Atu Ep.3 (1)
Rube

 

Alpha Terran Unit
episode III
   As I had expected our plan fails almost immediately. We had stood on the beach looking at the gun-metal sky that spanned the heavens while beneath it the heavy black water of the Pacific ocean undulated and I remember feeling angry at how the sky and sea appeared to draw together horizontally in a perfect and infinite line in the far distance – how it was nothing but a lie and a deceit and that in reality there was no end to it and actually it was just going round in a huge circle and came right back to where it started.
   It all began well enough: Once the crew of the Galleon that was anchored offshore spotted Carl and Harlan's massive bonfire on the beach they sent two yawls each manned by two very serious looking rowers over to pick the Five of us up. Harlan and I lifted the huge vat of Harlan's psychoactive Datura Stramonium concoction onto one boat while Bill, Gabby and Carl climbed onto the other boat about 8 meters off to our left.
   The four solemn rowers began pushing out with great heaving strokes towards the waves and the further out to sea we got the rougher it became – the rowers had to time their strokes so that the boats were getting at the tips of the waves just before they started crashing in on themselves.
   We were twenty meters out, rowing up the wall of a wave trying to get to the giant frothy white peak when all in a matter of seconds to our horror we suddenly found that we had to lean forward with our all weight towards the salty dark green sea just to keep the crafts from flipping back then Harlan yelled "The sea is the colour of a Green Turkish Delight but has a taste of sweaty fish" or something to that effect – I think that was his first attempt at a nautical observation – and when we were almost vertical and hanging on with our fingernails, squinting our salt-rinsed eyes against the whipping mist while our small boats where being shot up that massive translucent Green wave, in a tragic second our vat of Datura Stramonium tumbled down off the back of the boat with an irritating pleasant musicality and fell into the sea behind us with a sound of a single beat, disappearing forever but none of us could do anything because we were all working desperately to avoid being overturned by the wave, and as the four us lunged to the front of the small wretched boat scrambling for things to hold on to Harlan incidentally shoved his hand right up in my crotch to grip onto the wooden-plank seat and in that moment I reflected to myself that sometimes I really did hate life but mercifully in the next second the yawl's rear end shot up and the craft regained its equilibrium – we got to the other side of the wave narrowly escaping the thunderous crash that had no doubt pulled our heavy vat of Datura underwater and was busy disintegrating it by purling and pounding it against the sea floor.
It had taken hours and hours to put that fucking thing together.
   "Godammit Harlan!"
   "Crap!"
   We found comfortable positions again and the rowers resumed rowing silently and in the lull I sank into a depression; now that the core of our plan – the Datura – had been sunk, the whole group and I were trapped in a situation that was a cross-section of mistakes and bad decisions that were at least 50% my fault if God existed and roughly 83% if he didn't, I knew that – 83%.
Worst of all we had left the Terran Unit behind. We had no choice because we all knew what would happen if the crew of the Galleon found out that there was a herd of over 800 prehistorical wild cows grazing peacefully just over the sand dunes: The whole lot of them would be meat, milk, boots and belts. Right the way down to bone meal. No, we couldn't tell them and but couldn't go back either – they'd want to know what we were going back for.
   
   So now I just sit here as we approach the ship. When we finally reach the swaying bow, two by two we climb the rope ladders that they throw down the side and scrape our knuckles on the wood as we reach from rung to rung then once near the top the crew grasp down at us faceless with the blinding black and yellow sun belting down from behind them and what feels like a million strong hands gripping onto our wrists and arms and our clothes and our belts and us up over the portside bow of the boat.
   I notice Gabby is saying 'Thank you very much' a lot but personally I don't find the groping enjoyable at all – probably because they drag and deposit us men on deck like sacks of shit which is what I feel like in this moment while in contrast there is even a small tussle between a few of the larger men to decide which one of them is going to lift Gabby up in his arms then set her gently back down on her feet in a masculine way. She says "Thanks a lot." again. She meant it.
   
   The deck is massive and intimidating and the two giant wooden masts are taller than any tree I have ever seen, methodically bound by rope and tied and knotted and wound around big heavy man-powered iron wheels and reams and reams of rope strech up all around in cross-sections, some starting at one point and shooting up to different places out of view and some tied up to something while the rest of the rope lies in a big fat Brown snake coils curled up in corners and the huge cream wind-weathered thick linen sails blanch the sky above us, huge heavy furrows hanging like grotesque oversized curtains. The wind is barely tickling.

   All of a sudden I realize that a small man is standing in front of us. He has light brown hair, a round face, is about 30 years old and is dressed in a decorated blue uniform jacket with black gold-tasselled shoulder pads and tight white pants with high black leather boots and a big hat holding his hands behind his back. He is a little bit short and so he stands at a little bit of a distance. He doesn't look unfriendly – in fact it feels to me that he's done this before and is familiar with the protocol. I like that.
He asks what our names are and we tell him one by one, Gabby going first and myself last. As I utter the last syllable of my name he says "I am Admiral Leonard Beukes." then asks what we were doing out here and if there was any more of us inland. He seems disinterested and in a rush.
   Leonard explains to us that if we were to stay on the ship we had to be employed.
"There are no free rides on my ship. Even the cat has to pull his weight.”
And with that, we are suddenly 'in work'. It happens so fast that we have no time to object. Carl is given the role of deck-hand while Gabby is chosen to be a personal assistant of the captain – she lied on her C.V big time but they buy it, the mugs - and they think that being a 'towel girl' in the Orient had something to do with importing and exporting textiles. And they couldn't have given Harlan a worse job – he is employed as a cook which means he has to slaughter the animals and prepare the meat by bleeding and skinning the carcasses and dismembering them into pieces of leg, rump, rib, haunch while making sure to save the liver, kidney and other organs like the tongue and the heart for specialty dishes for the Captain and the 'upper management' which is the term Harlan uses to refer to the high-ranking officers – on the first day Harlan has already become a wreck. It was something that I would beable to handle because I had worked in an abattoir in Pasadena for a few years. Harlan is a very sensitive man and a vegetarian on top of that and is showing serious signs of emotional and mental strain.
   
   "Look at it this way, Harlan," I have come down to the kitchen on my break and sit on the table eating some wax-coated cheese with apple slices while consoling him; "At least we're making money now." He stops cubing the hooves for the bullion by throwing the cleaver into the wooden cutting-board and says to me "Are you making any money?" He starts wiping the blood off his hands onto his apron. I shrug and blow out a plume of smoke – he is angry so I try to evade confrontation.
   The cost of living is high. We all go through the same employment agency that pay us $4 a day. We have to pay $25 a week for a bed on the ship and it costs $3 for a meal at breakfast and lunch and $4 at dinnertime - there is no way we can afford to eat each day or pay rent, in fact we are all massively in debt now, in our first week which is paid in arrears anyway. Luckily for us, we canalways grab a few snacks from the kitchen since Harlan works there but more substantially Gabby has found an inspired way to make some extra money off the crew who are all full-timers and get paid more than triple of what we do. I think they got on the books before the credit crunch became a recession, went double-dipped and that guy tried to immoliate himself in Greece.
   "You know," Harlan begins to say while lifting another giant skinned carcass off a hook by hugging it to his body "Hup!" and shuffling over to his work-top, "I'm starting to get the impression that the top management has no interest in-" He lets the corpse drop onto the table heavily THUD "- Has absolutely no interest in helping us further our careers in the Royal Navy Services at all. I mean I haven't received any training whatsoever so far and I-"
   "Harlan, you're a smart guy but you really are naive."
   "Okay okay – don't patronize me Rueben."
   “You're like an idealistic fresh-from-college pseudo-socialist dope smoking hippie." Harlan wipes his hands on his apron again and turns to me directly, "No, see I realize that they are taking advantage of us, I'm just expressing my annoyance at that fact through the technic of a breezy 'conversational' critical observation and implying the solution of a compromise while understanding that both of us already know that it is unrealistic and probably financially unviable for them to do so. We both know that it would be the same for any company or organisation in their position and that if this weren't the case then obviously –"
   "You're like a little child with shitty underwear sucking at mammy's titties," I mime sucking at a giant teat with two hands while kicking my feet like a child as a sit on the table, "look – mammy, mammy, mpt mpt mpt mpt-"
   "Aw don't be such an asshole, I'm not stupid I was just-"
   "Mammy, mammy, I theoretically poopied in my pants, help me wipe it mammy-"
   "FUCK OFF RUEBEN!"
   "Good! Get mad – you guys have to realize that the only kind of person that would 'make it' in a shit-hole rat infested capitalist shit-hole like this would be a-"
"You said shit-hole twice, Rueben"
"-a money-crazed workplace psychopath with the ability to justify whatever self-serving actions and beliefs and he has to commit to no matter how detrimental they are to the people around him in order to further his own standing and-" Just then the door swings open violently - "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?!" Bill burst in wearing his Sub-lieutenant’s uniform holding a gun in each hand – I notice he's wearing an eye-patch as I jump off the table.
"Are those new guns?"
"Nice eye patch."
"WHAT'S ALL THIS JABBERING AND STANDING ABOUT FOR?!"

   Bill had been promoted to warrant officer within a week of serving his first post. I don't know what was said between him and the top-ranking officers but they seemed to be very impressed with him – shit, I was impressed – his C.V was 4 pages long and had pictures in it. I've always known he had done lots of things in his life and that he could be a pretty charismatic guy but the speed with which he flew up the ranks was astounding – after his first promotion and before the first week was over he was promoted again, straight up to Sub-Lieutenant and even now a mere three weeks on there are already rumours of further promotion.
   "Don't try to butter me up sweet-boy," He turns away from us to close the door quietly and delicately – this is revealed to be an especially sinister gesture because after that he turns back on us suddenly and begins advancing towards Harlan, stepping in time to the rhythm of the emphasis in his words, "The top brass have been speaking. They're not happy with a few things. Namely, YOU.” He points at Harlan, “You're SOFT as they come. And SLOW which is a problem – see soft ain’t that big a problem, no, I can harden you up easy BOY – real easy – nothing like hard, repetitive labour to turn those dainty little hands of yours into paws like these see-"
   He lays his guns down on the table and holds his hands up so that Harlan can see his palms,
"See that?" He turns to show them to me and its true – they are massive, the size of bear paws, roughened and streaked with rope-burns, gunpowder stains, countless nicks and tiny callouses and permanently blackened by dirt that had seeped down into the cracks of the skin after a lifetime of fighting, shooting and writing memos. He turns back to Harlan, "But SLOW is a problem because there ain’t nothin’ I can do to fix THAT except BEAT tha slowness outta ya like I would do a horse," He picks up his guns, leans close into Harlan's face and shouts, "DO YOU GIT ME, BOY?"
"Y-yes sir!" Harlan says, wincing.
"Yeah I'll make sure that he does." Before I know what is happening Bill turns and storms upon me like an enormous caped wraith, has knocked the cheese out of my hand and is holding me up with two hands by my shirt – "Hey, easy there B-" I stammer, unable to look into his face out of sheer terror – who is this man? "WHAT DID YOU CALL ME, YOU SPINELESS MAGGOT?!"
"SIR!" I say loudly holding my hands up in surrender and for some reason I become aware of his billowing Black cape brushing against my fingers and note that it is such soft and fine material, and that the devil himself must have the best tailors and a Golden belt-buckle. The next words he speaks in a voice that is not loud but still somehow heavy and powerful and sound as if he was reading them off an ancient stone tablet, "If I was you Rueben, I'd not say anything that would make me want to punish you any more than I already plan to. The only reason that you're not dead already is because then I would have only been able to hear you scream once." I try to meet his eye but can only look at it for a second because it sears into my brain like a black laser flecked with maddened blood veins.
"And another word of advice – Never, EVER, talk to me in that familiar way again." He throws me backwards and I regain my footing for a second but then trip on a big metal hook which is lying on the ground and crash to the floor where to my surprise after a second I receive a powerful boot to the stomach which knocks the wind out of me, effectively paralysing me – I stay there with my eyes closed playing possum and listen to him walk away loudly towards the door where he stops moving for a minute and says "When he gets up tell him to get back up to the deck. I have some work for him." and then he slams the door shut.

   Up on deck I am given my duties: Clean out the toilets, wash the deck, hang off the side of the boat to clean the bows and wash the men’s old soiled clothes by hand. I work all day, toiling endlessly over the mundane and soul-crushing tasks, only occasionally being able to glance up at the horizon where the glorious American shoreline can still be seen in the distance – Leonard never sailed too far away from land so he could poach from our precious Terran Unit who were still too stupid to move, still just waiting for Harlan, Gabby, Bill, Carl and I to return. Only just a sliver of that giant green expanse is visible: that empty world where we had roamed, starving but free, and I can’t fight back a pulsating throb that is working its way up my throat or the hot tears welling up in my eyes at the memories of how it used to be. When the end of the day finally arrives and I am relieved of my duties I make my way down to the lower decks where I can rest.
   Too tired to climb up the ladder to my bunk on top, I flop onto Harlan’s empty bed belly-first, press my face into the pillow and clench my hands into fists underneath it and begin to sob quietly. After a minute of pathetic dribbling I calm down enough to realize that there is something there under the pillow – something hard, flat and square, so I draw my head up, cautiously peer around to see that no one is looking and take the object out from its hiding place. It is a book. It is black and there is nothing written on the cover – curious, I open it and begin reading.



The Project: Horse Chromicles
          By Harlen L. Connie Johnson jr.x



17/05/09: s i
Fuck this ratrace. All these people running around it's so stupid and they are so dumb. I'm not going to be Fuking working by the time I'm 30zI got a plan to get rich in 10 years and be set for life – you know that horsethat. wun the Ascot 5 times called 'Yeats'? The traner is a guy called Aidan O'Brian – but this horse is huge and it's a dEEp felt brown but not that young any more but real musculer and clever as hell – I- mean the Astcot 5 times – you can imagine what the thing looks likex so anyway my freind Nic has got this beautiful filly - a real fuckin 4 firecracker,b I mean this horse loves to shOw off and she's FAST too and reads the line for you you know – like really smart and got a real good temprament – loves to kick off like the flick of a switch and I was thinking that
 if I could get Yeats spermsomehow I could artificialy insiminate Molly– Nics' horse is called Molly – and clone the foal, cryogenerally freeze it's W we(THe SpeRm) WE could sell the sperm to produce generetions of his offspring – it sounds crazybut if you think about it othe only week part of the plan is the sperm. If we could get them then the reset would just fall into place: What would we need? A long wide recepcicle with lubricated lips, female horse sex hormones and 15 minutes acsess to Yeats.If you break it down it doesn't seem that hard. And plane tickets to Island because Adian O'Brian is based in Island. I have an Advantedge - I know horse traners and handlers all over the world - I used to be a traener for a living

and I got contacts all over the worl I know who to talk to who to get close to Yeats I know it.ZX
19/05/09; d

 

 

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