APOCALYPSE NEXT

Prologue
FOOD FOR THOUGHT


They got me holed up in a smelly shack with a HOTEL EL TORO sign
hangin' over the entrance, "for decompression and debriefing" they
told me. I've been here for three months, and no matter what the
brochures tell you, Santo Puton is not the Central American
Riviera! No one but my 'control' knows who or where I am yet today
I get a package by post. After I've checked the box for 'trips' and
am sure I wont be turned into a 'spot,' I open it. Inside I find
some VHS tapes, files, and 'unapproved independent news articles',
several packs of Silk Cuts and three bottles of Glenfiddich.
Finally, on the very bottom of this 'care package,' I find a note
written in an oddly familiar hand that reads "Cheers mate, enjoy
your vacation. HEH HEH."  

The first tape I watch is a home video of my last mission called
THE PANAMA DECEPTION. It outlines the aftermath of the U.S.
invasion of Panama. I was 'borrowed' for that mission by Uncle 
Sam in order to help bring to justice "that evil thug and close
personal friend of President Bush, Manuel Noriega" (wink wink). The
people who produced this video did a good job of reporting and most
of their conjectures are close to the truth -- I would know -- 
here comes my bit (this is my third viewing). A doctor is being
interviewed about some of the special cases he has dealt with:
groups of civilians crushed under tanks, bodies with no decernable
exterior trauma but with destroyed skeletal structures, (and mine)
corpses found "carbonized" by intense heat. [This may be the scotch
talkin', but my actions don't feel as right at this moment as they
seemed at the time of the mission... but they always have in the
past]. In the final analisys, the tape tells the story of an
invasion of a superpower against a third world country, not to
bring a dictator to justice, but to perform a "shakedown" run of
new American weapons systems, the "Stealth" bomber being the star
of the show but there's more and that's where I come in again. The
military had also been testing with ground based weapons, new troop
tactics and... mutant operatives. Likin' what I hear less and less,
I think I need more to drink.  

The rest of the items in the box play out like a clandestine
retrospective on my life in the shadows. I almost suspect that
someone will walk into my room and hand me an award at any moment.
One more video tape case at the bottom of the box... no tape inside
but a cell phone and a small pendant. Odd little thing, this. Seems
to be made of iron... a hand gripping a bar [iron bar?]. I turn to
the phone next... a slim, compact, featureless thing... flip it
open to find all but one button missing [dial out button, no doubt,
John's invitation to chat]. He can wait... I step out to the
'balcony' of my hotel room;  balcony being the polite term for fire
escape, of which I only have the landing and no ladder. But I do
have a view of Santo Puton Harbor, black at its depths and glossy
on the surface with petroleum waste and other filth. I'm certain
that I could set the harbor on fire with the Silk Cut that's
halfway burned between my lips, if I could spit the two kilometers
down the hill to the harbor, and if it wasn't that these vile rolls
of dung are the only tobacco to be had in my world at present...
I'd spit, oh yes.
  I stay out on the balcony for long past sunset before the still,
humid atmosphere drives me inside and into a cold shower.
Strange...this place is so quiet... the streets, the hotel, all of
it... like I'm the sole inhabitant of a sound stage. Out of the
shower I pour myself another drink and make the call. I don't hear
a ring, just John's voice as soon as I press the dial out button.

"Cheers, Peter old son, I do hope my gifts have brought you some
much needed diversion and comfort."

He tries to make it sound sincere but it only brings out the
laughter behind his voice all the more.

"ARSEHOLE!...Silk Cuts, why the fuckin' 'ell did you send me your
soddin' brand?!"

"Well, Peter, you're already so much like me that I'm just trying
to adjust the details...and the scotch?...I know that went down
smoothly." 

No point in being angry with John, it only gets him off.

"Scotch is always good, John, thank you. So when did you become
such a fan of my work? This is quite the bloody tribute you've put
together for me...tell me, are you the president of my fanclub or
just a member?"

He's quiet for a few seconds before answering... I listen for
sounds of where he may be but hear nothing, no background noise or
his breathing nor even any static fuzz... finally he asks.

"So, Peter...did you learn anything?"

"No, John... nothing new there... nothing I didn't already know."

"Didn't already know... but ever question?"

"Everything in those papers and in those tapes I did knowing all I
needed to know, all that was necessary for me to know. It's my job
to do such things, John and I do wot needs doin'."

Another prolonged silence followed by an exhale and John's voice
again like a warm knife.

"But now the perspective is different and what you know and what
the world is told to believe as truth and what can ultimately be
found to be true are all part of a struggle to drag all of the
shadows into the light... more and more, the human consumer cattle
are finding it hard to swallow what's fed to them as belief, as
faith."

"All the pieces of the puzzle are falling into place and the time
will come when the picture will be complete and then it can't just
be put back into its box, it will have to be deconstructed or put
up for display...and either option will have you back out in the
darkness...in the slaughter...but on which side, Peter?"

I've seen John serious before...fuckin' horribly morose is how he
gets out of bed every morning but this now...his voice...this is
very serious. 

"What is this, why the tone...why all this now, John... just wot do
you fuckin' want from me?"

"I'll tell you ...remember when we first met,Peter?...right after
Newcastle and my whole world had turned to blood and nightmare, 
you came along as part of the "cleanup crew" attached to MI-6's
Paranormal Working Group which would become the prototype for
W.H.O. I was being held for questioning and looking at a liftime 
in a cell or in a lab...or in a black suit following directives
without fail but you saw things differently than your "control",
Stenz...remember him?"

I remember Stenz...wanker.

"That wanker only thought to put me to use or put me away but you
didn't agree so you let me get away and helped me disappear --and
in the process --ruined your career as a legitimate operative and
ended up as you are now...in the shadow world of anonymous death."

"Everyone who dies for me ends up coming back to haunt me...if I
ever loved or mourned them I don't care really, I just want them
gone...dead gits!...but you, Peter are where you are now for
helping me all those years ago and I'd rather you not end up
joining my collection of dead hecklers because you did the decent
thing once."

I see what it's all about now, I've somehow become the key to
John's latest scheme to defraud the government or God and Satan
both...he's bet my soul on a hand of poker with Allah.

"What do you want from me, then ...do you want me to stop wot 
I do?"

"No, old son, that's not what I want, I woudn't try to ask you to
stop doing something you're not ready to do. But I do ask that from
now on you keep your eyes and mind open to what is hapenning in
your world... and keep asking yourself if the Peter Wisdom of today
would have put his life on the line for a dumb young punk who'd
just called hell into the world."

It takes me a bit of time to realize that he is no longer
there...it was such an oddly quiet connection.