack which was riddled with holes, and repeatedly smashed it against the glass wall. But before the coat rack disintegrated, he was only able to make a hole no larger than the size of his fist in the wall. Just then he heard the polite voice of the elevator announce, “Welcome to floor 143.” Thus he quickly opened his back pack and put on a kevlar motorcycle helmet as well as a pair of designer sunglasses, and when the elevator said, “Have a good day,” he sprinted full speed and leaped head first into the shattered glass wall.

The wall buckled a little, and the man fell to the floor with his ears ringing. As the elevator door opened, he quickly sprang up, took a few steps back, and while being fired upon from behind, crashed screaming through the wall again.

This time his upper body made it through, but his legs remained dangling inside of the room. He tried to wiggle himself out while looking down at the city; and the scattered patches of onlookers looked like mold to him. He felt a bullet hit the bottom of his right foot, another entered his thigh, and before he knew it, he was falling, tumbling down the side of the building.

The spectators below did not notice him falling out of the building until he was near the top of one of the ninety story glass structures. The skin of the man’s face was rippling in the wind as he fell, and he spread his arms and legs out to gain his balance. The crowd awed, pointed and screamed at the sight of him falling out of the sky. When he had regained his balance, by the sixtieth floor, he pulled on his clip-on tie, which was attached to a cord. A gray colored winged-parachute opened by the fortieth floor, and the crowd screamed, whistled and cheered at the sight of his high speed descent and sharp turn behind a nearby building.

“Told you it was just a movie,” said a man to a woman.

“Shit! I thought we’re gonna get to see him splatter,” said another man with disappointment.

An Iranian woman said to her son, “See why we came to America?”

A man who was late riding his bicycle to work just shook his head and rode away.

A few vagrants passed a cigarette cautiously, “Watch out for the cops, man,” said the one to the other.

CHAPTER 5

The Visitor

Aryman’s crime made international news; and at LAX, several CIA agents who were camouflaged in regular clothing were waiting for the arrival of another suspect. As they were spread out all over the terminal, they conversed among themselves with earphones and microphones that were hard-wired in their throat and ear.

“Fuckin foreigners bringing their fuckin problems over here. I tell you—we should just close our borders to all fuckin foreigners. We got enough people and enough problems of our own to deal with!”

“What’s the deal with this suspect, anyway? Is he involved?” asked one of the officers who had just been assigned.

“We’re not sure yet: all we know is that we got a person leaving Godratabad; and no one’s usually allowed to leave that place—especially to come to the U.S. The asshole who blew up the First World Bank came from there….”

Just then a pleasant computerized female voice made an announcement, “Flight 686 from London now arriving at terminal four. All visitors please remain behind the yellow line.”

As the passengers walked out of the plane’s door, and before they could enter the terminal, the agent suddenly said, “That’s him! Is there anyone without live footage?”

Without blinking, he stared at his wrist monitor that displayed the outline of the suspect with a red line. None of the agents replied to his question, so he continued, “Great. Keep your eyes peeled for his person.”

In twenty minutes or so, as a plane load of people walked out from behind the yellow line, the CIA’s suspect stuck out like a sore thumb: He was a very tall, wide, imposing man with thick black eyebrows, and his dense curly black hair was pulled back into a ponytail that hardly moved as he paced forward. His long dark burgundy coat was unbuttoned and dangled to his ankles, gently swaying in the breeze that he created as he powerfully walked through the crowd. Beneath his coat he wore a black turtleneck, black pants, and black boots with plain metal buckles on them, matching the buckle on his belt. He carried a thin black briefcase.

As he stepped forward, his head towering at least a foot over the others, despite the mass of people that were looking at him, he systematically made eye contact with all of the agents, as if they were not camouflaged at all.

“Who the fuck is this clown?” asked one of the agents with annoyance; and just then the imposing man approached the agent who was in charge and, in a deep basey voice and strange accent asked, “Can I help you?”

The agent then stopped the charade and responded, “You sure as hell will!” and in seconds there were over forty agents surrounding the man. “Step into my office,” continued the head agent as he tried to take the man’s briefcase; but the man did not let go of it and while towering over the agent, he said, “This is how your guests are treated?”

“Cut the crap!” said the agent as he tried to yank his briefcase out of his hand. But with no effort at all, the visitor held on to his luggage with his left hand and, with his opened right hand, he popped the agent in the chest. The agent flew back uncontrollably and his head struck another agent’s chin, causing one to have a bloodied mouth and the other to have a bump on the back of his head.

Just then all of the agents drew their weapons and pointed them at his head and ordered him to get down on the ground. But the man stood calm and stoic, and finally raised his left eyebrow into an arch and said, “You must learn to treat your guests with more politeness. You must not grab at another’s possession.”

Then, as if he knew where to go, he walked toward the security office, holding his hands behind his back. As he walked forward, holding his hands as such, several agents followed with a quickened pace, trying to place handcuffs around his thick wrists, anxious, like little children scampering behind an ice cream truck.

Once in the security office, four of the main agents crowded around him and started to interrogate him: “What organizations do you belong to?”

“Where did you get this visa to enter the U.S.?”

“Do you know Aryman Akkamesh?”

“What’s your name?”

The man sat there, not blinking, with his usual calm stoicism; and after he heard all their questions, he finally spoke: “I am RouAllah ye Kkakistarneshesteh. You gave this visa to me in London. I have come to take Aryman back. I am his prosecutor.”

A few of the agents laughed at his presumption, and the head agent said, “And you think we’re just gonna hand him over to you?!”

“Why is he wanted in Godratabad?”

“He escaped,” the man answered.

The agents exchanged a few looks, and the one who had examined the papers in his briefcase asked, “What’s all this stuff?” At the same time another one asked, “Is he an escaped convict?”

“No. Escaped citizen. Now he is convict,” answered the visitor; “that is letters of him to his family: it is evidence for his belonging to us. He is a citizen of Godratabad. He can never stop being a citizen of Godratabad. He is ours.”

“Well, he’s not yours anymore!” said an agent, “he’s got bigger problems to deal with here.”

“You mean he escaped from your country and you came all the way here to take him back to sentence him for it?”

“Yes.”

“If that’s all his done, you’re sure going through a lot of trouble to get him back. You think we’re stupid? Now why don’t you cut the crap and tell us what you’re really doing here!”

“He is made shame for all Godratabad—I am telling you truth: when I prosecute him, I will go.”

“What’s the penalty for escaping?” asked an agent.

“Death.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to wait in line….”

“Yeah—why don’t you try sending an ambassador….”

“I am ambassador.”

“Yeah, right!” said the head agent: “Tell you what Mr. Ambassador: we’re gonna put your ass back on the plane and send you back to where you came from. You can start being the ambassador when your country starts having relations with the United States.”

“I can testify him against,” said the man quickly, “I can help.”

There was a brief pause and the agents exchanged a few looks and one of them finally said, “No thanks: I think we can manage without your help.”

But then the head agent pulled the other one aside and they conversed among themselves a little and despite the other agent’s apparent frustration, the head agent approached the visitor and said, “Your tourist visa is valid, so after you answer some more questions you’ll be free to go; but I’m sure you know that we’ll be on your ass non-stop for the next month, till your visa expires. You can’t so much as take a piss in this country without me knowing it. Understand? If you brake a single law, if you so much as J-walk, you’re gonna be gone! Understand?”

The visitor made no more replies, not volunteering any more information that he had to.

After he was questioned for forty-eight more hours and thoroughly checked out, the agent came up to him and said, “All right. You’re free to go.” As another agent approached him with a needle containing a cloudy fluid, he added, “Like I said: we’ll know your whereabouts at all times;” and then the attendant injected the thick, somewhat sparkly fluid into the visitor’s left hand, between his thumb and index finger.

The visitor quickly held his arm just below is elbow, grasping his left bicep tightly, appearing to be standing with his arms crossed; and the agent explained: “Don’t worry: this stuff’s temporary: it’ll brake down in a few months, in time for your trip back home.”

“You may go now,” continued the head agent as he tried to hand the visitor his briefcase. But the visitor bowed politely and said, “It is better you keep it for evidence. I do not need it. You are doing his prosecution—I will observe only.”

“That’s exactly what you’re gonna do! Now you just keep your nose out of the dirt!” said the head agent as he shook his finger at him. Having heard this, the imposing man nodded politely, and as he walked out of the room, he was followed by three agents.

Still hanging on to his bicep, with the three agents in tow, he walked over to the bathroom and walked into a stall and sat on the toilet. He reached to his side and pulled out a plastic toilet bowl cover and placed it on his lap. He folded the bottom part and rolled the top part into a cone. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a credit card. He flipped the tip of it open, producing a sharp plastic edge.

Then he cut his wrist open deeply and proceeded to wrench out the blood and the material that was injected into him into the plastic container. He could see the more viscous clear fluid oozing out along with his blood, as the fine metal particles sparkled in the restroom’s neon lights.

He sat there for nearly a half an hour, wrenching the blood out of his elbow and out of his wrist. The three agents, meanwhile, stood around making racial jokes about him and his bowel movements.

When the plastic container was full, he bled out some more of his blood into the toilet, making sure that none of the mixture remained inside him. Then he cleaned up the stall with some toilet paper and wrapped his blood in several more sheets of plastic and placed it in his coat pocket.

When he walked out, he looked down upon the agents and said, “Ouich! Airplane food is better than police food. Where is pharmacy?”

With the agent’s help, the visitor found the nearest pharmacy, and as he pretended to look for some anti-constipation medication, he sneaked a bottle that possessed a chemical which worked as anti-coagulant in his other coat pocket.

CHAPTER 11

A Prophesy

The jury unanimously decided that Aryman should be sentenced to life in Crimonia. After the jury--without having to deliberate--had pronounced their decision, the judge said, “Mr. Aryman Akkamesh the third, please stand,” and Aryman stood up.

“For the heinous crimes that you have committed, the people have recommended that you be sentenced to life in Crimonia. With your actions you have proven yourself undeserving of any benefit which society has to offer. Thus you will be banished to the life section of Crimonia, and like the rest who reside there, you will receive no food, clothing, shelter, medical care, nor protection. You will not be given anything that the hard working people of this land produce. Your citizenship has henceforth been forfeited: You are no longer a member of this, nor any other country, and you will spend the rest of your life in a complete state of nature.

“It is not sufficient for a creature to possess two arms, two legs, a brain, and a bilaterally symmetrical upright biped form to be considered human: A human is an entity that is humane. Being that you obviously lack humanity, you cannot be considered to be a human, and therefore no longer possess any human rights.

“With the recommendation of the people, and with the power invested in me, I henceforth sentence you to life in Crimonia.”

“Thank you,” said Aryman somewhat arrogantly, and then he was escorted out of the courtroom.

Aryman was promptly escorted through a maze of underground hallways, and after a long elevator ride, was finally taken to the roof of a two-story building in a small desert city. His hands were tied to his feet so that he had to sit with his knees drawn up to his chest; and then he was shoved into a small metal cubical with bars and loaded onto a large helicopter that was waiting for him. He was apparently the only passenger.

“Special delivery!” said one of the guards who placed him on the hydraulic ramp of the aircraft.

“We’ll take good care of him,” said the guard on board sarcastically, “we’ll make sure he gets there safely.”

Then the guard who had placed him on the ramp pressed a blinking yellow button and the ramp started to rise. As he was being lifted up and he looked over the small desert city, Aryman’s face suddenly became white, as if he’d seen a ghost. He began to shout, “Down there! He’s down there! My God!!” He could see RouAllah standing in the street below, his burgundy coat flapping in the wind of the helicopter’s wake.

The guards suddenly turned to look, but they saw no one; and not knowing what he was talking about, the guard on board said: “Don’t be fucking with us, asshole. I’m not in the mood to be fucked with by no fuckin criminal!” Then he withdrew his baton and poked Aryman in the face with it through the metal bars. The other guards who were standing below were laughing and having a good time; but the expression on their faces suddenly became that of intense pain, and just as suddenly, their bodies became limp and fell to the ground. Then several loud clanking sounds made the other guard realize that they were being fired upon with a silenced weapon.

“SHIT!! Fire from below! Fire from below! Get outa here! Go, go, go!” shouted the guard who was standing near the open door of the aircraft as the bullets bounced off all around him; and suddenly the pilot lifted the helicopter up and flipped it around, with Aryman still on the ramp. His cage smashed against the hinge of the doorway, then swung out, so that he could see RouAllah taking careful aim at him as he nearly fell out; and then another jerk slid his cage inside and slammed it against some control panels that exploded with sparks.

With the pilot shouting codes and commands into the communicator, the other guard managed to get the door closed; and with the clanking sounds of the bullets bouncing off the body of the aircraft, the helicopter flew erratically forward.

Suddenly there was a loud, yet muffled popping found, and the aircraft started to shake violently and uncontrollably.

“Mayday! Mayday! We’re hit! Someone get this fucker off my ass!!” The other guard quickly sat in his chair and strapped himself in.

The helicopter continued to fly forward, shaking around violently, and it finally came to a crash landing on a deserted field next to the highway and slid to a halt on its side. Aryman’s cage tumbled over a few times and it finally smashed against the pilot’s chair, tearing it right off and squashing the pilot against the windshield. The interior of the aircraft became dusty and dark, with exception of a few blinking lights and an occasional spark.

Meanwhile, the machine gun fire outside the dark compartment was sounding like it was getting closer and closer. The guard who had managed to get himself strapped in just in time undid his belt and dropped down from the side that was laying up, and drew his pistol and pointed it at Aryman’s head.

Aryman’s head was bloodied, but he was conscious. The guard, without saying a word, with an angry frown on his face, pulled back the action and, with the yellow and red lights blinking in the dark and dust, Aryman caught a glimpse of the shiny brass round loading into the chamber. Aryman drew his eyes closed and there was a calm, peaceful look on his face, as if his soul had already lifted from his body.

A sudden loud explosion from the front of the aircraft interrupted the guard just as he was about to execute Aryman. The guard’s angry face was lighted with a few beams of flashlights shining through the dust, flashlights that were attached to sub-machine guns, and a voice from the dark screamed, “We got survivors! Send EVAC!”

The guard’s finger was trembling on the trigger as he looked at the intruder; but the latter advised him, “Don’t do it! Not worth it, man. Come on, don’t do it....”

The distraught guard then put down his weapon; and once the grounds were fully secured, Aryman was finally evacuated. As they were leaving the scene, Aryman overheard the guard ask the commando, “Did you get the bastard?”

The commando shook his head in disappointment; but Aryman couldn’t hear what he answered. All he heard was the number ‘nine,’ and he assumed that’s how many people RouAllah had killed or wounded or both.

After he was treated for his injuries at a military facility, Aryman was taken back to Los Angeles and brought before a panel for questioning.

Though they continually asked him who he really was and why Godratabad was going through such extremes to make sure that he’s dead, Aryman replied with the same answer: “I told you: they’ve been after me since the time of my birth, because of some bullshit prophecy made about me!”

“What prophecy?”

“I already told you that a hundred times also: they say that I’m to be a great man, one who will change the course of history.”

“You are a ‘great’ man, asshole. But your history’s going to end right here,” said the frustrated interrogator. Then he turned to several of the armed guards and said, “Take him to his new home!”

With this command, Aryman was taken away once more and bound and stuffed in a cage in a similar manner as before, and loaded onto another helicopter destined for Crimonia.

CHAPTER 12

Crimonia

This time, however, he was not the only one on board. Thirteen other prisoners were already on board; but apparently, he was the only one sentenced to life in Crimonia.

Aryman was kept in a separate compartment in the rear of the aircraft, next to a section that was curtained off, far from the other prisoners. Once the helicopter lifted off, each prisoner was led behind the curtained off section, where he underwent the same procedure: The medical officer on board programmed the prisoner’s name, identification number, reason for banishment, and parole time onto a chip no larger than a grain of rice, and asked the criminals where they would like to have the chip hidden in their bodies.

Being that there was no one to defend them in Crimonia, it was not uncommon for the larger inmates to practice cannibalism on the more helpless ones: especially during times when the inmate population exceeded the amount of wheat and potatoes they could produce for themselves. They had to hide and guard their chips so that the other inmates would not find them and, forgetting other preventative measures against this, try to use them to gain an earlier release.

As their chip was inserted into them, it was explained to the criminals that when it came time for their parole, their name would be announced over loud speakers, at which time they would have to come to the front gate and present the location at which they had hidden their chip. At that time their chip would be read, and all of their finger and toe prints would be used to verify their identity. If the information on their chip did not match their finger and toe prints, they would be executed on site and their corpse would be thrown in the life section of Crimonia so that the inmates there could eat them.

The criminals were warned not to walk closer than ten feet to the electrified fence, and were also informed that a ten foot thick concrete and rebar wall extends over an eighth of a mile below the fence of Crimonia. Upon hearing this, Aryman knew which areas would be plentiful in water.

As the helicopter’s engine was being warmed up, their Flight Host explained to each one that the entire perimeter of Crimonia--on the periphery of the electrified fence and the wall--is very densely packed with a half mile of highly sensitive land mines. He did not tell them about the satellites that could discern hundredth of a degree temperature fluctuations on any spot on the surface of the earth, regardless of the weather.

Aryman did not receive a chip, because unlike the others, his ticket to Crimonia was only good for one way.

CHAPTER 14

The Lake

The navigator turned on a bright spotlight that lit the dark lake below, and took his time in aligning the aircraft. He picked up one of the cut zip ties that were used to immobilize the lesser criminals off the floor, and before he could throw it out to see if he’d lined up the helicopter right, the guard stopped him, “No, no, no you don’t! I’ll give you the light, but no experiments….”

“Fine. Don’t need it anyway. Don’t need neither of em’,” he said and turned off the light as well.

The two guards picked up Aryman by his shoulders and knees and were ready to throw him out when the navigator suddenly ran forward.

“Ah uh! No way, man!” said the navigator to the guard with whom he had made the bet, “there’s no way I’m letting you throw him!”

“Why not? It’s my job to throw him!” The guards dropped Aryman and his face hit the floor first.

“Hey man, I’m not as dumb as you look. I lined it up, I’m throwing him.”

“Fine,” said the other, “I’ll look to see if he hits the water.”

“No, I don’t think so,” said the navigator. “Here, we’ll let Larry look. You and I will both throw him.”

After a second’s reflection, the guard agreed. The navigator said, “OK, we gotta toss him gently. Don’t lob him, cause from up here that’ll make a big difference. If you lob him the bet’s off.”

“Ready?” asked Larry.

“Yep,” responded the two. “On a count of three,” and the navigator leaned close to Aryman and said, “If you know what’s good for you, you’d just relax. If you squirm, you’re libel to cost me three cases.”

They counted to three, and on the third swing the navigator said, “Wait, wait.... I want to check something.”

The two dropped Aryman again, and again his face hit the ground first. The navigator approached the door, took another look, and said, “OK.”

They picked him up again, and on another count of three they gently threw Aryman out of the door. The guard tossed him a little harder than the navigator and Aryman started to spin. Before he knew it, he reached the end of the rope. Because the rope was tied so tightly, it made a snapping sound and Aryman started to tumble headfirst toward the water below.

Aryman quickly spread his hands and legs apart, like a falling cat, to regain his balance and to slow his fall. He could barely make out several dimly lit torches surrounding a black abyss below through the tears that the wind washed out of his eyes. When the torches appeared more bright and he could smell the smoke which rose off of them, he quickly held his nose with his right hand, his testicles with his left hand, tucked his chin into his chest and shoulders, kept his feet tightly together, pointed his toes straight down, and maintained himself as vertical as he could.

Aryman felt his velocity increase; but the lake still appeared far away, and for an instant he became afraid. Just then he made out the anxious faces of a few humans shimmering in their dim torch-lights that flickered in the dark. He shut his eyes tight and smashed against the water. As soon as he felt his feet enter, he reclined back, and spread his arms and legs as wide as possible, increasing his surface area as much as he could to slow him down in the water. His back hit the floor of the lake with great force, but he was in one piece.

The muddy water and the dark sky above prevented him from being able to see which way was up, but since his back had hit the floor of the lake, his lack of sight was of no great loss. Instead of surfacing, he swam forward for as long as he could hold his breath, and just before surfacing he grabbed a fist-full of mud from the bottom of the lake and applied the cool, gritty sediment to his bald scalp.

He surfaced as slowly as he could, to minimize making ripples on the lake’s surface. As soon as his head was out of the water, he applied the fist-full of mud to his bald scalp so he wouldn’t be easily recognized. The first thing he heard was the excited cheer of the navigator who had just won himself three cases of Bud.

By now several of the men were swimming around the lake, looking for him. There were also more than a half dozen men with dim torches to his right, some standing waste deep in the water. There were four more to his right, and over a dozen behind him, but no one directly in front of him; thus Aryman took several quick breaths, and a final deep one, submerged very slowly, and swam forward under the water.

He was not yet out of breath when he encountered shallow water: The water was only waste high, and was slowly becoming more shallow as he went forward. He surfaced in the same manner as before, rubbed mud on his head and face, and took a look around himself to assess his situation.

The men with torches had spread out and surrounded the lake. Aryman remained perfectly still, laying on his chest in the shallow water, with only his mud-covered head protruding out of the murky water. He laid perfectly still, with his eyes, nose and the top half of his ears sticking out. Sometimes he would sink down even further so that only his eyes were above the water.

After a long time one of the men said, “He’s dead. He’s probably stuck in the mud down there.”

“We’ll dive for him at dawn,” said another.

Aryman remained motionless until the half-moon set in the southwest. There were many men standing guard around the lake to make sure no one of them made away with their meat. But several hours after the moon had set, the men started to become worn out, as they did not have much energy. Very slowly and with extreme caution, Aryman crawled out of the mud, making sure his entire body was covered with the gray-black sediment.

He slowly slipped passed one of the inmates and wandered into the night. He walked west until his muddied feet were dry, then he turned north and kept walking until the sun made the western sky light blue, and the stars started to fade from view. Aryman noticed that the only form of vegetation were dried and semi-dried bushes with thin branches. There were no trees in sight anywhere, and the only feature of the land was produced by dry washes which wound their way through the barren land. In the very far distance, there were some short, red-brown colored mountains that looked even more barren than the desert on which he walked.

Aryman continued to walk till the mid-morning sun started to burn his mud-covered skin, and the wound at the bottom of his foot was becoming too bloody. At this time, Aryman found a green salt brush on the bank of a dry stream, and hid in it. He rested in the bush most of the day, until the bright sun floated near the western horizon. He was surprised to notice that he had not thirsted for water all day, and this thought made him thirsty.

CHAPTER 16

Fate

His vision was becoming blurred and he had difficulty focusing. The pain in his body was no longer relevant to him. He fell down numerous times, scraping himself each time on the gravel of the desert pavement. Yet he moved ahead intently, rejoicing in the fact that it would soon be all over.

Suddenly something struck his back and he fell down helplessly. He rolled onto his back and saw six people standing over him. He laughed and said lifelessly, “Just...leave my bones...on top of the rocks....”

A man with no facial hair except a thin goatee picked him up, threw him over his shoulder, and proceeded to carry him away. Aryman relaxed his body and soon lost consciousness.

When he opened his eyes he found himself resting in the shade. The black man standing next to his head called out, “He’s awake.”

Soon the other five also arrived and encircled him. The bald man who had a long black and white beard brought forth a pouch made of animal hide, and presented it to him: “Have some water,” he said. Aryman began to drink insatiably, and no sooner had he done so, the man took the container away and said, “Whoa! Easy there! This stuff isn’t easy to come by around here.”

Aryman looked at the men and asked, “So, what are you doing here?”

One of the men responded, “What are you doing here?”

“Oh,” he said calmly, “I blew up the upper stories of the First World Bank Tower.” Noticing the smiles on his companion’s faces, he added, “When it was full of cops and CEU agents.”

The black man responded, “You’re full of shit. If you’re trying to impress us you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Why would I want to impress you?” asked Aryman with chapped and bloodied lips as he squinted up at him, “for all I know you were going to eat me.”

“What makes you think we won’t?” asked another.

“Wouldn’t you have already done that, if you were gonna do so?”

“The barbarians in the flat lands would have. We like to make sure what we eat is clean.”

“Really?” asked Aryman, “in that case I have AIDS. And syphilis.”

A few of them laughed, but another said, “Oh, in that case we’ll have to chop you up, smoke you, and dry you in the sun.”

Aryman couldn’t tell if he was serious or jesting, and his expression changed. “How long have you all been here?” he asked.

“Time doesn’t exist around here,” said one of them.

“Oh, so you haven’t heard of the newest strain of AIDS? It’s become air-borne.” Then he uttered several coughs, blowing a lot of air out of his lungs.

The man quickly jumped out of the way; while the two who had laughed before, laughed again. “I like this guy!” said one of them. Having heard this, Aryman also uttered a small laugh and said, “So what did you all do?”

The man with the thin goatee replied, “What is your name?”

“Aryman.”

“Where’re you from?”

Aryman had more difficulty answering this question, “Do you mean the city?”

“Yeah, what else?”

“L.A.”

“Hey! I’m from L.A. too!” he exclaimed, “and so is Timmy over there.”

“Hey Timmy.” Aryman greeted Timmy, and Timmy nodded back.

“I’m Jesus,” said the man with the goatee.

“Hey Jesus,” said Aryman, but with a “J” sound.

Jesus smiled and introduced the others, “That’s Alberto, Manee, Tyrone, and the bald one is Ash.” Aryman greeted them and they greeted him back.

“Yeah,” continued Jesus, “I was caught with fifteen tons of marijuana. You smoke marijuana?”

“Got some?” asked Aryman; and Jesus pointed to the corner where a dozen marijuana plants flourished. Aryman smiled back happily, “I think I’m going to like this place. You don’t happen to have any beer, do you?”

“Not yet,” said Tyrone, “but we’re working on it. So what’d you do for real, man?”

“I blew up the First World Bank Tower. Took out the CEO, vice pres., a dozen other such assholes, tons of cops, CEU assholes.... The whole works!”

“Cool,” said Ash.

“What did you do?” asked Aryman from Ash.

“Oh, nothing. Just some computer shit. Nothing as spectacular as yours....”

“I shot a Korean as I was running out of a liquor store,” Manee confessed.

“I was just fuckin’ around with a four-gage shotgun and knocked a news helicopter out of the air,” said Timmy.

“Really? How far up was it?” asked Aryman.

“Pretty far. I thought I was shooting pellets, but there was a slug in there.” Upon hearing this they all laughed.

“I was driving drunk and ran over two pedestrians,” admitted Tyrone.

“Life in Crimonia for that? Don’t they give you six months for something like that?” inquired Aryman.

“Not if you run; and then ram cop cars, and cripple cops,” explained Tyrone.

“Tell him what you’re here for,” said Jesus to Alberto. But Alberto was shy and didn’t speak good English so Jesus told his story: “Alberto jumped the fence at the border and made it all the way past San Diego. He stole a car, cause he got tired of walking, but didn’t know about the checkpoint. So when they went to stop him, he ran, letting the cops on a 130 mile chase clear into L.A. He finally ran out of gas and the cops pulled him out of the car and started to beat him. So he grabbed one of their tazer guns and shot another one of them in the throat. The cop ended up dead. Alberto was shot fourteen times, but he lived anyway. Show him your wounds, Alberto.”

But Alberto just nodded shyly and smiled. “Better to be here than to be a fuckin slave in Mexico, huh Alberto?” asked Jesus. Alberto just smiled and nodded.

CHAPTER 19

Coincidence or Mystical Phenomena?

Aryman’s eyes sparkled, because the last word which Ash had said gave him an idea; but soon that simple idea reverberated in his mind until a sudden inescapable realization grasped his soul: suddenly he saw his entire past, present and future crystallize into an inescapable purpose: he beheld his destiny.

As if possessed by an electrifying force, he said to Ash: “You know Ash, you I consider a friend, and I have a great deal of respect for you. So let me ask you this: How would you like to be one of the major causes in the most dramatic event in the history of man on this planet?”

Ash chuckled and said, “Sounds serious. Be right back.” He walked off toward the campfire and came back with a pipe made of hollowed rabbit’s thighbone in one hand, and a burning stick in his other hand. “Let’s smoke a little and meditate on it.” Having said this, he applied the burning stick to the green plant and then passed the pipe to Aryman.

Aryman smiled, smoked, exhaled and said, “You agree that we only live once, right?”

“I used too. But I’m no longer sure. Too many strange things happen in too many strange ways for me to be sure of anything anymore. I mean, think about it: What are the odds of anything happening the way it does? For example, take anything, this plant we’re smoking. What are the odds of this plant possessing a chemical nearly identical to a chemical found in the human brain, man discovering and cultivating this plant, Jesus moving tons of it and being caught. Me being caught. You being caught. All of us ending up here in this place and this time.... I mean, the food Jesus’ parents ate before he was conceived may have had an affect on this moment. How his parents, and your parents, and my parents met and fell in love is certainly a necessary factor for us being here. And how their parents, and indeed all of our ancestors meeting and begetting each other are all necessary conditions for us being here, smoking this pipe.”

Ash continued, “Like, what if my great grandfather decided to go to school in Idaho instead of Texas? He wouldn’t have met my grandmother, and this particular instant would not be occurring. When you really think about it, everything in the universe, including the collapse of the gaseous nebula that formed the sun, earth and the moon had to occur exactly the way they did for us to be here to smoke this pipe! Heck, even the potatoes from Peru, which helped cultivate the Industrial Revolution in Europe, are a factor in making this particular instant possible!

“So, given the infinite number of alternatives which could have happened, the odds of any event occurring is zero, yet obviously--or apparently, I should say--every event which we perceive is occurring!”

Aryman exhaled his fourth lung-full of smoke, and replied, “Wow. That’s deep. But all that you’ve said is that every experience is the end result of infinite causes. But answer my question: do you believe that we’ll only live once?”

“That’s just the thing: Who can say?! If every event has infinite causes, can one be justified in claiming that all--or at least some--events are the result of some intelligent or supra-intelligent will? Maybe somehow the electrical pattern that is manifested in the brain and is actually our consciousness--to take the most radical materialistic view of it--is somehow recorded in space-time and transcends the death of the body. Maybe. Maybe every thought and emotion already exists and it’s the case that when the body--including the brain--attains a certain “window of reception,” the body becomes capable of processing--or perceiving--these eternal thoughts and emotions. So I really don’t know if we live only once. Who can say? Are we our thoughts? Because our thoughts are always changing; and we seem to be the thing that’s having these thoughts! I think.”

Aryman stirred the contents of the pipe, handed it to Ash and said, “Why are you making a simple issue so complex? You sure ramble a lot when you’re high! Let me rephrase: Even if we have lived in the past, and will continue to live forever; even if we are a soul, never beginning and never ending; even if we’ve lived a hundred billion times before and will never cease to be, we have no memory of our past lives. Being that our consciousness is a reverberation of our memories in association with our perceptual mechanisms, whatever we consider ourselves to be depends on our prior experiences, that is, our memory, in conjunction with our perception.

“And if we have no memory of our past lives, then it really makes no difference whether we’ve lived them or not, does it? Who cares if there will be consciousness before or after now? What matters is that we’re conscious here and now: It is this life that should be of supreme importance to us, even if we don’t live only once. Don’t you agree?”

Ash emptied the burned contents of the pipe by tapping it in the palm of his hand and said, “First of all, you’re assuming that we’re identical to our consciousness, and this is a highly debatable assumption: Just like we see through our eyes, hear through our ears, taste through our tongue, and feel through our skin, I think it is the case that we are merely conscious through our consciousness; but we’re not necessarily identical to it. Secondly, it is possible--isn’t it?--that our experiences from our previous lives--if there is such a thing--do have a bearing on who we are today; but, being that we aren’t exclusively our consciousness, these ‘memories’ are not in our conscious awareness.

“But regardless, yes, I do agree that this life should be of supreme importance to us, because it is the only life we know. What’s your point?” asked Ash with relaxed, heavy eyelids.

“So back to my original question: Being that this is your most important life, even if not your only one, how would you like to be a major cause in the most dramatic event in the history of mankind?”

Ash chuckled again and said, “I love getting caught up in delusions of grandeur. Supposing I’d be interested in such a thing, what did you have in mind?”

“Will you tell me how to gain access to those satellites?”

“Sure, but what good is that going to do you? Have you forgotten? You’re in the life section of Crimonia!”

“For now, but not for long!”

“I’m not going to ask you how you think you’re leaving this place, because you’re pretty messed up right now and you’re obviously not thinking clearly.” Ash added sarcastically, “You know, people who take drugs can’t think right. So I’ll ask you this instead: Just what are you planning on doing?”

“Stirring up the mold a little,” answered Aryman while gazing without expression into the darkness of the night. Then he turned and looked at Ash, “I can’t allow myself to believe that the apocalypse promised by so many prophets will occur by the hand of some supernatural being. It will happen by the hands of man himself. You know enough math to know that an exponential growth must eventually collapses toward zero again. And you also know that populations grow exponentially.

“It used to be that disease and famine kept population growth more or less linear. But nowadays, with our medical and genetic engineering technology, and a legal system that doesn’t allow us to die even if we choose too, practically every person who is born lives for over a century. So now population growth is almost perfectly exponential. Yet life is a chaotic phenomenon, and although math can be used to predict trends, in no way can it be used to describe life perfectly. Thus, though an exponential growth may collapse to zero on paper, this cannot happen in actuality: The apocalypse does not mean the end of man, but something else.”

Ash appeared contemplative as Aryman went on. “Like you were saying yourself, isn’t it odd that the moon is such a way that its apparent size is that of the sun? If the odds of anything occurring is zero, and we are that which is in occurrence, then perhaps there is a reason for us to be occurring the way we are. They can theorize about how the moon was formed, but no one knows why it formed. Perhaps there is a reason that we’ve met. Perhaps the time of the apocalypse has come: we’re merely the emissaries.”

Being that Ash was on drugs and not thinking correctly, he could not help but to become overwhelmed by what Aryman said. He made no response and was very contemplative. After a long time, during which he stared up at the stars and the stationary satellites, he finally said with a weak voice, “The moon will not rise for a while. I’m wasted.”

“Go to sleep, and awake to see the sun rise.”

“I will. I’ll be considering your offer.” As he walked into the darkness of the night he chuckled and added, “It’s always the people no one hears about who alter the course of history.”

CHAPTER 24

Religious Experiences

At night time, after the men spent the day gathering cacti, insects, mice, lizards, some eggs, rabbit dung and deer dung, they started a small fire and talked about their day.

A couple of hours walk away, Tyrone had spotted a group of Cripsoids, a notoriously violent band of Hispanics, and warned the rest of the group about them. Jesus had seen a large pond, but it actually turned out to be a mirage. Manee had found eggs and caught four mice--he’d suffered several bites and scratches while digging for the mice. Ash collected firewood and dug the layout for channels that led to a second water well. Aryman collected various types of cacti; and the rest chased rabbits and found lizards.

Aryman sat next to the fire and was carefully examining the branch of a marijuana plant. He, like Ash, was rather thoughtful and neither of the men participated in the small talk of their comrades.

Jesus was in the process of wrapping a few joints; but when he handed one to Timmy, he refused it and said, “No thanks man. That shit’s screwing me all up. I’m hallucinating and shit off that stuff. I’m cutting back.”

“Hallucinating?” repeated Jesus with an excited look in his eyes, “I haven’t hallucinated off this stuff for years!”

“What did you see?” asked Ash.

Jesus was more anxious to answer than Timmy and he blurted out, “It was fuckin trippy, dude!” But Jesus suddenly realized that maybe Ash was talking to Timmy, so he asked, “Who? You asking me?”

“I’m asking both of you.”

Jesus continued, “Fuckin-A! The first time I smoked high grade I stared at myself in the mirror and suddenly I saw myself with three eyes, with one in the center of my forehead; but then the three eyes merged and there was just one giant eye—looking at me! So I stared at the black center of the eye and I saw myself in it. Then I floated out of the blackness and saw myself standing in front of the mirror, and in the center of my chest, right here,” and he pointed to his heart, “I saw a three-D image of myself when I was a baby. Then I watched me grow older and look like the way I did then; and then I saw me grow facial hair and get old and then I saw myself dead, man! I was an old man with long black and white beard, just laying on my back, my beard was swaying in the breeze. Dead. Then the faces started to change and…for like a half hour I saw all these faces flashing and changing in the mirror.”

“Those were probably what you looked like in your past lives,” interjected Aryman.

Jesus quickly continued with excitement: “I saw all kinds of faces. Some looked like they were cowboys, some looked Indian, and some were women: I remember one with braided hair...totally trippy, dude! The most real thing I’ve ever experienced. It was more real than this, man!”

“Shit! The shit you smoked was probably laced, man!” said Manee.

“No dude! I grew it myself! But anyway--the one eye finally spit into two again and I saw myself standing there…. So I stepped outside, and went walking in the back of the house where there was a small stream. And then I was staring at the stream and I saw this dude walking barefoot across this sand-dune. The wind was hitting him from the front, but the blowing sand only came to his waste and his white outfit was glowing. He was wearing white from head to toe: the kind the Arabs wear…. I don’t know man, I guess that’s why I’ve been smoking dope ever since then. It all felt so…holy”

“Sounds like a religious experience to me,” said Aryman, “I sometimes have those without any drugs.”

“So what’d you see, Timmy?” asked Tyron.

Timmy didn’t seem as excited about his experience as Jesus: “I didn’t see nothin like that,” he said. “All I saw was this tall, thick dude with thick, curly black hair and a long burgundy coat walking around.”

Upon hearing this, Aryman’s eyes grew round and for the first time he was speechless.

Timmy said nothing else, and so Jesus asked, “And…?”

“And that’s it. He was just walking around, looking at the ground and then looking around.”

“Did he see you?” asked Aryman. There was a faint trembling in his voice.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Fuck! Did he see or not, man?”

“Fuckin who cares?” replied Timmy, “I don’t believe in religious experiences and past lives and shit anyway!”

Aryman tried to maintain his composure, “That’s cool, man. I really don’t either. I’m just trying to figure out what freaked you out so much that you’d refuse smoking such great stuff,” he said while shaking the burning joint in the air; “Did he talk to you or look at you or anything? Anything scary?”

“No, I was laying on my stomach, behind a rock. I was so fucked up on that shit that I couldn’t stand straight!”

“Damn!” said Aryman with a forced laugh, “So where were you?”

“Over there,” he pointed south, “about ten, fifteen, washes away.”

Nobody else thought anything of it; and Aryman shook his head from side to side and, with good humor, he said, “See what drugs do to you? See where drugs get you?”

Then Ash finally stood up and said, “I’m going out for a walk.”

“I’ll join you,” suggested Aryman, “if it’s OK.”

Ash did not answer but nodded in affirmation. The two men walked out a little ways, away from the camp fire, and after obtaining the perspective which they enjoyed while looking into space, Aryman finally broke the silence: “I’ve got an idea which will make things easier on you.”

“What is it?”

“Remember when you said that if there was a way out of here you would have figured it out?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s make a little wager: If I figure a way out of this place, and you can’t, you give me the code which allows access to the satellites. Of course, if you wish, you may come out with me....”

“Nah,” responded Ash, “I feel at home here. I really have no desire to go back into any city. Besides, there’s no way to escape from this place. But I like the idea of you challenging me to a battle of wits. So what if you couldn’t find a way out? What will I get?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it, because it’s not an issue.” Then Aryman added matter-of-factly, “I’m getting out of here. I have no choice about it anymore: I have to get out.” There was still a little trembling in his voice.

“What are you talking about, man?” ask Ash: he had noticed the anxiety in Aryman’s voice.

“That guy Timmy saw is no hallucination: He’s come to kill me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?! I always suspected you were psychotic…you ever been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic?”

“I may be psychotic—but I ain’t no schitzo! I’m telling you the truth: This guy’s already tried to kill me twice: he blew up the entire wing of the courthouse and shot down a helicopter that was going to deliver me here….”

Ash gave him a confused frown, and then his face grew light and he started to laugh: “Shit! Always fucking with me!” he said. “That was a good one, you had me going there for a while….”

“I am not fucking with you!” Aryman said very seriously, then he stuck out the palm of his left hand and exposed a flat, brown mole in the center of his palm and said, “Harkeh dau-rad kkaul-eh dast, on neshaun-eh doalat ast. They’ve been after me since before the time of my birth!”

Ash grasped his head with both hands and shut his eyes tightly for a moment. Then he opened them again and, with his hands still on his head, he said, “What the hell does that mean? What….” He was speechless.

“It means, ‘He who has the mole on the hand, that’s the sign of the power.’ An ancient prophesy. And before I was born two Russian gypsies came to my house and told my mother that if she fed them, they’d tell her fortune. So she fed them and they told her that she would have a son who would one day alter the history of man. But my mother thought nothing of it because she didn’t even know that she was pregnant with me. And when I was little I remember us moving around a lot—but I never understood why. Now I understand.

“And so I’m telling you: what Timmy saw was no hallucination: his name is RouAllah, and he won’t relent till I’m dead.”

“We’ll all ambush him and take him out,” suggested Ash.

“I don’t think so! Don’t even think about it! He took out half a military base before knocking the helicopter I was in out of the air…. He’s bad news. So don’t even think about it. There’s no doubt that he’s going to find us soon: and by that time I’ll be gone.

“Just promise me this: when he comes, try to help him and you’ll all be OK. Just tell him the truth about me and tell him exactly what you know. Don’t fuck with him in any way or you’ll all be dead….”

“Fuck…I can’t….”

“Hey man! I’m not kidding! Just listen to me: stay calm, be polite and cooperative, and everything will work out fine. Wasn’t it you who was telling me that maybe everything is determined to be the way it is? Well, this is how it is. Don’t stand in its way or you’ll get trampled. Just remain calm and roll with the punches….”

“Remain calm?!”

“Yeah. There’s nothing else you can do.”

“Shit!” said Ash, still not certain whether Aryman was leading him on or not. “So how the hell did this guy get into this place, anyway?”

“I have no idea: but if he got in, I can get out. I’ve already thought of a way. Is our little wager still on?”

Ash was hesitant. It was all happening so quickly and unexpectedly, “Yeah, I guess….”

CHAPTER 38

A Dirt Road

In a few weeks, shortly after sunrise, he rode across the border of Colorado and entered into northern New Mexico.

As his wounds quickly healed, he learned a great deal about his new possessions: He learned that his computer was equipped with a solar powered cell, and that batteries were not required to operate the machine. He learned that his bicycle possessed a generator that could recharge almost any sort of battery.

As he peddled up a steep mountainous dirt road, although it was still summer, he soon found himself riding on ice and snow. He came to a halt and, as he turned the airflow tube that inflated plastic ice spikes on the tires, he suddenly remembered one of the nights in the life section of Crimonia when out-of-the-blue, and for no reason at all, Ash had told them that fifty percent of the water in the earth’s atmosphere was located below 6500 feet. He had hardly known the man, yet he found himself missing him.

Thinking about his past, and being enchanted by his surroundings, he did not notice himself struggling to reach the pass. Suddenly, as he went over a hump, he saw an endless view of desert and mountains beneath him, with magnificent bright white clouds that stretched up into the endless blue envelope that embraced everything around him. When he looked behind him, he saw a tiny bright sun in a vast blue sky that made the snow covered peaks look like abscesses on the skin of this piece of dust which they called earth.

He stopped and sat down to meditate, and suddenly an understanding pierced its way through him: “Hey!” he thought to himself, “My God! I’ve been walking on a road all my life! Roads lead somewhere!” He stood up, collapsed his bike down, held his briefcase in his other hand, got off the road and started to walk down the side of the mountain.

He walked until it became too dark to see, and then he slept. The next morning he awoke and continued to walk through the wilderness. In a few days he came across a beautiful river which wound its way through a forested canyon. He used the Hell Climber’s Global Positioning System to locate himself, and learned that he was next to the Vermejo River, about ten miles away from the Colorado border.

The turbulent water flowed over rocks and gravel; and Aryman could not help but become mesmerized by its power and magnificence. He walked up stream for a half a day until he came across a small meadow where the water flowed like glass through spacious surroundings.

He set up a semi-permanent camp by collecting large pieces of driftwood and arranging them into a teepee near some pine trees. He faced the door of the teepee northeast to catch a view of the river and to avoid the sun; and covered the top of the doweling with branches from pine and other sorts of trees in order to weather proof and camouflage it.

The next day, he constructed a few animal traps out of tree branches and twine. He made a stone tipped spear and a stone ax.

He took the wheels off the Hell Climber, took out the yarn of high strength wire which came equipped with the bike from beneath the seat, attached it to a pulley in the center of the bike, and shifted the gear-knob into pulley mode. He then tied the other end of the wire to a stick and threw it over a branch. After he attached the other end of the wire to the Hell Climber, he climbed on the bike and peddled with relative ease and pulled himself up a forty-foot tree.

Two days later, while feeling the weather change in the comfort of his tree hut, he leaned against a wall of the hut and stared at the stream which wound its way down from the frosted mountains and beyond.

It was now late September, only a few months since he had blown up the top portion of the First World Bank Tower, yet it seemed like it were lifetimes ago. “What a strange life this has been,” he thought to himself as he sat perched in a tall pine, “It’s been a long time since I played in the streets, among the children, on the other side of this world. A long time since I’ve lived on this side of it. Forever. …And now Life has led me here, of all places, in a tree, to work its actions through this body….” He chuckled to himself a little and continued aloud, “Be gentle with me, O Life!” and under his breath he added, “and I’ll serve you as you see fit.”

Such were his thoughts as he tied a long piece of fishing line to a stick on the one end, a lure to the other end, and cast it into the water below. While waiting for the fish, he started to experiment with his powers.