Roads In Ruby

Word count = 3565

DEPARTMENT OF LOGISTIC RESEARCH
CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET
Post-MMD Audio Archive #447-A Transcript, Jago Hawking Ph.D (Quarantined)
Project: Roads in Ruby

    This morning the newspaper headline should read, “Celebrated Scientist Slams Into Space Station,” in big fat black bold.  Perhaps a government think-tank on otherworldly matters would surface with a hot-line; anyone with any information should contact them immediately.  But, the front page instead articulates, “Iran To Test Intercontinental Warheads”.  A man rocketing into a space station orbiting Earth, to the common person, is far to abstruse; it is far too fantastic, far too impossible.  Therefore, the incident will not be spoken of.  Weaponized atoms are much easier for the collective world to wrap their minds around.  There is sense to it, a budding concept fabricated to allow for a wide open cornucopia of debate.  It is merely a lie without lying.  “It is important to find something to hate, something to distract us.  We must keep our minds moving like a bucket of eels,” Benjamin would say. 
    The truth is, that celebrated scientist was a close friend of mine.  His full name is Benjamin Joseph Goodall.  On January 9th, 2012, I threw him off of the Earth.
    I wonder, how do you tell civilized nations that when they look at the constellations they’re looking at a mirage?  Do you simply say, “Hey everyone space is fake.”  Maybe from the presidential press box an arrogant man in a suit and tie might utter, “Good morning United States of America, today we’d like to get you up to speed about space.  Recent studies now show the universe is mathematically an optical illusion.  My friend here, Jago Hawking, will fill you in with the details.”  Still, the arrogant man would be lying.  There isn’t anything “mathematical” about it.  How do you reveal to billions of people the Earth is, essentially, an organic machine?  The easy explanation is...

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Rebirth (distortion, 17 seconds) … mechanized (distortion 1 minute 14 seconds) … baseline time-space (distortion 14 seconds) … quantum travel loopback (distortion 47 minutes)

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    ...pretending to study the peculiar humming noises in Taos New Mexico.  Benjamin was an admitted skeptic, as it were.  However, the allure of Taos Hum wouldn’t let him go.  I will concede the difficulty in concealing from him the true nature of the Hum.  What he called low frequency, slow movement warble, we called purging of souls.  Eventually Benjamin’s experiments with sarsaparilla plants took hold of him as well.  Benjamin’s later eulogy will be filled with adoration of his work in quantum physics and his magnanimous love for family.  Most will never uncover his clandestine experiments with hallucinogens.  I attribute his correlation of the mysterious Taos humming to god to the liquid sarsaparilla formulas in his finger-flicked syringes.  His family could not and would not ever understand the doctrine that came of these experiments and god-speaking interdependence.
    Even a man as intelligent as Benjamin can instigate the insanity within himself; elicit drugs, administer, repeat.  His eventual trajectory was to deliver god’s message to who would listen and flock.  Perplexedly I became fascinated with his community.  I would joke with Benjamin about how the acronym for his congregation essentially stood for a German luxury sedan, Blessed is the Masquerading Whisper, or BMW.  I couldn’t help but chuckle whenever a 3-Series pulled aside us at a red traffic light.  I would look at Benjamin and cynically assert, “Children of the Hum.”  He would then put his hands together in a double fist, stick his lips against his two parallel thumbnails and confide in them, “Blessed is the masquerading whisper.”  My “punch-bug game” was his “humbling devotion”. 
    For the uninitiated this might be all to confusing.  When a person hears this humming, whether it be in Woodland England, Kokomo, Indiana or here in Taos an infatuated revolution generally occurs.  When a person hears this humming while on synthetic narcotics this could, and in Benjamin’s case did, drive a person mad.  One perhaps could conclude a god were speaking to them. 
    My knowledge of this humming noise eventually began to incompletely bleed out of my disposition in small, unintentional spasms .  It is that the cache of strength I had mustered to keep this knowledge private began to fizzle ever more empty during each midnight BMW sermon.  I knew what it was.  Some members conspired that I indeed knew what it was and I kept secrets about the true purpose hidden between Benjamin and I.  Their want to understand the Hum and tear a fissure into my cursory defense was as devout as my interest in their mutual search.  Their faith in intangible audibles to be larger than themselves, however true, was completely enchanting.  So enchanting I delved much too deep.  My job is to simply observe and report.  This I did not do.
    There are specific sermons which are surgically prepared for and certain sacrifices are reserved for these occasions.  It was well known the Hum was at its most powerful, when...

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180 degrees, from orbital (distortion 1 minute 17 seconds) … lunar spikes during terrestrial scheduled soul purge, incidentally (distortion 17 seconds) … too much energy could cause volcanic paroxysms (distortion 4 minutes) … in turn, Benjamin’s community believed the Hum was at its clearest, most elegant pontification during a full moon.  (distortion 7 minutes)

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    Upon completion of the lunar month preparation for the next hopeful journey must begin.  Each full moon represents a specific sacrifice required to appease the Hum’s carnivorous lust for blood.  Day one requires members fast in meditation of one’s personal shortcomings.  Day two requires glutinous feasting as an act of mediation within the belly of world transgressions; they are to think upon corruption and greed and fervent consumption.  Day three requires personal penance by way of whipping one’s bare skin in repentance of human naivety and imperfections and sin.  Day four requires pursuit of a sacrifice in repentance of continued human malice.  Astride the pinnacle of the moon’s arch across the sky the inquisitors of BMW presume to bequeath their plunder to the Hum.
    The Cold Moon of 2011 was of significant dilemma for the BMW constituency.  The Hum craved the frozen corpse of a crack addict from Seattle, by the name of Kurt Conaway, chopped in exactly seven pieces.  When Mr. Conaway’s head, stuck firmly at the apex of Benjamin’s staff, met the gaze of the Cold Moon, apparently, the Hum was not satisfied and therefore did not speak to Benjamin and his brotherhood.  Benjamin was quite distraught on this night. 
    Aside from the eloquent chantings of his community, no hum could be gleaned; no glorious message filled their ears.  Therefore, in a fit of desperation, Benjamin instructed three of his community members to retrieve the queue of the frozen bodies that were plastic wrapped in a storm shelter-turned-meat-locker not 100 yards from the sermon setting.  These bodies were in harbor to be employed in later divine moons.  While the ambient moon-glow burst down against his chanting followers, Benjamin exchanged corpse after corpse from the stone altar, hoping for his murmuring message.  As the dusk went onto bear morning no message was received and it was believed to Benjamin he had too much sin in his soul. 
    I know this to be false.  A soul is a soul.  Each allows for an approximate range of energy.  There was indeed a slight hum on this night, they merely could not hear it.  If I can be a bit facetious, it was quite comical the way his followers raced to the shelter, empty wheelbarrow in tow, and hurriedly back with the same wheelbarrow full of pieces of whoever bouncing around.  At the end of it all, and because of the capricious way Benjamin interchanged pieces and parts, a pile of arms, legs, and torsos lay beneath the thawed, stale faces of those who long succumbed to rigormortis; a tossed cannibal salad if you will.  A complete mix of limbs gave Benjamin even more pause, “What am I supposed to do with this mess?”
    The first full moon of the Gregorian calendar to Benjamin’s hum following coterie is known to be the Wolf Moon.  The sacrifice for the Wolf Moon is to be one of enlightenment.  On account of twelve instances of full moons, to open the year befittingly there must be twelve individuals who will be enlisted in an appeal for the Hum’s grace.  This is what the Hum had spoke to Benjamin on numerous occasions as he would declare.  He once ministered to me, “Jago, it must seem overbearing for you our benevolent god will only broadcast our missions into my ears, but you mustn't sorrow my brother, god has a path for you as well.”  I generally would respond by putting my fists together and kissing my parallel thumbs, as Benjamin had taught me.  I would speak to my thumbs, “Blessed is the Masquerading Whisper,” just loud enough so that he would hear me.
Following the Cold Moon of 2011 and the days of preparation, or as BMW entitled The Foundational Course, Benjamin and I began to make way to twelve separate locations in search of twelve victims.  Benjamin saw them as conspicuous totems of something much larger than he.  He denoted them as The Beautified Twelve.  I let it be at that.
    We began onward north on Interstate 25 from Taos to Denver.  We shared a bag of peppered jerky, drank soda, and smoked numerous cigarettes while he explained to me the importance of these “beautified” twelve individuals.  He would say to me, “Jago, you do recognize God requires us to voluntarily surrender to his will?”
I would nod accordingly.
    “There are evils in this world that verily must be dealt with.  The greed of Wall Street bankers, the rapacious aphrodisia of whores, the fictitious altruism of Christian prophets, all these miscreants are but filth in the eyes of our one true redeemer.” 
I would nod accordingly as we recoiled from highway divots, thumping around inside our transport, a yellow, rusty, shaved-ice truck.  Though it became increasingly burdensome to keep from Benjamin the humming he sometimes heard was occasionally simple otoacoustic emissions, his own ears playing tricks, out of pity, I made no such assertion.
    When we arrived in Denver we made camp in a cheesy double-bed at the Grassland Inn near Colfax Avenue.  We ate steak sandwiches at a diner and prayed diligently beneath a small settling of Ponderosa Pines.  When sun became cut in half by the horizon it was time to hunt, Benjamin dramatically exclaimed, “And now we should be off to satisfy our lord!” 
    This was the first time I had the fortune of experiencing the hunt for the twelve, therefore, in a peculiar fashion I felt a bit of frenzy in my disposition.  I soon discovered Denver was not an arbitrary hunting ground.  BMW apparently extended farther than the perimeter of Taos New Mexico as, instead of beginning down Colfax, we found ourselves parking in the driveway of a beige ranch style home just moments adjacent to Colfax.  This was the home of Thomas Bohr Jr., a fellow brother.  After a few moments of fellowship with Mr. Bohr, a cup of Korean Insam Cha and a plate of unleavened bread, he adorned us his crimson 1959 Seville and a folded piece of paper to Benjamin. 
    Mr. Bohr asserted to Benjamin, “He must be punished brother Benjamin, for his iniquities.”  Mr. Bohr and Benjamin made double fists and thrust them together.  In synchronized worship they uttered to their parallel thumbnails, “Blessed is the masquerading whisper.”  Benjamin intimately put his hand on Mr. Bohr’s shoulder and leaned into his ear saying, “It shall be done my student.”  We took our leave and began upon Colfax Avenue in Mr. Bohr’s crimson Cadillac to search for the man on the paper.
    It was explained to me during the short car ride we were looking for Mr. Thomas Bohr Senior.  Some years ago it was found the senior Mr. Bohr was observed by then Mrs. Victoria Bohr to be abusing Mr. Bohr Jr. in their walk-in closet.  After some years in prison Mr. Thomas Bohr Sr. was then left to promenade neighborhoods that would have him so as long as he kept a distance from grade schools and endured deserved physical torment during his door-to-door visits.  Thomas was again found in gambit to abuse an additional young person thereby repeating the imprisonment, promenading, and enduring.  Soon, Mr. Bohr Sr. would capitulate to a hidden love for black tar heroin, a love, until more recently, he was oblivious.  Fortuitously, Mr. Bohr Sr. eventually was to make his way to Colfax Avenue where his son began a life as an electrical engineer close by.  When Mr. Bohr Junior viewed upon Mr. Bohr Senior high on psychedelics up against a dumpster he notified Benjamin of what had transpired.
    Mr. Bohr Senior was easily lured into traveling with us by way of free hits of heroin and use of a clean needle.  Benjamin assured Thomas that we indeed were messengers of his son who had forgiven him and we were to bring Thomas to his son in haste.  However, we took Thomas to the Ponderosa pines where we previously had prayed and began to prey upon him.  Benjamin did not give Thomas a needle full of heroin but instead a heavy dose of his experimental sarsaparilla concoction he developed during his studies of the Hum.
    “You have sinned greatly Mr. Thomas Bohr Senior,” Benjamin declared as he jettisoned his index finger toward a delirious Thomas.  “You must be cleansed of what you have done and what you have become.  You are nothing but squalid trash.  You do not deserve the grace of my lord.”
Regrettably for Mr. Bohr Senior, he was in no predicament to protest against Benjamin’s accusations.  To secure his hands and feet we used a length of flexible razor wire, which, indubitably is more burdensome than I had presumed.  We attached his wrists to his feet as well and he lay there in a prayer position with a length of rope secured around the wire on his ankles to one of the sturdier Ponderosa pine tree branches.  The purpose of the black garbage bag duct taped to his neck is to capture Mr. Bohr’s blood as it escapes his body.  The order of manifest was to secure Mr. Bohr, minister to him, pull back some of the tape attached to the garbage bag, slit his throat, hurry to refasten the garbage bag, and rope-lift him into the air.
    And this is exactly what transpired.  After Benjamin ministered to Mr. Bohr Senior his final words he grabbed the thick of Mr. Bohr’s hair, exposed his neck, and sliced open his throat.  The cut was quick and wide and for the first time, as I watched Mr. Bohr’s neck-skin separate, I observed the inside of a person’s throat.  The blood discharged hard and abrupt, some hit me in the face; Benjamin yelped that I was to secure the bag over the wound in collection of his death.  I did so as Mr. Bohr Senior gargled the last of his breath.  By the time we began upon rope-tugging Mr. Bohr into the air I could see the life of him already fleeted his eyes.  Pertaining to the garbage bag, Benjamin articulated, “We do not stain the soil, Jago, with this putrid man’s blood.”
    In a rather peculiar atypical manner, while Mr. Bohr hung there, the blood from his neck spraying against the inside of the garbage bag, Benjamin queried me, “Do you see it?”
    I appealed as to what it was Benjamin meant by “it”.
    He said to me, “His soul,” took a drag of his cigarette, “watch my mouth.”
    I did.  He blew a nimbus cloud from his pursed lips hard into the drafty night abyss.
    “See how the smoke left my lips?  This is how a soul leaves the body.  Sometimes it might emanate away from a person’s body as the steam would off a fresh pile of dog shit on a cold winter night.  But,” he took another drag; the cigarette vapors spiraled away from the tip of his cigarette, “this time was right on the money.  Now, my friend, we begin the true hunt.”
    At that particular moment, I recognized Benjamin could; perhaps, understand the true nature of the soul.  He was correct in his assertion a soul leaves the body in a plume-like manner.  In fact, a soul…

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            At the apex of the initial actuality (distortion 13 seconds) …

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Post-MMD Audio Archive #447-B Transcript, Jago Hawking Ph.D (Quarantined)
Project: Roads in Ruby

    Each of the Beautified Twelve sat comfortably inside what looked to be akin to an enclosed veal stall.  Inside each stall a reclining, cushioned chair was bolted to the wooden flooring.  All six female and six male individuals sat leather-strapped inside the veal-stall, each facing the sun.  A rectangle was cut from the stall to allow the ambient sun rays into the enclosure.  Each of the Twelve’s upper eyelids were surgically cut off, thereby allowing the light through, piercing deep into each unblinking retina—a total of 24 lids.  What looked to be guinea pig drinking bottle filled with saline extended from the roof of the stall and down toward each individual eyeball to allow for constant moisture. 
    When it was feeding time, Benjamin’s flock were to apply foie gras nutritional methods with a series of tubes and funnels.  I couldn’t say but from the pure odium displayed by Benjamin and his community, I believe I recall a time or two when a BMW member spit and urinated into the funnel thrust down into one of the Twelve’s throat.  As the sun arched across the sky, hydraulic beams swiveled the veal-stalls in followership of the rays.  Benjamin said, “God will blind them for they might become enlightened.”  Indeed.
    “They are not to be allowed to speak in holy tongues,” said Benjamin.  Therefore, he tore out their collective tongues—12 in total.
    “They are not to be allowed to hear of any new lie,” said Benjamin.  Therefore, he cut off their collective earlobes—24 in total.
    On the eve of the Wolf Moon and as dusk began, The Beautified Twelve were transported to the cusp of a massive fire cavern.  The order of manifest was to first dump the Twelve into the pit and allow them to wander around into each other while Benjamin conveys his sermon.  When the Wolf Moon is directly overhead a gasoline truck full of hydrofluoric acid is to waterfall into the cavern creating an in-ground pool of suffering and death and redemption.  If the sacrifice was to the contentment of his lord Benjamin and his people would receive an ambrosial proclamation from the Hum.  This is precisely what took place.
    As the Wolf Moon became engulfed in black highlighted by zodiac animals the Beautified Twelve were released into Benjamin’s inverted tabernacle—think of how racing horses charge forward after the pistol blisters the silence, the gates open, and the commentators howl, “And they’re off!”  Benjamin then began his sermon.  It would be to distressing a task to echo his words verbatim, however, the theme encompassed new beginnings and salvation with a mild tinge of righteous damnation.
    When the hydrofluoric acid began to poor the Twelve began after each other lunging and jumping away from the burn at their collective feet—24 in total.  Their voices reminded me of sheep bellowing in fear of oncoming danger.  It is my hypothesis the moaning and shrieking was a predicted response by Benjamin as much as it was intended.  It did not surprise me, however, the members of BMW were not thwarted by the curdling screams of these individuals as they swam collectively in their own people-death-soup. 
    What did indeed surprise me on this night was the ominous bass buzzing cacophony, apart from the frenetic yelping of the Twelve, that enveloped the twilight air.  It was as though we became cocooned by an imperceptible blast of earth warble.  A person could compare it to a electrical transistor synthesized by a magnificent magnet.  It was as though we were listening to gravity.  Benjamin let out a belch of glee and with delirious tears he spoke, “Oh, the Hum speaks to me Jago, the lord does indeed look upon us favorably.  We are righteous in his eyes!”
    The members of BMW continued their mutual chant without skipping a beat.
    “Do you see Jago?  Do you see the Beautified Twelve?  Their souls are leaving their bodies and melting into the Hum’s grace.”
    It was this very moment I could no longer let this stand.  I believe Benjamin did begin to see the true nature of the Hum on this night.  As he began upon the drifting souls attempting to enter the black hole developing just above Jago’s pit of attrition I let my sudden fear and feelings get the better of me...

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grabbed the back of his shirt and threw him (distortion 1 minute 14 seconds)... a dull machete to sever the heads of the members of (distortion 14 seconds)... became a defector of the project on this night (distortion 15 minutes)... and the worry of potential quarantine

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