Con, Chapter 9

Floating overhead on a fluffy cotton cloud a Cherub grumbles as his cell phone rings. Putting his pudgy hands into the inner folds of his cloud he produces an iPhone and touches the icon to answer. “Yes, what is it?”

The receiver begins to resound with a computer's second best imitation of a feminine voice (The first being, of course, a high pitched Captain James Tiberius Kirk). “This IS a CALL from GOSPEL POSITIO NING SYS STEM UnIT SIXTY FOUR SEVENTY SIX. Please HELP US locate ONE ONE SIX TWO MEMORY LANE, Cry SLUR Mish uh GAN.”

“I hate this damned job,” the Cherub barks at the automated caller before he hangs up. Coming to a position on all fours, the Cherub clicks into sockets of the cloud and through the whirls of electric mechanical noise begins to sport two ramjet engines that have sprouted from his tiny back. His eyelids buzz as they set themselves permanently closed, but with an opacity for him to see where he is going. Now he's blasting off into speed far above a green Honda Accord.

Unlike many would have you believe, especially if you come from one state below it, Michigan isn't all bad. Outside the grid iron dilapidated Historical fallout known as Detroit, there are beautiful forest ridden enclaves many people can call home. And now, still in a euphoric autonomic game plan Tim drove to his next assignment. He was very thankful for the GPS unit Divinity, Inc. had gone through the hand waving to install in his car.

Now if only it would tell him where a bar was around here...

The metalized gothic tripe of Type-O-Negative dimmed as the female voice (preferably called Sheila) began to direct Tim to do a U-Turn (if legal) and “sorry to suggest this” if it wasn't. Hoping he's not encouragable. Tim, noting that whether it could be turned into a ticket or not, it was a great idea. And with tire squealing, he easily accomplished the feat amidst horn blowing and middle finger popping.

It seems the rainbow he used to glide down has let him off close to his destination. Maybe not being directly dropped off at the residence has something to do with “no shining” zones. Sheila began another command for direction, interrupting the baritone irony of Peter Steel once again. And he merged, turned, and found himself in a Victorian infected throw back called “General Street,” and now he's turned on to a Memory Lane. The structures of the housing quaint and old, populated sparsely among the pines and elms.

In the three car drive of 1162 Memory Lane was a black van, where currently a couple of geeky looking fellows peddled recording equipment from the two opened doors on the back of their vehicle and into the house. Tim parked his Honda at the curb, lowered his stereo and turned off his car. He slowly walked up the side of the van and neared the back, rounding it and peaking a look inside.

“Can I help you,” asked a petite brunette. Her head covered by a ball cap with the words “Trans America Paranormal Society” encircling a 'Space Channel V' logo. Tim had watched Space Channel V on numerous occasions, they were the type of channel to show anything from Tales from the Darkside, to at one point, even MST3K. If you wanted to watch scientifically based fiction, Space Channel V is your best hope.

A few years ago, just like everyone else in the industry, the channel decided to make some inroads into the “reality” tv market. Ghost Trackers was their first experiment, which had since become successful even despite dubious evidence sited by the “scientific” community.

Tim never watched it, and in fact, he even wrote a cease and desist letter. Now that it had really taken off, there were now several more programs in this same genre each with its own distinction. And Tim hates the fact all those program slots were people filled up with a world he never got a break from unless he was high on something. And now he had accidentally been lead to meet them. Oh, joy.

“Hi,” Tim said, as he held out his hand. “I've heard reports of ghost activity and I just love..” Tim imagined his eyes popping out of his sockets; he took a second to try and quit gagging, finally his reflex came under control. “I mean, what to say is, I'm so interested in this stuff...can I watch you guys do it?”

“Well,” said the brunette. “The family is gone at the moment, so I guess no one would ever know...but you'll have to sign the NDA first.” She rounded the front of the van towards the passenger side and removed from it a very large binder. “Here you go.”

Tim took the hefty document into his hands. “What, you just keep all these NDA's with you every time someone signs one?”

The brunette shook her head. “No sir, that is the NDA. The quarter bottom of the last page has a small space for your signature. When you're done reading the rest of the document, all you have to do is sign and date it.” Turning back around she opens up the glovebox and hands Tim a magnify glass. “Its in 3 point font..it was so long, and our company is very green. So we compressed it by making the font small, uses less paper.”

Tim sighed. “Ah, well, I don't have time for this then. I mean, if I was in the woods and needed toilet paper, sure, it'd be of use...but not right now.” Tim began to walk away, back to his car, with binder and magnification glass in hand. Abruptly, he stops. Turns back towards her. “Hey, ever heard of Edgar Cayce, the sleeping prophet?”

She nodded. “Of course, he slept on his school books and learned the information.”

Tim smiled. “Yep, thats the one! I'm the unconscious prophet.” He began to walk back towards her. “By the way, my name's Tim.”

“I'm Janine, nice to meet you. But you really need to read and sign that before I can let you come in with us.” She slammed the truck door shut and began walking towards the front door of the house.

Tim's tone took on a serious one as Janine began to enter the doorway to the house. “Hey, wait, don't you want to know why they call me the unconscious prophet?”

Janine smirked and made a gesture to allow Tim to continue. Tim promptly took the binder upside his head at a high rate of speed, him and the NDA fell to the ground thanks to gravity.

Janine rushed towards his side as the two AV techs saw what had happened and ran out behind her. “Dammit, he didn't even sign it first.”

The taller AV geek stood over Tim, whose lights were positively out. “Well, better get him inside in case he wakes up and tries to sue us.”

Janine shrugged. “Alright, but grab me a pen and help me use his own hand to sign the contract.”

* * *

Tim awoke with one helluva headache. “Ah, man, what did I drink?” He rises up from a couch in an alien living room and suddenly it all came very clear for him. His conscious, though sore, slowly re-fired the axon and dendrites he had previously used and possibly nearly lost when he had decided to take an abrupt nap.

Janine had appeared through the entrance of the living room. “Oh, good, you've come to. Want to help me find some EVPs?”

Tim shrugged, still rubbing his forehead. It didn't do much but re-enforce the fact he now had a sizable bump growing on top his epidermis. “Sounds like fun.”

Janine handed him an Olympus digital pocket recorder and placed his thumb on the record button. “Lets go down into the basement and try to scare us up some otherworldly voices, then.” Janine motioned for Tim to follow, and soon enough they were out of the living room, down a hallway, through a kitchen, and down the creaky wooden stairs into an old cellar. One light bulb hung suspended in mid air via chain, and Janine yanked on it's cotton string to turn it off with a click.

“Alright, I knew you had the hots for me,” Tim quipped.

“Not funny,” Janine said, turning on the light. “Do you even want to be here? This is serious.”

The light bulb sparked and blinked off, a winter chill began to glaze over the cellar's interior. “Jesus!” Tim said. He wasn't one to frighten easily, but generally speaking if the light bulb wasn't a coincidence and the gust of wind was perhaps leading up to a manifestation, this was going to be a long battle. An ethereal being tended never to make this sort of appearance with this much gusto unless it had ample strength in reserve to not worry about it.

Janine reached down to her side and flipped on her video camera's light, she rose it up to look around the room and jumped when she saw a copper skinned man in dreadlocks merely feet from Tim. “Holy crap! Who are you?!” Tim looked to Janine, than to Jesus.

Jesus smiled. “Hey mon, you call?”

Tim slapped his forehead, and screamed as the pain from his bump rippled through his nervous system. “Gah, no, I didn't mean to call you. This plot line isn't even halfway finished!”

“Oh, okay. Sorry mon. Don't be using my name in vain.” Jesus began to walk off away from the light, and then he came back. “Hey Tim?”

Tim still rubbed his smarting head, now getting a bit frustrated. “Yes...what is it?”

Jesus laughed. “Can I borrow your copy of Akira?” He watched Tim wave him off.

Tim wondered how Jesus knew what he owned in his DVD collection, but he thought better of asking. “Yeah, go ahead. Just get out of this chapter, okay?”

Jesus nodded. “You got it mon!” He walked off and away, as a loud growl resounded.

This time, Janine jumped. “Jesu--!”

Tim moved quick to grab her lips to stop her from saying it. “No, no, I already had to deal with this once.”

Janine stomped on his foot and Tim began to hop around “Je—ahh! Dang it, stop it!”

“We should get out of here!” Janine began running towards the stairs, Tim followed her in pursuit, until he heard a voice that he didn't particularly like. He would have ignored it, but it was spittin' fightin' words.

“Tim's a chicken,” said a deep bellow from all points of the cellar.

“What?!” Tim began to move back down the stairs, Janine tried to tug on his t-shirt.

“Uhh..Tim, we need to go.” Janine tried to yank on his shirt a few more times.

“Yeah, Tim, follow her out. You're just a pussy.”

Tim took the few last steps out of consideration and jumped off and on to ground level. “Okay man, if its a fight you want, then it's a fight you get. But if you've not already had a funeral, you're out of luck. I'm all out of black roses.”

Janine began to wonder about Tim's sanity. Just who was he talking to? Tim had dropped the Olympus recorder two steps below her footing, and she leaned over to pick it up. It had been recording the whole time.

By this point, all she could hear was Tim making whooshing noises as he no doubt was trying to swing at nothing. She heard a thump and rushed down to find Tim again unconscious.

“Here we go again...” Janine picked off a Kobra two way radio from her official Ghost Tracker's utility tool belt. “Hey, Shaun and John, Tim's out again. Can you come down to the basement and help me get him back up the stairs?”

* * *

Tim rose from the couch, this time he had not forgot where he was. His head hurt even worse. “Screw this,” Tim said, as he made his way back towards the kitchen, stopping before the cellar door. Way before the cellar door, actually. He opened up the refrigerator to find it devoid of anything fermented, besides some overly ripe leftovers. “Ah!” He slammed the door on the fridge and it rocked a bit with glass jars clinking together on the inside of the hastily slammed door. “I need a drink.” He rounded back out into the main entryway, to find Janine slowly coming down the stairs.

“Tim, are you okay?!” She bounded down the steps faster as he was opening the front door.

“Yeah, I'm fine. I just need a stiff drink or three.” His pace had not lessened.

“Wait,” Janine exclaimed. “We captured some amazing EVPs! You might be psychic, you know, because I didn't hear what you were talking to earlier. When we played the stuff back, we could hear it clear as a bell! It's amazing!”

Fishing out a Winston he lit it and turned back around. “Yeah, amazing. Just freaking amazing. Great. There's an afterlife. Congrats, you've found evidence that no one will believe you for.” He turned back towards his Honda and climbed in, stretching out to get a hold of the keys pressing against his thigh in his jeans. Ignition, and go.

“Sheila,” Tim said, as he rounded out of the burbclave. “Where's the nearest bar?”

Sheila did not respond as quickly as she had before. “I'M SoRRy TIM. OUR SAT ell ITE MUST be ta KING a na—err, MUST be hav ING tro UBLE with ION STORMS?”

Tim sighed as he rolled down his window to ash his cigarette. “Well, this can't be too hard to find, then, the old fashioned way.” He opened up the glovebox to remove an old brick of a cell phone, a DynaTAC8000X. He dialed 4-1-1. “Hey, I'm at 1162 Memory Lane...”

* * *

Within a few miles of General Street sat a shopping strip, and at the far end, was a Buffalo Stop. Decidedly a good place to probably procure booze, Tim thought, as he parked next to a teal van with an outrageous orange bar running the length of its body. He took a look at the oddity before he started towards the front of the fine establishment that was his ultimate destination. The license plate read “Doobie1,” and a Great Dane hung its head outside the cracked opened passenger side window. “Nah, not going there.” He quickly lost interest and found himself into Buffalo Stop proper, a seat at their bar next to a midget in a white robe working on a bottle of Jagermeister.

The little guy was quite lively, as he was also quite well through the bottle. But the bartender was being a good bartender, and looked as if he was paying attention in between washing glasses and saying 'oh, hmm..' “And sure, you may think that just because a cloud doesn't use gas, I have it pretty freakin' easy, but I tell you man, I hate driving. Too many birds.”

Tim cleared his throat. “Hey, sorry to butt in, but can I get one bourbon, one scotch, and one domestic beer?”

The bartender nodded at Tim. “It'll be my pleasure, sir.” His order arrived in short...

Tim didn't waste time downing the first two, and he relished the third in a few long swigs. “Thanks man, needed that.” He stood up from the barstool and reached for his wallet, he picked out his DCU credit card and laid it on the counter. Yeah, Heaven owed him at this point. “And pay for shorty's too.”

The little person looked up. “Sthanks Shman, you reeely don't need ta.”

Tim shrugged. “Eh, its my company card. I don't care.”

The little man looked over to Tim's card as the bartender was handing it back to him. “Nice place, but I've got work to do.”

Suddenly, the little guy got off this stool and bowed at Tim's feet, now sounding much more sober. “Hey, don't tell the boss, okay?!”

Tim looked over to the bartender and made a motion with his hands that indicated the little guy had too much to drink. “Yeah, no problem.”

Out of the bar, back into the car, now back towards Memory Lane.

As Tim pulled up and parked his car, he knew something wasn't quite right. The house's lights were blinking on and off randomly, cabinets and doors alike were slamming and opening, and even the blinds were moving up and down in quick fashion. “Now that is paranormal, no blind works that well.”

He lit another cigarette, and for the first time he wondered whether he was in too deep.

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