The Apocalypse Engine

Traveling upon the earth's liquid mantle in the wake of Vikings . . . the shoreline lay gently sleeping . . . nautical existence dotting the creamy beaches and craggy cliffs . . . from the outer deck of the ferry one can see an unrestricted circular panorama of surrounding seascape   . . . islands float by like giant pieces in a terrestrial jigsaw puzzle . . . various fishing vessels gathered like rusty jewels on a copper sea sparkle in the early morning Autumnal sun . . . troller slips by . . . ferry cuts through water like a giant mechanical orca through translucent turquoise pudding . . . gelatinous undulations toss indifferent water fowl about . . .

     Lean over side rail, refreshing spray dampens hair and coat, awaken to the scent of brine . . . luminescent fractal droplets dance through the air, perceptibly dangle in an opaque hovering mist, then disappear only to be immediately replaced by an infinite supply of their brethren . . . weightless proliferation of offspring along the radial line, much like the starfish . . . quasi-organic forms burgeoning and exploding into dust . . . but never the same atmospheric formations:  individualism but never alienation . . . I am vaguely disappointed regarding man's terrestrial evolution . . .

     And how shall we colonize the sea? . . pillage our green inheritance . . . sprouting fields of mangrove snorkels  . . . colonized mud flats on the margin of the ocean . . . the sweet smell of seaweed cooking in the sun travels a distant zephyr . . . a lattice of buoyant air-filled struts . . . great blades kept near the sun by huge gas-filled bulbs  . . . kelp thickets the marine equivalent of the terrestrial forest . . .

     Temple of Poseidon under the protective blanket of the sea . . . cities of the Aegean studded with glorious amphitheatres and headless statues decline into obscurity and oblivion of barren landscape of the coastal Mediterranean . . . windswept concrete tower blocks in varying states of decay sprawl across hills overlooking a great sheltered port  . . . the blackness of space boarders the ethereal blue of the earth's upper atmosphere . . .

     Granite spires thrust upward as if to wound a complacent sky, pierce the domain of the gods and maim the Christian one . . . liquid light . . . frothy rage on cold calloused rocky shoulders . . . stranded in a watery desert now the color of sapphire wine . . . accosted by a howling reptile wind and the faint seismic murmur of a continent tearing itself apart . . . rising currents like rivers in the sea . . . dancing on the quickening pulse of the ocean . . . floating in the disturbed womb . . . seventy percent water . . . salt tears . . . an angered god beckons sinuous Pacific swells and prepares the Great Cataclysm . . .

Aboard a ferry.  Storm.  Waves lash and tear at the bulkheads.  Reports of an enormous tsunami-like wave heading our direction.  It apparently has enough momentum to capsize our ship.  Coast Guard is notified; evacuation procedures underway.  Suddenly the Captain takes us off-course into the shelter of some unknown protected cove, the knowledge of which is made available by his earlier drug-running years.  We lay low until the wave passes, leaving inestimable damage in its wake.

     The Captain is hailed a hero and descends to the main passenger deck where he is swarmed by a confused and elated mob.  The Chief Steward gives an official speech praising the Captain's unconventional yet lifesaving tactics.  I finally get a glimpse of the magical man from the crowd's periphery . . .

     "My God not that rummy ol' drunk . . . "

     I knew him from the dives; he could hardly speak and reminded you of a small frightened child trapped in the failing body of an aging man.

     Within the gyrating crowd of hysterical baboons, dodging ferocious gesticulations, I spot my mother who promptly approaches the mildly befuddled looking Captain and embraces him, lightly weeping.

     My Uncle Val, an old salty dog himself, then enters the scene.  He and the Captain evidently know each other from a dusty forgotten brine-stained past and exit together conversing in jumbled nautical tongues.

     I follow them to the Captain's quarters and enter, closing the door behind.  They are seemingly indifferent to my presence.  The tiny room contains no recognizable furniture other than a low table.  There is a large reel-to-reel tape machine against the wall to the right of the door and a strange looking metallic contraption in the center of the room next to the table.  The floor is littered with countless empty whiskey bottles, tape reels and ribbons.  Empty cigarette tubes are strewn across the table, intermingled with large skunk buds the size and shape of broccoli.  A dark resinous substance, presumably hash oil, covers the tops of the broccoli-bud.

     "Quite the contraption," I say to the Captain, nodding at the silver gleaming machine.

     "That's a valid point," he vaguely replies through a revolving dimensional door.

     With the flick of a hidden lever, a series of thin cantilevered jaws emerge from an orifice in the top of the contraption.  The Captain picks up a cigarette tube from the table and carefully places it within the jaws; his other hand deftly turns a wheel which contracts the jaws.  When the precise amount of pressure had been attained to hold the tube firmly in place without crushing it, the Captain stops turning the wheel and pulls another lever retracting the jaws and their paper tube prisoner.  He then pulls out a sliding metal tray from the side of the machine, extending it to its limit with a click.  On this tray he places three or four of the larger and oilier broccoli-bud specimens.  He then slides the tray back in and pushes a green button.  The contraption suddenly sputters to life with a gentle whir, subtly vibrating as a resin-stained glass cylinder in its center slowly fills with dark juicy cannabis sativa, oscillates at an almost invisible frequency, then discharges the resultant goo into pressurized tubes feeding the upper portion of the machine containing the jaws and empty cigarette tube, which sinks down a notch with a low thud and starts rapidly spinning in a clockwise direction, while a spring-loaded brown plastic lid simultaneously snaps across the top, sealing off the rotating tube-housing.  After an interminable eternity of minutes, the Captain pushes a red button and the whole operation comes to a halt, the machine hissing and spitting like a tuberculoid serpent, coughing a fibrous black smoke (not altogether unpleasant) which tore at the lungs.

     A flick of a switch . . . the plastic lid snaps open - the upper tube-housing rises up - the jaws extend to reveal a perfectly cylindrical, slightly smoking cigarette tube packed with the potent marijuana extract, re-solidified to a hashish-like consistency with atomic precision.

     I stare at the new-born creation with the unspeakable awe and wonder and fear of one laying virgin eyes upon an as of yet undiscovered life-form.

     At this point, The Captain pulls a reel out of his uniform jacket, hooks it up to the tape deck and pushes play, explaining that this is a recording from the bridge of the entire ferry voyage up until he left his post to face the hungry mob.

     Nautical gibberish . . . three horn blasts . . . drinking sounds   . . . more nautical nonsense . . . rising storm . . . cautious concern  . . . ice cubes in a glass . . .

     The Captain removes the joint from the contraption, closes his eyes, says a silent prayer, places it in his mouth, and lights it.  An infinity later, he passes it around.  Tape rolls on in the background.  Existing in two time-frames simultaneously.  Pungent blue-black death sleep . . . echo speaker talk backwards . . . spirit wind bloweth  . . . wave reports . . . take evasive action . . . confused jargon . . . pale panic . . . undulation . . . plausible solution . . . success . . . resolution . . . victory drink . . . haze . . .

     "What do you call this heathen contraption?"

     "I call 'er the Apocalypse Engine."

The machine flashes a telepathic grin like a sinister metal mass suspended above the sea . . .

© Sartisohn 2003