"The First Rule of the Tinglev is that you DON'T talk about the Tinglev."
My Greys were unconscious, in lithe clumps on the deck, decked out in their Order Blue tunics and some light armor, sparse weaponry. Flat out.
The lobster-thing burbled again, gasps of phlegmy, annoying sounds. Raspiness and spit were not language, I thought.
"Schpikel bla'a'n plish, spilch'pik spah." ("What the FUCK was he saying, or spitting?" I thought.)
His eyes were pitch black with a bright white, lifeless point-spot, at the end of tiny stalks, and betrayed no emotion, no presence. (Their Grey officers began translating for me.) The three 'liney-guys' kept up their staccato dance, as if they just couldn't keep still. So distracting, like upright-bass strings in a busy symphony, one I couldn't hear.
"...For a minute,
I lost myself.
I lost my self."
Radiohead, and they kick ass during "Karma Police."
"There will be no need for repercussions," the Greys pressed lightly, "but we will require some explanation."
"Because," I had to put this diplomatically, so, a low press, "...I'm human?"
"Splact." (That's what I heard.)
"Precisely." A tight, twin translating echo in my cranium... and the lobster-thing brought both 'claws' together and bowed. Seriously bowed. (I know a bow when I see it...)
"That's a long story," I began, in precise grammar, pressing just a little, nonchalantly returning the bow, "We aren't planning on being here that long."
"Pinsit blamp sprinx."
("XO, help me out here," I privated, "Who or what are the 'liney-guys?' Do you see them on Main?"
Their movements made me exceedingly nervous, alert, on my toes...
"Aye, Klargen, they are 2-dimensional beings. Think of thoughtful Fourier transforms. Consciousness doesn't require 3-D or 4-D Cartesian phase-space - that's a human construct - and they, known as "Wibros" to us, exist only as points, lines, curves, but with definite consciousness, serious intent. They keep moving only to allow you to see them there - it takes a bit of energy, we suspect. No one really knows where they get that energy."
"Thanks, XO," I sniffed, realizing this didn't tell me the one answer I needed. Or wanted.
"Are they dangerous?"
"Disturbed, they can be lethal, Klargen." He pressed a hard intent to be wary. "They can drop to a point and extend."
"So they're a security force, then? Is the lobster in charge?"
"It appears so, I cannot translate that language. He was not here at AMHRF before. They refer to him as 'Durd'n.'"
"Very well, XO."
Well, this could go anywhere, I thought.
"I was abducted, and it escalated from there. Perhaps the Durd'n understands?"
Lobster-guy hissed and spurtled for a second... His shell went from a distinct maroon to an earthen greenish-brown, so quickly it distracted my cones/rods from the Wibros.
"So," I started...
"Sew buttons on socks." Someone pressed at me, I couldn't tell who. Very confusing. Almost felt like her.
"I trust and support my crew. We have been gathering information in standard modes. We are un-aligned. Do as you will."
"Splurt-sis'kap sch'pottal spo'olt gah," the lobster guy burbled, settling into a lime-rind green color for a moment.
He moved towards me, unthreateningly. Darn near in a friendly manner, I mused to myself.
Their Greys did a partial translation, "Perhaps we will have new allies."
My Greys began stirring on the deck, coming back. I felt them awaken. I realized, just then, that all our bodies were now back on a planet proper, one with significant gravity, and I felt the pull, the heaviness. They felt the same, real pull, waking up, wiped.
(They had no memory of anything since they'd exited the Tinglev, they pressed, and an inherent apology...)
"Pren-po! Ninx pat pra 'owt t'sil baht!" I ordered.
(I pressed to them to not handle their weapons.)
"Blinx, Klargen," they privated, "Passive display only."
"Klargen, passive sensors indicate unseen mechanical movements, possible preparations for our repairs," the XO privated, "Counsel caution."
"Aye, XO."
Durd'n kept moving, nearly scraping the immaculate deck with 6-8 crusty, pointed legs, he looked like a squad of green-coated toy soldiers under a tank. (I was laughingly aware that he didn't smell like seafood.) He was 4' tall, roughly. He looked heavy, well-armored, and as his claws dropped to his sides, we all realized he was no threat. I knew he was inordinately wise.
The Wibros dropped to single lines, vibrating slowly, barely there above the deck, wobbling slowly. That was a relief.
Durd'n and I touched foreheads. Human skin to green 'hard-shell.' It was the thing to do, in respect to protocol. I almost felt like hugging him, but I knew that might be too aggressive.
And then I knew, in a rush of thought.
"I'm waiting,
I don't think I can go on.
I'm dying,
My last breath has come and gone.
Pity the man,
Searching in the sky,
Waiting for a sign
From above.
And he never
Caught a glimpse
Of what he's worthy of."
-from Todd Rundgren's awesome 1983 "Drive"
(My patient and serenely methodical Beatrix, greetings/salutations! Hope your recent life has been awesome, delicious, and sweet. Don't be 'bleak.' That's no fun.)
Let's talk about things we shouldn't. (Like we never do that here, dear readers.)
We all have secrets we won't reveal, right?
But we have clues going to them. (And, from them.) And confidantes.
People can sniff those out. They'll find them. Trust me, they'll find them. Let's review the nature of the word 'tenacious,' shall we? Like a hound dog on a new bone, some of that.
Quanta get entangled, it's just the way it is. There's no meaning to it.
Let's discuss the meaning of camouflage, shall we? Hiding in plain sight isn't such a thing if your intent is benign. You can just drive by, be by, live by, or hide by. Depends on your intent.
Yes, I've been trained - or self-trained - for myriad instances of unjustifiable crap.
One Thursday night, at the Quarterback Pub and Eatery, long, long ago, like Summer 1993, I was eating a magnificent sirloin steak I'd prepared for my best customer - myself. I had paid my $2 to have that as my 'shift meal.' (I was a line cook there. The steak cost $2, just what it was, for a shift-meal.)
Next sight/thought: Two gigantic meth-or-coke-addled, unshaven plaid-wearing (non-Scottish) assholes came in, smelling of chainsaw oil and piss-poor attitude.
They sidled up to the bar where I was eating, to my left. Stinky, unenlightened fuck-wits.
I was liking my steak, it was rare as hell, black-peppery perfect. Some mashed potatoes, new beef gravy. Sauteed/deglazed veggies. What a delicious contrast of smells.
My 'red-flags' went off right away with these new patrons. (They almost ruined my meal.)
My bartender buddy looked closely at them, then refused to serve these fuck-ups, because they were clearly intoxicated already, by something. Nerping for something we didn't sell there.
His "No" was met by their overwhelming over-response - they tried to pull him over the bar by his shirt collar - 500+lbs of logger-twits versus 'My Trusted Co-worker' - and I wasn't going to allow that. He'd locked his toes under the cabinet, but they were BIG assholes, (did I mention that?)
So the solution wasn't hard to figure out. Took about 1/2 a second. I reached over, broke their wuss grips, and put them each in a crisp inikio, and dragged both of them to the floor, then I put a bony knee into each of their sacral ganglia, right where it really pissed them off, it ended up. They knew I would break their lower right arms and/or wrists, because I told them that with specific pressure. They started screaming bloody murder because I had some serious 'pain-compliance' going on. They asked for it, right? They drew "First Blood," right?
They really had no idea what would've happened if they escalated it, or - had they tried - what damage would have descended upon them. I, however, knew exactly how far it could go. They wouldn't have liked it, and perhaps thought about how pain medication gets expensive for permanent, chronic damage. I would have it made it difficult for them to ever grasp car keys again, let alone a philosophy-major bartender. If I kept twisting, they couldn't ever even feel their dicks again, at least with their right hands.
That loss of control, and the ensuing frustration, made them madder.
Aikido is nothing compared to kung-fu. Aikido has no 'finish moves.' It is truly defensive, like The Force. It has its worth, but it IS limited.
But, I had three times my weight, two souls, pinned to the stinky bar floor. I hadn't learned how to 'take them out.' There's nothing in aikido for that eventual scenario. They were both, practically, incapacitated. One can't do anything in that pain-compliance mentality, maybe blindly follow orders, nothing more. Pain focuses one's thoughts.
"Call the cops."
They hated that. I told them to 'shut up' and let them know they had to shut up.
So soon they were screaming that they were gonna 'fuck me up and kill me,' and I let them know that THIS new, extra-fun, torsional sheer pain was the answer to their direct threat. I actually enjoyed their helplessness, because they were coke-addled pricks who threatened ALL of us in the bar. I twisted their arms like they were dolls.
Had they kept it up, I would've grabbed and pinned their ankles and messed with their walking skills. I'm not a sadist, but these guys asked for it. "Don't grab my friend/co-worker" is a rule I go with.
Then, after what seemed liked an eternity (30 seconds) of 'my steak getting cold,' our Bar Manager, Dennis, came out from the back room - and slammed a hickory-stick pool cue on the bar - viciously - and they realized they'd lost the whole game. I gave them a little, twisty Parthian shot and let them know I was nothing but pain to them. I was very focused, but ultimately wanted my sirloin.
As they stood up, they swore they'd kill us (employees.) They looked me in the eye, and threatened me directly to my face, so I moved in again, dropped low, now with 'back-up,' and they knew I was gonna REALLY make them feel pain, and they backed off. If they had so much have raised an arm, they would've lost most use of that errant arm. Spirals want to cave in on themselves. I could see breaking their lower arms as easily as I could see cutting my steak. And I wanted my steak warm. It was getting cold.
They cursed all the way out, threatening to come back with firearms.
Dennis said "Go ahead," and eyed them like a crazy bastard. It worked.
Why am I writing this here?
So kung-fu was/is the 'next level.' Starting with wing-chun, specifically. Kung-fu doesn't fuck around. You end fights. You end 'beefs.' You end 'wishes.' You end almost anything, and they don't even want to seek revenge if you fuck them up badly enough... it's just kind of 'in' the ethos of kung-fu.
Those guys are lucky I wasn't THERE yet. They can still have "right-hand girlfriends." Two years later, they'd've been "strangerin'" those pathetically small penises. (And drinking through straws, trying to turn the TV channel in a hospital room, recalling that moment of supreme stupidity. They made the best call, and left, and didn't return. I was on edge for days.)
Heading into New York City in late September, 2001, I remembered my wing-chun. I remembered everything - knife-disarms, pistol-disarms, limb destruction, pain-compliance, 4-part sambrata with sticks, everything.
It was martial law south of Houston Street.
No problem. Only mono-fibrous asbestos and provable conspiracy there.
What the fuck am I typing?
No one knows. Least of all, me. Or, you.
"You do." (A 3 year-old's blatant logic is a subtle killer of lingering doubts.)
"...I know, I know for sure,
Ding dang dong dong ding dang dong ding dang.
(Well) I know, I know it's you,
Ding dang dong dong ding dang dong ding dang."
Red Hot Chili Peppers, kicking ass yet again with "Around the World."
There's some reason his name is "Durd'n." I'll let you know when I figure that out.
I'll figure it all out, eventually.
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