Wednesday, March 9, 2022

In a place far over the rainbow

The Boogaloo is out of sight

In a place far over the rainbow

Everyone’s lost in a lullaby…

Yet another stirring within this lull of some twelve years started with a rip-roaring smash ‘em up demolition derby at Number 47 Gordon Street, Surrey Downs, England. It was generally a quiet suburb of megalomaniacs and stockbrokers, as if there was a difference. And one demented lady.

Exposed like a mutant light globe with one enormous crack through the centre, her fanny hung from the toilet’s ceiling, her nightie providing a flannelette shade. Tighter and tighter the flesh compressed, squeezing through the plasterboard, her cheeks dimpling heavily with an overabundance of cellulite. Her face, pinched within the roof cavity, looked not dissimilar to a death mask. It glowed with the light of the balloon-things attached to every part of her torso and arms. Several festooned her head as if she’d taken to wearing some sort of outrageous laurel.

But then, for a long time, Ruby Jenkins had been given to doing some crazy shit.

And though Ruby was having a decidedly rough end to the day, these balloons laughed with what might have been mistaken as cruel delight.

A fine mist of white plaster-powder cascaded in disturbed swirls to the toilet floor. Her legs thrashed uselessly, surrounded by the agitated daisies of her nightie. A pair of ten-gallon panties scissored violently around her ankles. Stretching and contorting, they worked free to flutter down and drape over the rim of the toilet bowl, with all the grace of having been deliberately placed there.

Diseased by advancing dementia, the clouds of befuddlement had parted and allowed crystal clear thoughts to shine through for the first time in an age. She saw it all: her life past, her life now, and what was to become of her future.

In that moment of merciless clarity, Ruby hollered while her surroundings of some sixty years literally slipped away. Here she had lain beside her lover and best friend and had worked to raise a family of five, three boys and two girls. Her children had long flown the coop. Five years ago her devoted husband, Horrie, had also flown the coop. Snatched by the insidious hand of prostate cancer, he’d been taken from her forever.

Now, it seemed it was Ruby’s turn to do the proverbial flying. Or not so proverbial.

The curtains of dementia pulled tight once more, closing out the last insight into clear thinking.

Her screams echoed dully through the roof cavity, and drifted like ghostly plasma into the starry night.

Amongst the constellations and twinkling, however, there was movement. Not all the stars were still. Some whirled about in packs, like small dogs on the prowl.

Kicking frantically on autopilot, the bare soles of Ruby’s feet and somewhat hairy lower legs were pulled up through the ceiling, gradually and with absolute inevitability.

There was no fairytale ending here.

There was only the darkness in which the Boogaloo cast its deadly strum of 00:01.

* * *

The house was scattered with ruin, its former décor smashed to smithereens. No room had been spared, but the parlor was where the brunt of this mayhem seemed to have been applied. An antiquated telephone sat on a small table next to the couch, its hand-piece swinging on its cord against the floor’s field of flowers.

In the main traffic areas, the design had been worn down to vague representations washed of color, the carpet’s nap trodden down over the decades to its hessian weaving.

Surrounding the hand-piece was an explosion of Royal Doulton slivers and an array of shattered and discarded knick-knacks. From its miniature holes, through which voices of the outside world had travelled since the far distant day of instalment— although with decisively lessening frequency over the past few years—an emptiness stole into the darkness. It nourished the brooding atmosphere, pervading the house’s deepest recesses.

Not a thing stirred.

Then, like a candle burning black, a Royal Doulton cup, having seemingly evaded the destructive swipe of Ruby’s straw broom, suddenly cracked in half. It emitted one final delicate tink into the parlor before falling silent forevermore.

* * *

The balloons pressed suffocatingly around Ruby Jenkins.

Their smooth round bodies squeaked the way balloons rubbed together do. They laughed—unlike any balloon ever did or would ever do—sticking their tiny stretched faces into Ruby’s. She was in a mad, mad circus room of mirrors, and everywhere she looked were tiny eyes and tiny noses and tiny mouths, each drawn in crude stick-figure fashion.

And Ruby Jenkins was heating up. By God, she was on fire.

Her screams snuffled amongst the mad ones attached to her, layer upon layer. For a ninety-year-old who had lost her mind, she still sported a good set of bellows. Her false teeth clattered in the cavity of her mouth like reeds in a wind instrument, the vibration of the mad ones’ smooth bodies like mosquitoes on the wing.

But, as it always was when the mad ones came calling, the fight was wasted effort.

Currently on Black Eternity Flight of No Return, Ruby Jenkins slipped through the terrazzo tiles of her roof, like Casper the Friendly Ghost, and rose higher and higher above the skyline of Surrey Downs, until she was a speck against the constellation of Cancer. Further out in the cosmos, a shooting star streaked across the velvety landscape, parting a hunting pack of star-dogs.

At some point in the flurry and bluster, Ruby stopped screaming herself hoarse and began laughing. This, too, was as it always was when those dinky little bastards from another dimension took a fancy that they couldn’t control. Her false teeth flew out, smacking a mad one square on, creating a tiny puncture in its rubbery skin. It started making a noise, as one might do after a night on raw onion, and Ruby could see its mean little face fold in on itself. Suddenly she got the joke, and starting farting herself, the pressure of laughter building up inside faster than she could release it. Tooting her way through the atmosphere’s upper layers, Ruby was like a rocket with a dodgy power booster.

Laugh? She hadn’t laughed like this since Methuselah was in diapers!

Oops! Did I just wet my panties? Oh, hang about—I’m not wearing any panties!

They had been left behind on the toilet rim in Surrey Downs, where they finally slipped from the rim and bundled up on the large tiles below.

* * *

Something jabbered momentarily through the tiny holes in the phone’s receiver lying on the living room floor.

At the third stroke, the time will be twelve… twelve o-one A.M.…

Beep! Beep! Beep!

It then stopped.

Further along the hallway, standing at one of its doors, was a diminutive creature. It appeared to be a dwarf harlequin, a jester of medieval times, Its body silhouetted in the mutely lit darkness. It wore a three-pinnacled hat, one pointing to either side, another directly atop like an upside-down ice cream cone. At each tip was a tiny bell. On Its feet were ridiculously long shoes, curled at the toes. They too terminated in a bell.

Whatever this creature was, It appeared stunned.

The woman couldn’t be snared in her dream. She was different. Her mind was different. This, of course, It had witnessed before, on countless occasions stretching impossibly far into the past.

With a suddenness of microseconds, It darted into the darkness, Its shoes and hat tinkling as It went, becoming fainter… ever fainter… finally fading altogether…

From its sixty-watt globe, the toilet cast feeble light into the oppressive solidarity of shadows. And besides the steady metronome of a clock somewhere in the house, Number 47 Gordon Street, after some sixty years, became deathly quiet.

* * *

Sometime in the year 2022

One hand turned an unfriendly card.

Though portraying every characteristic of human appearance, the being to whom the hand belonged was alien through and through. And it was here for one purpose: to guide this Earth to its annihilation, just as multiple Earths before it had been guided to theirs by others of his kind.

“Seems I hold all the aces,” one Dark Suit commented brashly to the other four, seated stoically at the table.

Two fluoros burned overhead. The room lacked windows. And on a bad day, it had been fancied that one could actually feel the distant furnace of Earth’s magma core seeping through its walls. This room wasn’t merely underground; it was buried to the fathoms, using what had been the best of their modern technology.

They had been on this Earth for a very long time.

The oldest of the Dark Suits replied in cold, calculating tones, “If I thought you were trying one on me, Jimmy my boy, I would get to thinking that the mission doesn’t need your involvement. Two empty chairs already reside amongst us; it would be a pity if I were forced to make it a third.”

Jim Gillespie, not knowing when to throw his hand, leaned across the table to his poker-playing comrade. “That a threat?”

“Yes, Jimmy my boy, that is a threat.”

Jim Gillespie asked no more questions. He sized the Elder up and hesitated, a darkly sparkling gleam in his eyes, and then sat back in his chair once more. “The sooner this planet’s screwed, the better. Lessens the competition.”

“The storm is on the rise again,” the Elder said again in that calculating tone. “Temperatures are steadily increasing. Disappearances are escalating. Such things may have reasonable explanations which work in our favor. Whilst chronological disturbances have yet to be detected, communication networks globally have begun experiencing interference. This is merely the beginning of a resurgence. We must ensure success—unlike before.”

What these beings didn’t know of Black Eternity couldn’t be corrected. What they knew, no other did. They had been around a bit, and then a bit longer than that.

However—and as often occurs in cases of unrestrained passion—there had been a great many losses amongst the Dark Suits, corresponding with past Earths lost to Black Eternity. But enough had survived throughout the millennia. A band of renegades, their knowledge had gradually accumulated from information communicated back and forth to their supporters on Anphilian 4, but it had been over a decade since this group had last received an update. Seemed they had been playing solitaire, even though the game suggested poker.

Amplified by the proximity to the magma core, attempts to communicate continued unabated nonetheless. Did it matter that they seemed to have been excommunicated, left in the dark, even by those who shared their cause? No.

Stranded, strength came via trust in themselves and each other. Besides, Anphilian 4 had long renounced the Dark Suits’ ambition; this group knew as much. But the cause would never be allowed to die, unlike those in this buried room. They were expendable, as they had always been.

And so, like a captain and his crew on a sinking vessel, this group of happy assholes were all prepared to go down for their glorious—if ultimately ill-conceived—cause.

Jim Gillespie’s breathing had quickened. “The problem should have been eliminated years ago. The likes of Raoul would not have mattered.”

“To what cause?” the Elder asked, his tone winter ice.

This seemed to flummox Jim Gillespie for a moment. “Avoid this… this mess.”

“You have a short memory, Jimmy my boy. So let me remind you, as you seem to need such, due to that dull wit of a brain. We are few amongst an entire race, and quite impotent if discovered. We act only when it serves to strengthen the end result.”

“We should eliminate all possibilities now, not just that fucker Raoul.”

“He was never part of the core group,” another spoke up, flashing a look at the Elder.

“I knew Raoul.” The Elder’s hands remained clasped on the table, his cards lying face-down beneath them. “He possessed all the characteristics to make it into the core. His heart was in the right place.”

“Like the infidel Reynell,” Jim said with unbridled sarcasm. “That may have been so in the beginning.”

The Elder shot him a glare, a disdainful twist to his mouth.

“You just can’t tell who to trust.” Jim was pushing his luck again, feigning remorse. “It’s a pity when it comes to this.”

The Elder continued glaring.

“Raoul must be taken out of the picture—the sooner, the better. And while I’m at it, I can see to the others.”

“You, Jimmy my boy, will do no such thing!” The Elder stood, his body a rigid silhouette amongst the fluoro light. “I strongly suggest you do only what I have ordered.”

Jim rose from his seat, wearing a shit-eating smirk. His teeth gleamed in the light from overhead. He went to leave.

“But…” The Elder’s cold calculating tone was as dire as the approaching storm. “You’ll be accompanied by Raditch.”

“Under the circumstances, I thought I’d be working alone.”

“You know our policy.”

“I’m more than capable of accomplishing this alone.”

“I don’t trust you.”

Jim lost his smirk.

“Raditch, you will oversee this mission,” the Elder said without taking his eyes from Gillespie. “You will do only what I have ordered. Nothing more.”

Deciding whether to advise the Elder how best to fuck himself, Jim Gillespie quietly exited the room, leaving a decidedly malevolent air in his wake.

* * *

Whilst the hour struck 10:00 P.M. across Surrey Downs, England, and madness came to play, such matters went unknown, here or anywhere else.

Some eleven hours earlier, halfway across the world ...

A young boy sizzled along the sidewalk of Chasing Boulevard, California, over the wheels of his Astra-Links, the finest skateboard and the one to own since 2020. He was ‘in the zone’ and blissfully unaware that life as he knew it was protected by the cosmological equivalent of Cling Wrap: It seals in the freshness… keeps consumables fresher for longer… His shoulder-length blonde hair, having turned a light-brown with sweat, agitated against his scalp. He was no longer a kid on wheels, but an eagle effortlessly gliding above the sunbathed network of Corona’s sidewalks.

Though on his way to Leon’s, who lived no more than a hop down Chasing Boulevard, he’d opted for an extremely convoluted route by heading south rather than north.

The nightmare, the same that had plagued him for months, had been successfully relegated to a manageable thread in the usual fabric of life. No biggie. He had a handle on it.

Until next time. No—scrub that thought. There was no room for the blues. Not now.

His feet had left the ground, the eastern sun was bright, and the air sat at 360 C (970 F). It was slightly hotter than usual; but California, in his qualified opinion, was the best place in the world to live.

There was one other ray of brightness: it was ‘Staff Development Day’ at Citrus Hills Elementary. Frankly, Joshua didn’t give a damn about staff development. Except, had anyone bothered asking for his suggestion, he’d have openly confessed that Citrus Hills staff required a lot of development; say—and this was just a guess—once every second day.

Giggling, he stuck his arms out to either side. The air against his body was bliss. His senses were tingling, making him giddy with excitement.

Today was a ‘Joshua Triplow Special,’ and he was determined not to let it slip through his fingers.

Being your typical morning person, he’d wasted not a second in hoisting his legs from under the sheets and getting the day’s proceedings underway. Besides, anything to do with bed just of late struck an unpleasant chord within.

Secretively, because he’d never admit this to his folks, fearing they’d think him utterly loopy, he’d become scared of going to bed. It had started months ago with an odd sensation deep in his stomach, the kind of thing that had made him feel squeamish, yet with little effort had been packaged up and readily discarded. However, this was no common garden-variety McDonald’s wrapper, as it came with festering spite. And it was this spite that’d gradually become harder to remove as the weeks had passed by.

The simple act of saying ‘goodnight’ had become a difficult challenge, one that had built with dark intent. His stomach would begin to churn with a pit of rattlers writhing and hissing on his way upstairs. The nearer he got to his room, the angrier they would become, ready to strike and inject their fangs deep into his flesh or whatever plump and juicy organ might get in their way… often his testicles. They’d begin to ache and go north, despite the rattlers residing there.

Sometimes—not always, but sometimes—the ache would be so bad, he’d perform a self-examination in the bathroom, fearing but not believing for a moment he had the dreaded C.

Having heard all there was to know on the subject of cancer in the schoolyard, he’d arrived at the firm conclusion that any strange lump in the body signalled DEATH. But what scared him the most when forced to self-examine was what he’d do if a lump was found. Would he do the smart thing and tell his folks? Would he wait a while and see if the lump went away? Would he stew in fear but say nothing, because the sheer embarrassment of telling his folks of a lump on one of his balls had the potential to kill him instead?

Joshua shook his head to rid himself of these unpleasantries, muttering, “Joshua, this is your day. Don’t be an asshole.”

He sizzled into Cresta Verde Drive, the little wheels of his Astra-Links biting merrily away at the cement sidewalk. It had a steep descent. At its summit, he took a moment, as he always did, before taking it at breakneck speed for that sensation of total liberation. He was once more yearning that adrenalin rush… wanting to soar even higher against the sky’s sea of blue, sending his tingling nerves to the moon.

Regardless of his addiction, or maybe in honor of it, Joshua Triplow was a sensible boy, perhaps best described as ‘the kid next door.’ Besides having a natural flare for strategies, he wasn’t particularly outstanding at anything. He was no mathematical whiz kid. He didn’t read ten books a day and then recite them verbatim at will. He didn’t play a musical instrument with the genius flare of a modern-day Beethoven—though who the fuck would want to?—while dancing on one leg. Though vulnerable to neither the persuasions nor dissuasions of his peers, he fit in with groups of all ages and was well-liked. If his friends had been asked to recall an incident of him having become involved in a fight, they’d have been left scratching their temples before the inevitable shrug of the shoulders and blank expressions.

His mother, Susan Triplow, however, would’ve confessed—without the hysterics of a mother wishing her son to aspire to higher standards—that he lived in Adidas and New Balance sportswear, while rarely out of his Nike trainers.

Occasionally, she would remark on this. But a remark was all it had ever been. Nothing else.

Standing at Cresta Verde Drive’s summit, crash helmet swinging gently in his right hand in a mild breeze, Joshua prepared for the ride of his life. And, of course, it paid to protect your assets when planning to travel at hyper-speed. Well, at least one of them, anyway.

Joshua shoved the helmet on. He took a few deep breaths, steadied himself, and then kicked off.

What a rush!

* * *

At about twenty past ten, some twenty minutes after leaving home, he finally arrived at Leon’s, just six houses down Chasing Boulevard.

Leon’s mom, Marlene Mendoza, answered the door and said, “Hello, Josh.”

“Hi, Mrs. Mendoza.” Joshua’s helmet had been relegated to his right hand once more.

“Already been on the board?” she commented with a pleasant grin. She called upstairs and her son immediately took to them, trampling down like he’d been called to his first meal in days.

“Howdy, Josh! Whatcha up to?” Leonardo Mendoza asked brightly, coming up to his mom’s side. Although, at once, it was quite evident what he’d been up to.

His friend was slightly red in the cheeks, excitedly bright-eyed and presenting the suggestion that he had built up a sweat that had recently evaporated like the last drops from a salt lake. His arms, legs and face glowed with a slight sheen.

“Cresta Verde Drive, huh?” Leon remarked before Joshua could open his mouth. “Why didn’t you come and get me? We could’ve gone hyper together!”

“Well, I’ll leave you two boys to it,” Marlene said, walking off.

“Okay, mom.”

Both boys’ parents had long held the conviction of them being joined at the hip, though Joshua’s folks were one hundred percent Australian and Leon’s a mix of both French (albeit distant) and Hispanic (or so it was unquestioningly believed).

Being the descendant of an ethnically diverse background had its distinct advantages: Leonardo, better known as Leon, sported the jet black silky hair of his father, upon a refined framework compliments of his mother. His large dark brown eyes, parted by a slender nose, shone from an unmistakably European complexion of light milk chocolate. His love for outdoor activities supplemented this natural color with a daily dose of Vitamin D.

Joshua stared apologetically at his friend. “Sorry.”

Leon shrugged. “Don’t sweat it.”

“I needed to get my head right, so I kinda wanted to be by myself this morning. Promise I’ll come and get you next time.”

“Bullshit.”

“I heard that!” Leon’s mom sung out in the background.

Leon pretended not to hear.

“Bad dream again?” he asked under his breath.

“Uh-huh,” Joshua nodded.

“Me, too.”

Joshua took in a long deep breath. This was his day, goddamnit! “Come on!”

“Where to?”

“Chasing. Or the park?”

“Park!” Leon burst forth, rushing back upstairs to get his board. “Shall we give Sammy a buzz? What about Ethan and Craig?” he yelled as he went.

“Why not?” Joshua said with some reluctance.

“What’s up?” Leon frowned down the stairwell.

“Just make it Sammy. It’ll take too long to hustle the other guys… by the time we do, the day’ll be over. I want to get out there.” He pointed behind him, leaving nothing to doubt. “It’s a really great day, Leon—we don’t have school!”

With a laugh and a smile, Leon conceded, “Alright. Sammy it is.”

Having gathered his board, and now at the foot of the stairwell, he turned solemnly to his friend, mobile to ear, waiting for the line on the other end to engage, and uttered: “So, how bad was last night?”

Joshua shrugged.

“Same here,” Leon had time to say before Sammy answered.

* * *

Saturday, April 16, 2022 (five weeks later)

A jet dreamily cruised high overhead, laying a solid fluffy-white contrail against an endless sea of blue, a boat with wings instead of a rudder and flipped upside down, passing stars instead of starfish. Only, Joshua couldn’t see the stars because it was daylight, just as you couldn’t see starfish when they did whatever it was that they did in the depths.

Maybe they goofed about like the one in SpongeBob SquarePants. It might’ve been 2022, but some things were amazingly enduring.

Heading for lands unknown, the jet continued on its way, oblivious to Joshua’s gaze and the wonderment it filled him with.

Except for the holiday in Malaysia a couple of years ago, he’d never been outside California his entire eleven years. Well, almost eleven; his big day was five months off and approaching fast. He could only imagine what kind of clouds would sketch across the sky wherever that jet was going. Would they represent puppies wagging their tails and hunched down on their forelimbs, ready to play? Or would they represent faces of witches and warlocks and God only knows who or what else? Maybe a man—a strange looking man. A man, dressed all in black, determined to make life a misery.

Joshua had learnt through his sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Bruckheimer, that people had a habit of wanting to see faces in things when faces were never really there. “It’s a human trait to find our own representation in all matter of things,” she had said, “from rocks to accidental spills, and particularly clouds. Look up and, at any stage there are clouds in the sky, you’ll see faces soon enough. Sometimes not at first, but a slight shift in a certain cloud will reveal all. Of course, we know it’s impossible for people to be merrily floating about up there, but our brains will interpret people up there just the same.”

A kindly breeze whiffled through his blonde hair on yet another exquisite spring morning. It playfully caressed the fine hairs on his face, arms and legs. Although he didn’t quite know what the word “seductive” implied, he sure understood the churn it caused within.

Take your clothes off, Josh. Go on, no one’s looking!

Sure thing. And not likely.

In an instant, he put his right foot to the ground and pushed off, the wheels of his Astra-Links trundling beneath him. It seemed his skateboard knew where they were going and how to go about getting there, which was a mighty good thing since his head was rather fuzzy. ‘In the clouds’ was what his mom was apt to say on occasions when he found himself travelling slightly off-kilter with the rest of the world. Like now.

The slow wearing down of his inhibitions was the by-product of a lack of sleep. These days, thanks to the man in black, a full night’s sleep with no thrills attached was a rare thing. There was something else, too. Along with the fluttery churn in the pit of his stomach, and the buzzing sensation it had set up in his fingers and other appendages—especially the rude one—was that of ‘thick’. It was the best description he could apply to the heavy stuffing that filled his head and ran through his veins like polluted rivers. This morning was no different and since he had arisen, everything had passed by as if he were peering through a sullied window at the changing of tired props in a dingy theatre.

Having hooked up earlier, his best friend in the world was by his side. He had patiently waited while Joshua had taken time out to immerse himself in the jet. He had also got himself moving when Joshua had decided time-out was finished and to continue onto Ethan’s. A glance to his right reminded Joshua that he wasn’t the only one affected this morning. By the expression hanging on Leon’s face, like a wet sheet in still air, he too felt ‘thick.’

In fact, upon reflection, most kids he bumped into these days were ‘thick.’ And what had brought about this plague, like a cold virus doing its annual rounds? The dream, of course. Unlike a cold, however, this epidemic had been gearing up for months; and rather than showing signs of abating, it was gaining momentum.

There was just the one dream… and every kid he knew had patched into it.

The idea this morning was to gather the group at Citrus Community Park and practice the latest and greatest brainchild from one Joshua Triplow.

The Cha Cha. This involved the full use of the park’s skating ramps, and demanded a complex set of skateboarding manoeuvres: three 360s to the left, followed by three 360s to the right, which was then followed by one jump and three airborne swivels. This required a deep breath and no shortage of bravery, as near-lethal speed was a binding catalyst in the maintenance of a foothold on the board. Not to be outdone, the series was repeated before bringing the show to a close with a sharp 180 slew before an abrupt kick stand.

Adults wouldn’t have understood, branding it an act of stupidity. But its gritty edginess was just the way the boys liked it.

The Cha Cha was, without exception, the greatest series of skateboarding aerobatics ever to be conceived by mankind. And since it remained unbeatable amongst the boys, it was a sure bet that no one else would ever master it. They had even considered taking the invention to the Guinness Book of Records.

“It runs in the blood,” Craig had once said, initiating questioning looks from the rest. “Your dad, Josh: he’s an inventor,” he explained, as if this should’ve been clearly acknowledged by even the dullest of dopes.

Today, though, there were more spills than jumps, as well as a few bruised egos. The group often resorted to a sudden interest in things totally removed from their fallen friend: an imaginary flying insect, a fascinating fat-assed bee, or something they had spotted stuck to their clothes from the endless bits of fluff people had a habit of finding on such occasions. At one stage, Craig was struck down by a sudden coughing fit—only he had no need to cough—which necessitated several others patting him on the back, drawing their complete attention.

Somewhere amongst the proceedings, Joshua remarked under his breath that, from a bystander’s point of view, the park might’ve appeared a carpet of green grass and a stand of trees, around which kids meandered like victims in a B-grade zombie flick.

Leon gave him a curious look and remarked, “Sorry, what was that?” Joshua simply shook his head and Leon guessed it wasn’t that important.

No one had that Saturday pizzazz. For that matter, no one had that any day pizzazz. Everybody seemed drained of zeal, and things seemed to be unfolding in forced fashion. Even the sporadic sounds of laughter appeared forced, like everyone was telling bad jokes to which the audience politely acknowledged.

The ‘thick’ was rife.

It came to Ethan’s turn. He struggled through the first two 360s before losing the plot entirely. He came down with a sickening umph, and rather than having the wind knocked from his lungs, it was resoundingly belted from them. He lay on the ground, gasping to catch his next breath for some time, and going horribly red in the face.

This was a serious fall and the boys immediately rushed to his aid. His skateboard hit the cement scoop with a loud crack and continued its own unique performance, wheeling and tumbling off towards the grass. He was, arguably, the best skateboarder amongst them, Joshua a close second. But he, like the rest, had a bad case of ‘thick.’

And the ‘thick’ had had its way.

It had been one of those days where nothing had gone to plan and where nothing was obviously going to. The boys considered this bad. Their skateboarding prowess had been considerably affected, so it was only appropriate to call it a day.

* * *

The late afternoon’s sunlight while heading home was like a fake suntan from a tube. Yet everything amongst it was real enough: the birdsong from surrounding trees and overhead streetlights; the wash of a far-off radio; some dude splashing water over his metallic lover to rinse it of suds; a dog barking, more dogs joining its chorus; a couple of kids Joshua recognized, but didn’t personally know, involved in an age-old argument on the opposite sidewalk as to whose turn it was to mow the lawn.

“I did it last weekend, Brody!”

“Uh-uh!”

“Did too!”

“Couldn’t have, ‘cause I ran over mom’s fuchsias, remember?”

Don’t do it, kid. You’ll run over your foot and chop it off! Joshua was near to delivering this wise admonishment when he shut his mouth. They’d only think him weird if he yelled this out, like an old man sticking his beak in where it didn’t belong.

“Tyson! It was you!” His mother joined the act.

Listening to the skateboard’s wheels, and that of Leon’s, gnashing at the cement sidewalk and clacking rhythmically over the expansion grooves in them, seemed crazily like one continuous extension upon this morning.

But they had arrived at Citrus Community Park, hadn’t they? He had gotten off at some point, hadn’t he? He had tried on the Cha Cha and had helped Ethan up from the ground, hadn’t he?

Yes, and—

It was easy to overlook all those things. It was easy to think that none of it had happened, that he had been cruising Corona’s streets with Leon all Saturday long, and was only now realizing the fact.

Like those mystical lands wherever the jet had been on its way to, under the faces in the sky, this eclectic arrangement merged into an exotic and near psychedelic mix.

Joshua was too young—and too sensible—to appreciate the cognitive amplification experienced during crazy psychedelic episodes. But like the fashionably rejuvenated hippies of the day (that’s right, they made a comeback in 2022, along with beads and long, long hair), he could’ve described what it was like to be bordering on one. What was more, he could’ve done so and laid claim to being under the influence of no self-induced substance.

The boys were leaving long shadows on the ground. The sun was even brassier than before.

With the day’s all too rapid closing, Joshua began to remember last night. He didn’t want to: hours remained before he had to turn in for bed and say goodnight. And it was Saturday, for crying out loud! But there was no stopping the process; this had been a day where everything had been caught in the soupy swill of ‘thick.’ The overcast of surrealism was tenacious, beginning with a ride on the skateboard, around which things might well have transpired without him ever getting off. He was being driven helplessly to remembering last night and the man in black.

It had been the worst yet, and one of the rare misses of him yelling out in abject night terror. Or maybe he had, but it had somehow gone unheard by his mom and dad.

All the man in black had done—all he had ever done—was sit in his chair, his face in semi-shadow beneath a hood. And besides his furious writing, with equal furious concentration he’d done nothing else, just sitting there surrounded by darkness beneath a single swatch of muted green light. He had somehow lured Joshua in when he had been most vulnerable. Why? Why, when all he did was sit, write and ignore him?

There was one other thing: since the man in black’s arrival, everyone’s parents had been acting weird. They weren’t acting ‘thick,’ they were just acting stranger than usual for grown-ups. Their behavior suggested a belief system which insisted the man in black stalked the streets of the fantasies that ran between the mouths and minds of their children.

Like a Chinese whisper, the story passed from one to another, its influence gaining strength as it progressed, until they were all jabbering… and imagining… all sorts of wild folklore.

A strange sort of exhaustion now came over Joshua; the ‘thick’ had taken its toll, the memory only adding to its weight. His limbs moved but he didn’t know how. And it seemed the closer he got to home, the harder it was. He shivered despite the balmy spring afternoon, already dreading the word ‘goodnight’… dreading sleep.

Both he and Leon trundled along Valencia Road; Chasing Boulevard was just one corner away. Consumed by thoughts of the coming night, and having stopped taking notice of the surrounding suburb, Joshua knew the man in black wasn’t done with him yet—not by a long shot. But what he could never have known was the intimacy that he and the man in black would eventually share.

* * *

March 2022... Eighty kilometers (fifty miles) south of Los Angeles

Two current truths surrounded Corona’s comparatively small community of some one hundred and thirty thousand.

These were recent developments, and had changed the leisurely spirit that had only too recently prevailed.

For starters, those between the age of six and sixteen, therefore implicating some forty percent of the population, had begun acting ‘strange.’ Many carried their newly-discovered stress as a kind of statement about the new age. Like the resurgence of long hair from the late 1960s, the invention of rock and roll in the late 1950s, and the bikini in the late 1940s, the growing dark crescent moons under the red-rimmed eyes of 2020s youth was cause for mounting consternation.

And damn if those dark moons and red rims didn’t alter from one day to the next, from barely visible to a ghastly knock-out shade of purple below bright scrawls of red.

As for seconds, lengthy appointment schedules across every available medical practice had also become a statement of the new age. And the longer this endured, the harder it was to get little Johnny in to see the family doc, which didn’t improve the situation. In fact, in some circumstances it was downright belligerent.

Adults had attempted to reason away the cause as nothing more than fanciful thoughts and suggestions. Blame social media for allowing such things to manifest. Once it starts, it’s a runaway train. It couldn’t be a virus that targeted only the younger ones in the community. Though, viruses could do that, couldn’t they? Like the Covid-19 of 2020, and SARS some years before that, pathogens that sought out the feeble, the elderly, those with medical issues, as well as the somewhat rotund. What was more, mainstream media hadn’t picked up on this, and usually if there was ever a story, they were on it like hounds. So, it was just a silly little thing that would go away as fast as it had come.

Right?

“Listen, here, missy, I’ve been seeing Doctor Marcus since before you started using meds, so unless Doctor Marcus would prefer he fuck himself with a ten-foot ramrod, I demand to see him!”

Little Johnny wasn’t doing so swell in the greater pastures of life. In fact, little Johnny appeared to have gone Goth… and on the worst days, this reinforced his folks’ desperation. The rock-solid shell of parental rationale had started showing signs of fatigue. Such affects were, as always, handled with varying degrees of dexterity. The more colorfully agitated frequently disposed themselves of civilized control, often centred on suggestions of masochistic if not physically impossible actions.

Receptionists in the frontline of battle could have testified to this. And the worth of their position was never more greatly appreciated. However, not all incursions were successfully opposed at the surgery’s desk.

Pushed to the precipice of a very dark place on the vitriol from once grateful patients, one doctor had reached his limit.

At 6 P.M. on March 6, 2022, Dr. Marcus left his surgery, never to return to it again. Sixty-seven had come around all too quickly months before, and by rights he should’ve retired years ago. It wasn’t as if finances were the problem. Oh no—it was his seductive mistress, the love affair he had with helping others, which had kept drawing him back year after year. But now it seemed that seductive mistress was bringing litigation against him. She wanted his balls on a plate.

A growing pressure had built inside his head. It had started as a passing headache that a few Tylenol easily dispatched. But over the months, despite anti-inflammatories being swallowed before, during and after work, the pressure had persisted. Worse still, it had started growing fat, its malignant fumes pressing ever harder against his skull, threatening to lift its lid like a Toby jug. On March 6, quite out of the blue, the flare of a match had opened up amongst those fattened fumes.

And so he had stepped from the doors of his surgery and closed them tightly behind him. He had had his secretary close shop earlier than usual, telling patients either that there was a dire emergency elsewhere or, for the less abusive, that the appointment book was overloaded. Sorry, please call back tomorrow, or if this is an emergency call 911. Whatever excuse fitted.

Of course, the situation at the frontlines didn’t improve with this, and by the time Dr Marcus’ secretary had completed her day’s work, she was grateful to be going home herself and leaving the phone well and truly behind. A stiff drink—or perhaps a whole bottle—until the day dissolved into the swills of intoxication.

The good doctor tested the doors’ resistance by vigorously jigging them to and fro; not for a few seconds, or a minute, not even three, but for some five minutes. While he had done this, his eyes had taken on a glaze, not unlike that of a dead fish. The doors’ rattling protests caught the glances of a couple passing by. They turned, frowned; one paused before noticing she was being left behind. She quickstepped to catch up to her partner, and they continued on their way.

Finally, Doctor Marcus had gone home, where he kissed his wife who barely noticed, engrossed in her favorite TV show, Deal or No Deal. He had then turned to a bottle of Kentucky’s famous mash, in similar fashion to that of his secretary that same evening.

Sneaking into the quiet solitude of the garage, away from the blare of ‘So, with fifty thousand in the bank, what’s it going to be? Deal or no deal?’—Beth was deaf as a post, though she staunchly claimed the contrary—he had proceeded to chug down the bottle’s entire contents, spilling not a drop.

This hadn’t been conducted in one continuous act, though; rather, one mouthful of warming liquid followed by a couple of sedatives. The dead fish glaze in his eyes, if anything, had become milkier.

With the task completed, and feeling mighty chipper, all things considered, he had picked up a revolver and brought it to his head. With its muzzle pressed firmly to his right temple, making a little dent in the flesh, and squeezing back on the trigger, Doctor Marcus had broken out into a head-splitting smile. Relief was close at hand!

The silly bitch didn’t take the deal and so lost ALL her money. Rather miffed about the stupidity of people, the good doctor’s wife had gone in search of him, wanting to tell him that Margery had the flu and there was Beef Stroganoff for dinner. She was also rather curious as to why he had come home early. She wasn’t complaining. Just curious. When she finally sauntered into the garage, she noticed all was not as it should’ve been. For starters, there was a bit of a mess on one of the walls. And for seconds, Marcus was dead to the world in his chair.

She had moved in closer. Why in the hell Marcus was in the garage, gobbling down strawberry jam when he knew dinner would not be long, and making a right mess, she’d never know.

The closer she had gotten, the more evident it became just what a mess Marcus had made. The missing half of his skull was misinterpreted as some kind of Halloween costume, even though Marcus had always resisted the celebration. Furthermore, Halloween was months off!

Then, just when she had been about to wake him, realization promptly came up and landed one meaty fist in the center of her head.

With every nerve fiber totally jangled, the good doctor’s wife had shambled to the phone that sat on a bench across the way. Something entangled around her feet. She lost her balance and went sprawling, her pants pulling up into the crack of her butt. Clutching her chest, she’d tried getting up. And had almost succeeded.

Marcus wasn’t in celebration mode, was he? Quite the opposite.

Lying on the floor, sucking in one harsh breath after another, the woman to whom the good doctor had been married for some forty-five years had stretched one arm forward to take hold of the phone’s base station cord. Her arm was shaking badly. She went to yank on the cord—the blasted thing was slipping right through her hands—when that spiteful pain in her chest ripped across her in one massive swipe of brilliant chrome. Her hand had spasmed while her fingers splayed, jerked and snagged the cord. The base station flew off the bench and smacked her square between the eyes. The phone itself skittered across the floor like a model car without wheels.

From the handset had come a little radio voice, squeaky but precise: At the third stroke, the time will be twelve… twelve o-one A.M.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

As events had it: two days transpired before the good doctor and his wife were found. The rest, as is so often the case, was history.

Despite such tragedy, it was fair to say that these were boom times for both psychologists and psychiatrists. Practices throughout Riverside County had been forced to close their books from upwards of three to ten months. This, of course, further inflamed little Johnny’s parents. With options coming under increasing pressure, family doctors—those still with the capacity to think, let alone breathe—were scrambling to refer further afield, some suggesting possibilities as far away as Seattle and New York. What about a trip overseas? Finland? They’re doing an amazing job in reducing the suicide rate, so why not?

Besides dark eye shadow and red-rimmed eyes, the children of Corona were exhibiting other symptoms Joshua Triplow had so aptly termed ‘thick.’ The combination was in one way or another derailing the once self-assured community.

“I like to hold discussions on what I call a ‘formerly casual basis,’ ” psychologist Betty Mae was saying. She had the haughty tones of one who had just swallowed a plum that had gone all the way down to her ass.

Sue was less than impressed.

“I realize the oxymoron conveyed,” Betty went on, “but the message is clear: I keep things friendly. Therefore, within these walls, Christian salutations are muchly preferred.” She performed the cardinal sin of any worthy psychologist: breaking eye contact and speaking to the ceiling. When she lowered them, she carried a smile that Sue regarded as pompous, which suited her since it was in keeping with the woman’s overall ‘plum up the ass’ decorum. “As you know, I am Betty Mae and you are Sue and Bob Triplow.”

Christ, the woman’s a genius, Sue thought, fighting hard to repress a snorting laugh. Next she’ll figure that we are man and woman and that maybe we are not siblings but a couple. Bring out the cheerleaders!

The woman reached forward and shook their hands. Sue smothered a grimace; her hand felt fat and slimy, similar to handling a freshly caught fish. Whether imagined or not, the urge to wipe her hand down her front was damn near irresistible. “I choose not to have a desk because it is in poor taste to place such barriers between me, the specialist, and you, the unfortunate clients. A coffee table will suffice.”

“Are we paying by the minute?” Sue asked.

“Oh, no no. Surely all that kerfuffle was dealt with by Janice, my secretary?”

“It was, but it never hurts to double-check.”

Bob shot his wife a vaguely reproachful glance. “I think what my wife—”

“Sue,” Betty interjected.

“Sorry?”

“Remember, Christian names only.”

“Mm-hmm.” Sue offered him an expression of ‘that’s what you get for kissing ass.’

“We’re both concerned for our son, Joshua,” Bob hastened, fearing another reprimand from Betty Mae. “He began having nightmares… when was it, honey?”

“Sue,” Betty interjected once more.

Sue immediately raised her eyebrows and muttered, “Jesus.”

“I am sure Bob wasn’t referring to one of such immanency.” Betty smiled her sweet, utterly infuriating smile.

The conversation stalled momentarily, while Sue decided what she should do about this hopeless situation: Cut their losses and run? Inform the woman that she was a Class A Pompous Bitch… and at their expense? But for the sake of diplomacy, Sue picked up the thread. “Joshua began having his nightmare late last year, around November.”

“That’s right.” Bob nodded furiously, like a child in class who desperately needs to go to the bathroom. “It started as nothing more than the occasional nightmare, perhaps occurring once a week, and it sort of remained like that until Christmas.”

“Sort of?”

“Yeah, you know, if not once a week, perhaps twice, but never twice a week in a row.”

“I see.” Betty was nodding and Sue doubted whether she saw anything beyond her own self-importance.

Now that they were sitting before the woman, she understood her seemingly miraculous availability and still debated cutting their losses.

“And what did these nightmares involve?”

“No, Betty, we are telling you that it is one nightmare—Joshua has the same nightmare night after night.”

“Okay, Sue, thanks for that. Now, can you tell me what the nightmare consists of?”

“He always wakes in terror, screaming and thrashing about. I mean, he’s truly terrorized by what he sees.”

“Christian names, Sue—else I might become confused as to whom you are speaking of. Using the ‘keeping it simple’ rule overcomes errors through misinterpretation.”

Sue held her forehead. “Oh, Jesus Christ. This isn’t helping.”

“I speak for us both, Sue and myself,” Bob quickly interjected, “when I say we’re feeling guilty—as if we are somehow responsible for Joshua’s nightmare. It’s such a hopeless feeling watching someone you love—your child, your only child—terrorized by something you can neither see nor do anything about. We awaken in the dead of night and go running to Joshua. It’s become something of a routine: consoling him, telling him that everything’s going to be all right, when we can’t begin to imagine what chases him when alone.”

“Then why say things you cannot honor?”

“Because,” Sue spat out, her eyes blazing jewel blue, “it’s better than saying, ‘Gee whiz, honey, too bad for you. How about a hot cocoa?’ while your heart’s about to leap through your chest.” Stupid bitch!

Bob thought, God, what a turn-on! He had never grown tired of the way her eyes could fire up. He smiled a little, despite the tension in the air.

“I see.” Betty Mae’s overweight hands were folded together and lounging about in her lap like dead squid.

“What do you see?” Sue asked with exasperation.

“What do you understand of Joshua’s nightmare?” Betty Mae ignored Sue’s heated emotion. “What has Joshua told you of them?”

“It’s a man.” Bob was quick to intercede again. “That’s all Josh can tell us—it’s a man in black. And that’s the thing, Betty. How do you begin to combat something like that? Something that… vague?”

Betty was searching his face, scrutinizing every inch. Bob shifted in his seat—Christ, he really did need the bathroom! “I understand from what you are saying that the repetition has increased. Can you and Sue tell me if anything has changed in your lives?”

They turned to one another and stared into each other’s faces, trying to figure if anything had possibly altered in the usual lilt of the Triplow household.

Bob returned his attention to Betty, shaking his head. “Home life is just the same, and Joshua still enjoys the company of his friends and his passion for skateboarding.”

“He has lots of friends,” Sue added, because it seemed somehow necessary. “He’s not hiding himself away, not wanting to see others. I mean, when morning comes about, you’d swear everything was normal.”

Again Betty ignored her, which really pissed Sue off. “Is Joshua spending increasingly more time out of the house, then?”

“No more than usual,” Bob said.

“You regularly attend the PTA?”

“Do you mean the Parent Teacher Association?” Sue inquired. “I’m trying to keep it simple here, Betty. You know, sans the acronyms?”

“Sue and I try to attend every PTA meeting.” Bob squirmed again in his seat, thinking, Shut up, Sue, we need this woman. “Sometimes I can’t because of work commitments. Why do you ask?”

“You can often learn much about what is going on in a child’s life through the eyes of a third party. And who better than the child’s teacher? After all, it is where they spend a great deal of their time during the week. The teacher, if you like, becomes the surrogate parent.”

“I doubt that,” Sue said coldly, measuring the woman with a stony gaze.

A smile flickered over Betty’s face. “I understand,” was all she said before taking a brief pause and shifting her attention to Bob once more. “You mention work commitments, Bob; what are they?”

“I invent things.”

“Bob means he’s an inventor,” Sue interjected sharply. “And sometimes his projects go full steam ahead and become quite consuming with hectic suddenness.”

“So things are spasmodic work-wise? How are your reactions when there is a lull?”

Bob shrugged and flashed Sue a look. “I don’t think there are too many lulls. But even when there are, I guess I’m the same, aren’t I, honey?” He turned to Sue, but before she could answer, Betty said, “These peaks and valleys, do they impact on your attention toward Joshua?”

“No. Not really.” Bob was shaking his head. “At least I don’t think so.”

“I see.”

Sue’s bright blue jewels became narrow bands behind pinched lids. “Betty, home life is wonderful and the relationship we share with our son”—she purposely left off his name —“is one of love and nurturing and protection. Bob has made us comfortable financially, and his work remains a constant affair.”

“What about school grades?”

“That would be Joshua’s school grades, would it, Betty?” Sue was unrelenting in her dislike for this Class A Pompous Bitch with a plum up her ass.

“Yes.” It was the psychologist’s turn to shift in her seat uncomfortably, and Sue took delight in noticing.

“Like home life, his schooling hasn’t altered. Joshua still has average to high grades. He’s no genius, but then most of us aren’t. He’s in sixth grade at Citrus Hills Elementary and his teacher, Judy Bruckheimer, reports what teachers in the past have said about Joshua’s attitude within the class and regarding his relationships with his classmates: he’s well-liked, respectful and a studious worker. One point in particular always shines through, and that’s Joshua’s ability to think things through. I don’t mean in a mathematical sense, more in an intuitive sense.” Sue thought through her words for a moment before continuing, “He’s an average math student, whereas his problem-solving is a natural talent.”

Betty was nodding.

“If there was a problem at school, this would be the first casualty.”

Betty was still nodding. “I see.”

Sue’s eyes had pinched down to slits once again; and while she refrained from verbalizing her dislike for Betty Mae, her mind had less of a concern with diplomacy. They drilled that line into you, didn’t they, honey, while you were getting your piece of paper that said you were a qualified Class A Bitch? Remember, if all else fails, use your standard back-up ‘I see.’ Hasn’t failed yet. It doesn’t say anything, including the fact that you’re stumped and, like a beached whale, you’re stranded and fully exposed with nowhere to hide. Yep, I fucking well see will be etched into your gravestone, honey.

“Furthermore, Betty, it’d seem Joshua is amongst a good many children within the Corona district afflicted by this nightmare. The very same nightmare. So unless Bob’s work ethic is somehow affecting the entire county, I’d be looking elsewhere, away from home base.”

The healthcare professional shrugged this off; but her overall hoity-toity posture, having taken a bit of a battering, slumped satisfyingly further. Next minute, she’d be no more than a blob of fat in her seat. Sue smiled at the image, still bitterly aware they were meant to be here for Josh. Although she didn’t hold out much hope.

Bob looked at Sue. Her forehead was in her hands again. “It seems every kid in the area is having the same nightmare,” he reiterated, still astounded by the magnitude of the problem and the fact that Betty didn’t seem to have a clue. “It seems to be getting worse, Betty. Not just with Josh. The adults are being left behind in despair.”

“And it is only happening among the children,” Betty said rather than asked.

“Yeah…” Bob’s tone conveyed his sense of bewilderment.

Betty reached over and pressed the open channel on her intercom.

At the third stroke the time will be—

“Janice?”

—twelve… twelve o-one A.M.

“Janice?”

“Sorry, Betty.”

“What’s going on?”

“Interference...”

“Oh,” Betty frowned. Strange… interference over the intercom. Oh well… “Would you please bring in three coffees with the usual accoutrements?”

“Be ready in just one minute,” came the perfectly miniaturized voice of the secretary, sounding nothing like the interference.

“I take it you both drink coffee?”

The Triplows nodded and said ‘yes’ concurrently.

Betty folded her pudgy hands in her lap. Her posture opened up, becoming friendlier. “Life has become full of stressors. It is said that today we have never had it so good, but I wonder about those saying this and if they are truly in touch with the vast majority. We are toiling over work commitments, not as our grandfathers and their grandfathers did in the field, but from behind desks under artificial lighting. And we are doing this at a breathtaking pace that our forefathers would have considered insane. For this, we have our fancy cars and our luxurious homes, material objects our grandfathers would have ogled at, amazed at how such things could be afforded. But everything comes at a price. With ever-rising expenses and bills, it is a fight to keep these lofty standards that we have set ourselves. Work commitments have to keep up with the ever-increasing pace, and so the first sacrifice is time with the family. After all, the bills will not simply go away; and that latest gizmo, assaulting us from every form of advertising, becomes a must-have on the shopping list. Our ego must be satisfied materialistically, and to hell with family—human—values.

“This creates a pressure-cooker environment: increasing hours at work, fewer hours at home, poor sleeping habits, more tablets to keep ourselves going at such a pace. True enough, we each handle these modern stressors in different ways, but often physical abuse, or conversely physical detachment, becomes an insidious mainstay.” Betty held up one hand, noticing Sue was on the verge of speaking her mind. And that wouldn’t do. Not at all!

“I am not saying the Triplow household experiences either, but the wash-off effect of increasing pressures external to the home environment does begin to show strains; and cracks begin to appear where solidarity once stood firm.”

“That’s not fair,” Sue managed to interject, her tone ice-brittle and defensive.

“These stress fractures happen, Sue, with such surreptitious cadence, they are often overlooked and therefore extremely difficult for the unaccustomed to notice. Think about it this way. How is it that most of us are better at describing a place we have visited on vacation than we are at describing what resides down the end of the very street in which we live?”

“It’s new and we look at things closer when they’re new,” Sue said off-the-cuff.

“Yes,” Betty returned brightly. “When pressed, we can usually cobble together some sort of glancing description of those things constantly around us. But when asked to describe them in detail, things become full of ‘ums’ and ‘ers’… a bit of color here, some detail there, but nothing of complete structure.”

Sue lowered her defenses. Betty had undergone a sudden transformation: from a hoity-toity Class A Pompous Bitch, full of her own importance and complete with ass plum, to someone actually making sense. The type of sense that sent butterflies aflutter within her stomach, and created an open chest-freezer in her heart.

Bob looked at her, and she at him. They each saw the other’s guilt. Were they the kind of people who had become victims of lifestyle? Surely not! Considering their humble background, this seemed outrageously inconceivable.

“There is nothing to be ashamed of here, for either one of you. The trick is in turning around the reactive situation we see in our children. Of course, it will be up to individual families to do this, and the same vicarious options will be available to all. Replacing those egotistical behaviors that have slowly invaded our lives will not come easy. It will require positive reinforcement again and again. But the payoff will be a better, more balanced lifestyle. Ask yourself this: Is it really necessary to have a computer and a television set in every room of the house, so the family can do and watch what they want when they want?”

“We don’t,” Sue corrected.

Betty opened her hands and drew them apart. “An example,” she said, “but I think you get the picture. We can easily retain our lifestyle—we have worked hard for it, after all. But must we keep raising the ante? Is that really making us happy, or have we fallen into a trap of having to have for the sake of having to have?”

“What you’re saying is that all the children are affected by the strains of today’s commitments?” Sue asked reasonably, yet not convinced that this was the answer.

“Yes.”

“And this is causing them to have this nightmare of a man in black?”

“Sue, when stressed, and maybe even depressed, we almost inevitably carry our disturbances into our hours of sleep. We can pretend to switch off, but the mechanisms inside us have their own will, and they will not be dictated to. This leads to all sorts of behavioral turmoil: withdrawing from the world and going deeper within ourselves, tossing and turning and calling out in our sleep. And, of course, nightmares are merely common symptoms.”

Bob and Sue exchanged a painful glance—memories had opened within them of a past which thrived on such a beast. When torment and torture had twisted and torn through Bob night after predictable night, cutting and pulling at the fabric of his mind with its endless thorns. Thankfully they were long in the past, and sleep had been a relatively contented affair ever since. But the memories were still all too vivid when resurrected.

“As adults, we have the ability to think through the stressors and apply our knowledge of worldly experiences, whatever is necessary, to eliminate or modify them, so that at least we can live with them.” Betty laughed a little. “This, however, even for us, does not always succeed. Children, on the other hand, have little of this at their disposal. They’re raw and vulnerable to such incursions, relying on adults to provide the greater part of their world, to make it safe and predictable. Parents are crucial in this role. When they see their world as not being safe or predictable, they begin to experience the rawness of their vulnerability.

“While lacking worldly experiences, they do have one weapon with which they can wield with ruthless efficiency.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in, Janice,” Betty said.

A tray with three mugs of coffee, accompanied by a small bowl of sugar and another of cream, was laid on the low table in the middle of the group.

“Thank you, Janice.”

Janice smiled and exited the room without exchanging a word.

“Please, help yourselves.”

There was a slight pause in proceedings, then: “Bob, what do you enjoy, as in hobbies?”

Immediately and with a grin, he replied, “Fishing.”

“I see. And how do you go fishing: on the shore or in a boat?”

“Boat.” He felt the urge to add ‘with a rod and reel,’ but thought better of it.

“I see. You obviously derive a lot of satisfaction from fishing?”

It was Sue’s turn to grin. “Half our garage is full of the latest and greatest stuff meant to catch the biggest fish of this or that kind. I can tell you, none of it works.”

Betty laughed. “Does Joshua enjoy fishing, too?”

“Try keeping him away,” Sue said.

“And you?”

“Sure—it’s a great getaway from it all.”

Betty nodded and took a sip from her mug. “When was the last time you all went fishing as a family?”

Bob and Sue exchanged yet another glance. Bob wore a distinct expression of guilt and went a shade of red.

“You understand that Joshua has not been fishing as much as he is now,” Betty said. “His intended catch, however, is not some pelagic denizen of blue waters. This sudden exploitation applies to almost all the children we see afflicted with this nightmare of the mysterious ‘man in black.’

“I have seen my share of parents and children because of this nightmare. If I remember correctly, it began roughly halfway through last year; before then, not a single case of the like had presented itself. Regardless of when it started, it did so with the sudden rush of a dam wall exploding apart. This nightmare has run rampant among the younger generation, sweeping up all who stood in its path and carrying them away.

“Mass hysteria, perhaps. What one sees or feels, what one experiences, gradually leaks out amongst their peers… starting as a trickle and fast gaining momentum, until it becomes an explosive tide.” Betty laughed softly, knowingly. “Look to the sky and point excitedly, wildly, at what you conceive to be a UFO. Sure enough, others will start doing the same. In some factual accounts, this becomes overwhelming within small clustered areas, and before anyone knows the difference, there are UFOs stalking the skies. In this case, it is not due to UFOs, but a mysterious ‘man in black.’

“If the marketing machine ever figured out that one specific catalyst, we would all be in trouble. They try and often succeed, but not to such a blanketing effect. What is being advertised here in Corona cannot be found between the glossy pages of a magazine, but rather from word of mouth. Maybe there are visible trails of what led to the outbreak in email inboxes and Sent Items folders. This would be something worth exploring. But the culprit—the cause behind that great explosion—is a lack of attention from the adults who are meant to ensure that their children’s lives are safe and predictable.”

Sue took a sip of her black coffee, having foregone both sugar and cream in her usual manner. “But we don’t ignore Joshua,” she said, shaking her head.

“Not intentionally,” Betty returned. “But one of the most important family activities, one which you all enjoy, has suffered. The sudden outbreak of this nightmare is no mystery. As one child began performing their ‘man in black’ nightmare, with success came notoriety. And so the habit grew. Shrewd viral marketing at its best.”

“So what you’re saying, Betty, is that this is nothing more than a phase? That the children will eventually lose interest in the man in black?” Sue was genuinely intrigued, if still not convinced.

“Attention-seeking is an old trick, Sue. We all know it well, for we used to employ it to manipulate our parents. In fact, some pretentious adults still do. Why is it that this nightmare seems contained within the demographics of Corona? We hear of it nowhere else. Had this been a phenomenon of a larger scale, media empires would have sent their scouts swarming all over it.

“But we do not need them to tell us that this is serious business. It has identified us adults as failing in our duties. Joshua is desperately reaching out to you both for your attention… or more of it. Should you give him this, the ‘man in black’ will fade into the background and soon become unnecessary, a thing of the past.”

“So we need to go fishing more often?” Bob asked brightly.

“Not necessarily.” Betty took a sip of coffee. “Most likely all that is required is more family time, sitting down with each other and simply enjoying each other’s company.”

“We watch The Twilight Zone together,” Bob returned.

Betty frowned. “Preferably not in front of the television.”

Sue dug amongst her thoughts and was embarrassed to find that excepting mealtimes, Joshua was usually off doing his thing while she and Bob were off doing theirs. Her lowered gaze said more than words could have.

Betty nodded. “For the greater majority, these children do not outrightly recognize the causes behind their distress. When asked, they give all sorts of vague explanations and invariably return to the mysterious ‘man in black’ of their nightmares. For all I have sat with over the past months, there seems no common thread in their answers, except for the ‘man in black’. It is exactly the same as saying ‘The boogieman is after them at night. Watch out for the boogieman because if you don’t he’ll get you’. They know this will get them the attention they so desperately seek… and it is something they know cannot be proven or dealt with directly on a physical level. They know this, but do not recognize it for what it is.”

Betty took another sip of coffee. “A man in black is not stalking the subconscious minds of our children. Such an event would not merely border on the supernatural, but truly enter deep into its realm. Reality—and, more to the point, human predispositions—dictates that once a child has tasted success, others will follow suit. It may sound ham-fisted, but Corona’s children are making purchases on love. Show your son a little extra attention over the following weeks, and see how that impacts on his nocturnal state of mind. I think you will be pleasantly surprised.”

* * *

That night, with both bedside lamps burning, Bob and Sue sat beneath their comforter and discussed Betty’s theory. Of course, it might’ve been expected that they did this on the way home from her practice, or before Josh came home from school. They hadn’t; each lost in their own thoughts… some of them not altogether flattering. Amongst this species was their status as ‘Worthy Parents.’ How good were they on the job?

“I don’t believe for one second we ignore Josh, Sue,” Bob was now saying, “but I do break my promise of fishing more often than I care to admit.”

“Honey.” Sue propped herself over on one elbow and started stroking his arm. “You’ve got your work, and if a prospective buyer is interested in what you have to offer, it’d be pretty unprofessional to make them wait.”

“Yes, but I think that’s what Betty was trying to convey.”

“Good for Betty; but, not to put too fine a point on it, I like eating. And who’s Betty to talk, sitting on five hundred dollars an hour? It’s easy for her to say not to worry about having for the sake of having.”

“We could do with less.”

“We have done with less, Bob. We’ve done it bloody tough! And I’m not sure about you, but I for one don’t want to return to those dark times, and neither would Josh.”

“Denizens of the deep.” Bob put on a grave Betty Mae inflection and shook a fishing encyclopedia in his hands.

Sue laughed. “What? You? Try undersized whitebait!”

“Hey, not fair! Last time we came home with a haul of—” He thumbed through several pages within the index section, stopped and proclaimed, “A haul of Sphyraena argentea, or what you plebes refer to as ‘barracuda.’” Having assumed the rarefied air of Betty Mae, he went on to say, “I feel confident of a large haul of—” He thumbed some more. “—Paralichthys californicus, or what you mouthbreathers might know as—”

Sue snatched the Popular Fishes and Destinations of California from him.

“I was reading that!”

“Halibut! Huh!” she scoffed, giggling. “How about a tiny haul of Engraulis mordax? Being the expert you are, I have no doubt that informing you of this scientific reference’s common name is entirely irrelevant. Diddums won’t have an ounce of trouble correctly identifying de wittle fishy-wishy.”

“Hammerhead shark,” Bob uttered with a sideways glance.

Sue shook her head, giggling harder.

“Plesiosaurus?”

“Try anchovy, Einstein.” Her giggling burst into laughter, the type that made the bed jiggle.

This got Bob going, and, for a while they were both laughing hard. They needed some medicine, and this was good medicine. A kind of release valve.

Eventually, the laughter ebbed and talk between them seemed to have dried up.

The night was almost unnaturally still; not a sound could be heard. Listening to this nothingness set up a miniature orchestra in their ears, and the ringing could’ve almost been maddening if concentrated on.

Having reclaimed his encyclopedia, Bob flicked through the pages with no real intention of reading its contents.

Sue shifted her eyes to the expansive bedroom window. Though streetlights burned along Chasing Boulevard, the darkness seemed to swallow it, leaving the window a square patch despondency. A wave of gooseflesh passed over her, and she shivered.

“Josh loves his fishing, Sue,” Bob said finally, giving her a start.

“Sorry, honey?”

“I haven’t allowed that to happen as much as I should’ve. And, honestly, what would the harm be in telling my clients that I’m taking my family out for a day or two, and that they’ll have to wait until I return? I’m sure the Malcolm Edwards CEOs of the world could wait forty-eight hours. And if they can’t, then there really is something wrong in the way we regard family bonds. It’s how Betty said: we’re losing our perspective on a balanced life in the chase for living standards. Everybody wants; nobody wants to give.”

“So we need a plan.”

They began figuring out how best to divide their days, so the Triplow family could enjoy extra quality togetherness. Much to Bob’s disappointment, though, it was soon evident that making fishing a priority was fine in theory but a pain in the ass otherwise. “Not much point having a boat, is there?” he said dejectedly at one point.

“Oh, stuff it!” Sue said with a cheeky grin. “Let’s buy a bigger boat and live on the high seas. You can be Captain Bligh and I your Girl Friday, and together we can navigate the world.”

“I think you’re mixing your tales.” Bob lowered his eyes.

“Party pooper.”

The biggest culprit against the planning was that the Triplow family did enjoy possibly more time together than either Sue or Bob had given credit to. Into the mix was their so-called attention-seeking son. Whilst a loving boy, Joshua’s unflagging desire to meet with friends at any given opportunity for skateboarding took precedence over almost all other matter of things, either along Chasing Boulevard (when time was squeezed and a fast solution mandatory) or at the Citrus Community Park (when a sense of indulgence held sway).

The bedside lamps burned into the wee hours of morning. The only conclusion drawn from their endeavors was that there probably wasn’t much to be salvaged from Betty Mae’s suggestion.

Then Sue said, “Bob, does this remind you of ‘before?’”

“What?”

“Adelaide… the heatwave… people losing the plot. I mean, there are similarities that seem to be getting stronger.”

Bob fiddled with his glasses, saying, “Oh, hon, no, this is nothing like ‘that’ time. Besides, you’re forgetting that Covid has left people a little raw. Is it any wonder people are acting the way they are, what with the kids behaving a little… odd?”

Sue was unnerved not by what Bob said but what he had done. He hadn’t fiddled with his glasses in a very long while. How long? Well, she honestly couldn’t remember. He was anxious and that was evident. So whilst he was saying one thing, he was thinking something very different, and the connotation she had raised was certainly not lost on him.

Long after Sue had turned her light out, Bob lay awake, still mulling over what had been spoken about that day, and if there was something—anything—in the idea of Corona having produced a generation of emotionally stricken and deprived children. Whilst he believed Betty Mae’s theory had credit, there was something that didn’t sit right in him.

And what about what Sue had thrust upon him?

Surely it can’t be happening again.

He stared down at his best friend in the world. The woman who had gone to hell and back with him. Her long shiny brunette hair swam seductively around her shoulders, even in her hours of sleep.

He pushed his glasses around the bridge of his nose, then stuck a finger behind them to rub his right eye.

He sighed deeply, ruefully, turned over, placed his glasses on the side table, and switched his bedside lamp off, although sleep was hard to track down. He stared into the streetlit darkness of their bedroom, wondering… dismissing… desperate not to allow such thoughts the impetus to grow and become more than an offhanded suggestion.

But what Sue had instigated—my, it was tantalizing. Like how picking at a sore and digging ever deeper, until it became an abscess, might start out as tantalizing.

So Bob crept about, looking for that cloister hidden far, far away from the usual trappings of life.

Oh, and there it was.

He reached forward, turned the dull brass knob. No locks here. The door swung open and revealed the gruesome details and indecencies from that apocalyptic past of 2011. They remained in full swing within the confines of this room.

Once normal people, living their normal lives, going about their normal business, had deteriorated into the swills of madness, the heatwave soaking amongst the dendrites of their minds and destroying all rationale.

Funny thing was—although there was nothing funny about it—this had taken place only within the borders of South Australia, Australia.

The state had become an asylum for the insane.

Terrible acts had been committed. Emergency services were stretched until they disintegrated. Even those who had supposedly been there to help you, might have just slit your throat in a fit of lunacy.

The lucky ones had escaped or died. And when you boiled it all the way down, it was just the same.

What a time. What a time to forget.

Bob pulled away from these visions.

The door closed.

Best not to venture here again. There was no prospering to be found in such travels.

Deep into REM sleep, Sue’s mind was ablaze with both vivid and psychedelic animations of her own, although it had nothing to do with the realities of the past. Whether it was her background in law coming to the fore or not, she couldn’t quite tell. However, she was beginning to think that perhaps something had polluted the air or water of Corona. Okay, so it wasn’t a heatwave, but the smaller bodies of the children were unable to cope with whatever the contagion was. This would explain why the adults were unaffected by visions of a man in black.

She unconsciously pulled the comforter around her chin, though the night was mild.

Her subconscious was playing with the facts, as the subconscious was prone to do. Taking a movie she’d once seen and meddling with it, so whilst recognizable, it was different. In this version was a kid called Joshua Triplow, and he was surrounded by townsfolks. And they were all becoming gravely ill except for him. Their bodies distorted with huge festering pustules, blood erupting from their mouths and noses in the latter stages of the disease.

People were losing their humanity, turning into raving lunatics, making them mutilate themselves and others.

The cause was in the water… in the water…!

DON’T DRINK THE WATER, JOSH! Sue heard herself shout, her voice coming from a very long way down some unforeseen tunnel. DON’T DRINK THE WATER… The more she shouted, the coarser her voice became. Now it wasn’t just sickeningly echoey; it had the timbre of gravel, pulverized deep underground.

Her son, who’d once loved skateboarding with his friends, was increasingly swamped by the gross acts of insanity and disfigurement.

His friends were either dead or dying. His parents had gone insane with the disease, their faces distorted beneath the volcanic ruptures squirting unmentionable fluids.

DRINK THE WATER, HONEY! Her voice was now inhuman. BECOME ONE OF US! DRINK THE WATER, YOU LITTLE BASTARD, OR MUMMY WILL RAM IT DOWN YA THROAT!

Sue awoke with a start. Pulling in a harsh breath, she felt both giddy and somewhat nauseous.

Slipping from under the comforter, she went to check on her son.

In the light of morning, while mashing over toast and Vegemite, she remembered the nightmare and finally identified the movie from which it had been constructed.

The Curse must have hit the screens some four decades before. Perhaps earlier. Of course, she wasn’t that old, having seen it some years after its release. A kid called Wil Wheaton had played the part her mind had bestowed upon her son, remaining sane when everyone else was losing their minds.

God, it seemed real—so disturbingly real.

But it was the kids acting strange in this case, not the adults in these here parts of ole Corona, wasn’t it, ma’am?

She stared across the breakfast table at her son and wondered where the hell this was all heading.

* * *

Rather than abating, Joshua’s nightmares had gotten worse. More consistent.

Sue gave up the idea that there was a contagion in the water. Nonetheless, no amount of dividing the days so they could squeeze in extra family quality time was going to overcome whatever was stalking their son in the dark hours of night.

The thrashing and crying out was so disturbingly similar to Bob’s past. And, of course, there was the repetition. A near nightly event saw them leaping from bed, running along the upstairs hallway and bursting into Joshua’s room to console him; to chase away, the best they could, the terrors of yet another visitation.

Neither Sue nor Bob felt Betty Mae’s expertise could provide further assistance. They never contacted her again.

* * *

Friday, April 22, 2022

The week ended on as fine a note as it could. Friday afternoon had forced its way through the ‘thick.’ It had taken some effort, though, like watching each minute amble by, second by ponderous second.

Joshua had had his sights on this day since last Sunday evening, and that seemed an impossibly long time ago… seemingly forever. School had let out for another week and he and his folks were on their way to see a movie. No reruns of The Twilight Zone tonight, as was the usual fare for a Friday evening in the Triplow household.

He and his dad reveled in the mysteries of the unknown. What was behind that door? Recorded from earlier episodes screened on Wednesday late evening, they’d sit glued to the TV, their intrigue and fascination never flagging. Sometimes, if it was a really good one, they’d watch the same episode twice in the one night. And if it was really, really good, three times!

Sue had mused over this as a potential cause for Josh’s nightmares, but swiped it aside as that made no sense, either. Reruns of The Twilight Zone could hardly explain how other kids were being affected, unless the entire county of Corona was addicted to the series. If it was some kind of new fad, maybe. But the series was about as old as granny’s linen drawer and, therefore, a minor miracle that it still aired.

The sky had toned down to a mellow interlace of grays, oranges and yellows. A few wispy clouds jollied about, adding their white flicks to the evening portrait.

Joshua was staring up from the back seat, his eyes droopy. If he kept busy, he wouldn’t fall asleep before they got to the movie. Despite his desperate bid to see a face up there, the clouds were just too tenuous. But somewhere up there was a face.

He lurks in the sky. Like Father Christmas, he knows what the children do! He knows if you’ve been good or bad… and if you’ve been bad, the jolly fat man would present you with a pencil with which to write!

Joshua blinked rapidly, wondering where such a thought came from.

The man in black!

Bob glanced in his rearview mirror. “Something up, mate?”

It was the nightmare, of course, didn’t he know?

No face up there, but surely the man in black blazed down at him, his stare greedy, dark and threatening. In the entire city of Corona, within the entire county of Riverside, he was bothered with none of the other kids this evening but one: a kid currently sitting in the back of his parents’ Ford Ranger.

His face was masked, as always, in shadow, the hood flopping around it, but somewhere… in there… from amongst the darkness… his stare drilled into Joshua.

Hello, son, watcha doing? Joshua heard as he imagined the face he couldn’t see. Here—take a pencil!

“Earth to Joshua Triplow!” Bob sung out.

Sue turned around to see her son staring bug-eyed through his window, before gasping at the sound of his father.

His skin had grown cold, as if he had been immersed in ice. His excitement of seeing the latest Get Smart movie fell away from him in much the same way ice sheets peeled from the sides of mountainous glaciers.

She frowned. “You okay, honey? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m okay,” Joshua mouthed. His lips were numb. If only you knew, mom, he thought with bitter sarcasm.

The Ranger’s sheet metal had become tissue thin and then some; he was exposed. Worse still: he was trapped. He couldn’t exactly fling the door open and make a run for it. He could ask his dad to stop, but then what? And if he ducked down below the window seal, it’d make no difference. Those dark bottomless eyes from above could penetrate through things.

Ford’s latest breed of off-road vehicles, claiming to return near forty miles to the gallon, growled softly through the intersection of South Main Street and East Grand Boulevard.

Sue gave the sort of laugh that forecast her doubt.

“Really, I’m okay!”

Joshua’s tiredness was beginning to affect every nuance of his life, and now he was being stalked by his own imagination—the weirdest stalking ever. People went mad when that happened, didn’t they?

Exhaustion washed backwards and forth like water slopping around in a bucket. He slumped against the seat, wishing his mom would turn around and forget about him. But of course, she was his mother, and it was her duty to be concerned even when it wasn’t wanted.

Joshua struggled to keep his eyes open. It was barely seven in the evening and he was ready for bed.

Or not, having come to dread ‘goodnight.’

But the pull of sleep was drawing him down into a place where resistance’s wall was disassembled brick by brick.

“How’s it going back there, mate?” Bob asked, turning the wheel through another intersection.

“I’m not sure whether we should give the movie a miss,” Sue said.

“Mom, I really want to see Get Smart.”

“What do you think?” Bob asked his wife, as if he hadn’t heard a word Joshua had said.

“I want to see the movie!”

Bob had his own doubts. A glancing appraisal of his son’s reflection in the rearview mirror told him Josh could barely keep his peepers open.

“What do you think?” Sue rolled the question back to him.

“I don’t know—guess it could be good,” Bob said, as if on automatic. “It should be funny,” he quickly added.

“It’ll go till late.”

“Yeah, but funny is good.”

“What happens if he falls asleep?” Sue asked with a certain amount of gravity.

Joshua’s parents stared at each other, thinking roughly the same: Joshua might very well fall asleep. Then what? Awake, filling the cinema with his screams, gaining looks of horror from those within its walls and wondering what kind of parents they were?

Joshua stared ahead, rather pissed off at the way his folks had commandeered the conversation. After all, they had started out wanting his opinion, only to suddenly relegate him to some fart in the back seat. His mouth agape, rolling his eyes, he stated very deliberately, “I-want-to-see-the-movie,” as if explaining to a couple of imbeciles. I am NOT a fart!

“You’re really up for it?” Bob glanced in the mirror again.

“Jeez, Dad.” Ultimate frustration.

I’m okay, you’re okay. We’re all okay!

Problem was: nothing was okay. In fact, it was getting a whole lot worse.

* * *

Get Smart: Controlled Chaos was side-splittingly funny, and Joshua’s tiredness and fear of saying ‘goodnight’ had been rapidly, albeit temporarily, placed on hold. He had, for a while, escaped the trauma of the man in black, laughing on occasions until tears were shed. Agent Maxwell Smart’s antics had typically led to victory at day’s end. Bumbling secret agent or not, he was the right man for the job. C.H.A.O.S. never stood a chance.

Upon the return trip, amongst heightened emotions and chatter, in which the funnier moments were recalled, the laughter continued but it wasn’t the same. Having to be generated between his mom, dad and himself, it demanded more than a passive input.

Joshua’s eyelids had returned to drawing down, before he snapped them open with increasing difficulty and often a little jerk of his head.

He had avoided the lure of sleep until now. But the Ranger’s momentum was gently rocking him further into the realm of the sandman. His head wobbled upon his shoulders, arms lying dead in his lap.

Joshua looked up blearily and caught his dad spying in the rearview mirror. He snapped alert, pretending there was something in his eyes.

Cars always felt safe: they were fast and powerful, and they could get out of tricky situations. But that feeling of exposure, sitting here in the back seat—trapped—had also returned. And he wished he’d been wearing long pants and a long-sleeved shirt to cover up the flesh left visible.

While waiting at traffic lights, Joshua gazed from his window. His neck felt as if it had seized up and was in dire need of lubrication.

A semi-trailer, growling up through its gears, rumbled past in the opposite direction. Scrawled across the aerofoil on its long snout, almost iridescent amongst the bright orange streetlights, was the phrase ‘Too much pussy.’ ‘Too much’ was on the passenger’s half of the aerofoil, whilst ‘pussy’ sat before the elevated driver. Joshua could barely make out the man’s face in the momentary wash of traffic lights that filled his cabin.

“Too much pussy,” he repeated vaguely, casually.

“What?” Sue asked, her voice carrying the blush that had risen in her cheeks.

At ten and a half, Joshua mightn’t know all the connotations conveyed by adult talk, but he was far from naïve. The message on the aerofoil wasn’t the type to be reading aloud in front of one’s parents. His eyes ballooned—he was fully awake again—and he bit his bottom lip whilst holding his breath. He didn’t say what he thought he had said, did he?

“What’s going on there, mate?” Bob peered in the mirror; the stoplight’s red splash dusting his face an Indian totem pole.

“That truck—” Joshua honestly didn’t have a clue where he was taking this, fully awake but with a head full of ‘thick.’

“What about it?”

“I don’t know.”

Bob began laughing so hard, it took the sound of a frustrated driver’s horn behind to alert him to the fact that the light had turned green.

At roughly five past ten, the Ranger pulled into 22 Chasing Boulevard.

Joshua was out less than seven minutes after.

And at 3:30 A.M., another night terror shattered the darkness.

* * *

The following Sunday morning

As within the Triplow household, the situation was disintegrating across Corona.

It was in the grip of something bad. Something intangible… something ‘out there.’ And worse still, it taunted the adults like a malicious clown might taunt a child. They couldn’t allay what they couldn’t see, regardless of umpteen trips to doctors and mental/behavioral specialists. Like Betty Mae, none had the answer. But this didn’t stop desperate parents from thinking they did and flocking to their doors. When it was discovered they didn’t, this served to inflame the angst in a population already poised at the fine thread of a tripwire.

Sue and Bob had decided to act on Betty Mae’s suggestion, whether it would do much good or not.

And, maybe, it wasn’t in the water but in the air. Christ, who knew? But a day’s fishing couldn’t hurt, could it? Besides, removing themselves from the hotspot gave them solace, a ray of sunshine in an otherwise storm-laden sky.

“Now, mate, what d’ya think ya gonna catch?” Bob asked brightly. The boat was fully loaded and in tow.

“The one that didn’t get away,” Joshua came back in a flash.

The sun peeking over the horizon was a warming sight, pushing the gray overhang further to the west. Though no more than a twenty-eight, maybe thirty, kilometer trip to Newport Marina, which roughly equated to eighteen miles, Bob had organized an early start to the day, despite miles sounding a lot less arduous than kilometers. Like a true fisherman with the scent of victory in his veins, there was to be no loitering. He meant to be removed from terra firma for most of the day. This didn’t pose a problem for Joshua since he was an early riser. Besides, these days, if sleep wasn’t a requirement, he’d have cheerfully given it a miss.

As Bob pulled into Newport Marina, the smell of the sea instantly filled their nostrils. The fresh salty odor renewed Joshua’s senses, as it did whenever around the sea. This disinhibiting—if there was such a word—effect filled him with a sense of que sera sera. A true unaffected sense of ‘I’m okay, you’re okay—everything’s okay.’

So the man in black popped up unannounced more often than he cared for. Had he ever done anything to him that he could’ve interpreted as threatening?

No! Not exactly.

Had he spoken to him, using words that carried far more of a message than mere words alone?

No! To be frank, he didn’t talk!

Had he ever pulled a knife, a gun, or a nuclear bomb on him?

No, sirree!

So what’s your problem, Joshy-Washy?

Roaring through an intersection in Joshua’s mind, changing up gears and leaving the smell of diesel in its wake, was that Kenworth with the risqué caption: Too much pussy. From behind the wheel, the driver leered. “Read it, son. Go on, then, read the fucker ‘cause you’re it: one big pussy-mister!”

Joshua helped his folks prepare the boat for launch. His skin tingled as the early morning sun danced upon it, the velvet touch of the sea air reinforcing the sensation. His nerves were running on high, much the same as when challenging Cresta Verde Drive. He felt himself getting aroused, and embarrassment lingered just below the surface of his cheeks.

Sea gulls squawked here and there.

The sun bounced off the rippled water.

Bob and Sue exchanged a look. He approached his son and rubbed his shoulder firmly. “Feeling alright?”

“Feeling alright, Dad,” Joshua returned with a cheeky grin, standing as close as he could to the boat. His sparkling blue eyes; so like his mother’s.

Actually, Joshua felt better than alright. The man in black had been easily dispatched. Yeah, that’s right! Dispatched! And when he faced facts, he realized that though he had no way of controlling the guy’s visitation rights, he didn’t have to do much when he arrived. Actually, he reckoned if he ignored him, he might slowly lose interest and piss off altogether.

He couldn’t wait to see Leon and tell him of this new and entirely liberating revelation.

Though his other friends had been plagued by the man in black, only Leon could he open up to. If he tried this on the other guys, they’d only turn the subject into schoolyard trash, as if choosing to ignore what was happening and the effect—the ‘thick’—it was having on them all.

Maybe they’d be right to do so.

Yeah, they might well be, pussy-mister.

Whilst a little confronting—nobody wanted to own up being that screwy!—relief took hold and he found himself amongst the boundless blue of another sky. From horizon to horizon, he soared upon warm updraughts, his eagle wings carrying him effortlessly to somewhere and nowhere in particular. His exaltation was somewhat offset by his rising embarrassment; he’d have to calm down, else he’d never be able to leave the side of the boat.

There was the blast of a boat horn accompanied by a burst of cheerful shouting. A group was frantically waving from the rear deck of a cabin cruiser leaving the marina. Onshore, another group was waving in return, and yelling things Joshua couldn’t quite decipher through the distance and hum of background noise.

He watched the cruiser slowly burble towards the entrance that spilled into the Pacific Ocean.

“Hey, mate!” Bob called from the front of the boat.

Joshua came to with a little start.

“You wanna finish hooking up that guide rope so we can launch this thing?” He gave a nod toward the boat as he spoke.

Joshua smiled and blushed. “Sorry, Dad.”

“You were miles away, I know, but I really want to get amongst the fish sometime today, and the sooner the better.”

“Me, too.”

* * *

Early May, 2022

Despite Joshua’s optimism, the man in black was not so easily dissuaded.

That Saturday morning was followed by another night of wrecked sleep. Now here on Sunday morning, the Triplow family had perched themselves around the breakfast table. Sue was staring at her son. Bob was staring at his son. Joshua, for his part, was avoiding eye contact with both. Instead, he stared at the piece of toast on his plate, as if it wasn’t covered in a thin film of butter and orange marmalade, but perhaps gold dust or maybe something never before discovered by mankind.

His folks had risen early today too. And now they were attempting to hold some sort of conversation, the type grown-ups held when they were pretending not to be intrigued or baffled, if not more than a little frightened. Trivialities were usually the order of the day, and this was no exception. The weather, for example, was a popular favorite. Right up there with how a patch on the front lawn was yellowing… perhaps a new chip in a cup had been discovered, or a scratch on the boat. When what they really wanted to do was probe Joshua for things he couldn’t explain, but things they’d want to know about nonetheless.

His feet wriggled beneath the table. It had begun as a mild jiggle, but soon evolved into a full-blown bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Mom,” he said out of the blue.

Sue almost choked on her mouthful of toast and Australia’s iconic table-spread, Vegemite.

“Yes, honey,” she spluttered.

“Were you wearing jewelry last night?”

They stared at each other.

“When you came into my room?” Joshua continued on.

After some pause to digest this intriguing line of inquiry, as well as her last mouthful, Sue replied, “No.”

“You did have your pendant on,” Bob said a little too thoughtfully.

“I took it off just before we went to bed.”

“You’re wearing it now.”

“I put it back on this morning,” Sue returned somewhat irritably. “Why do you ask, anyway, honey?”

Joshua shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, you must have a reason.”

“I just thought that you might have worn it through the night.”

Joshua’s unusual curiosity in Sue’s jewelry seemed to fuel the breakfast table’s awkward lilt.

Having finished his toast and last scoop of Cheerios, he immediately excused himself to visit his soulmate down the road.

“Leon, when you dream of the man in black, do you… do you hear something that sounds like… like bells… like faint tinkling?” he stammered a little.

Leon took on the appearance of total bemusement. “Yeah, I think I do, but if you hadn’t asked, I don’t think I would’ve thought of it, because it’s not something that big. The man in black, he’s all I seem to remember.”

There was a pause between them.

“What d’ya think it means?”

“That we’re certifiably nuts,” Joshua returned in such a way that both boys broke up in a gale of laughter, not entirely without nerves.