The Acolytes of Crane "Updated Edition" (7 page)

It
didn’t sound like a broken window, maybe a pot.

Worried
that I would become witness to an unlawful encounter, I ran to the front door,
and then I saw a young teenage boy, with longish black hair, and lanky in
appearance. Wearing gleaming white athletic shirt and shorts, replete with
logos, he looked like he was about to step into a volleyball tourney.

His
hands were stained with ink, and he smelled like a fresh Sunday paper—if I held
it up against my nose. He had probably stuffed three hundred papers into skinny
plastic bags that morning. I knew what it was like because I had a route with
my grandpa for a year. I became relieved that there was no sign of “trouble.”

Sure
enough, he broke a pot. The green clay pot had no importance to me, so I didn’t
give him guff. I opened the door, and he looked at me in the manner a kid might
after breaking something.

I
asked, ‘Don’t worry about it, bud, what is your name?’

‘The
name’s Lincoln, and I’m not your bud. I’m sorry about the pot. I can go get my
dad if you want,’ Lincoln said. He came off as someone who took his job
seriously.

‘Nah,
don’t worry about it dude, I will clean it up. I am Ted, by the way.’

“He
told me that he had to take off, and that he might see me around. I remember
hoping to see him again. Lincoln really seemed like a cool cat. He ran off, and
as he pulled away to catch up to his dad’s car, I experienced a visualization
of Jason, as Lincoln disappeared into the dark.”

“Prisoner
eight-six-seven-six, stand against the wall, place your hands in the wall
restraints, cross your feet and put your head into the vise.”

I
place my hands into the wall restraints, and I can feel them dismantling the
energy from my body’s Dieton cells. As the restraints suck the power out of me,
I straighten up and my head enters the vise. The vise grips my head firmly and
aids the restraints in further disabling my power.

I
cannot help thinking the guard sounds like a goon, as always. He speaks into
his damn communicator. I cannot see him, but I know him by voice. He says,
“Open request for the scumbag prisoner, eight-six-seven-six. Warden is en
route. Guns at the ready. Guards, ready your cannons for turnover.”

The
guard is apparently pissed off from a week ago, when I bested him. Obviously, I
failed. Now they have a squad to monitor me when the warden visits.

I
can hear him pacing the corners. Again, I tire of the constant surveillance,
furious at how the hosts treated me, held in this sparse, cruel cell with no
possessions in the world to my name, save for the clothes on my back and a
threadbare mat on the damp floor.

“Wardens
approaching. Go live! Charge your cannons, men. If he as so much as flexes a muscle,
take him down.” I can hear the hum of the cannons revving up.

The
clap of space trendy dress shoes and the rustle of a tight suit let me know the
warden is nearing my cell. He is the number one king prick of all the assholes
in this joint. He asks, “Is the prisoner ready?”

“My
name is Lincoln Royce,” I say, but my ability to speak normally is taken away
by the draining restraints.

“Did
you say something, prisoner?” the warden asks.

“I
said, my name is Lincoln, you imbecile.”

“You
are only a remnant of Lincoln. Why is that so hard for you to compute?”

“If
that is so, then why am I here? Why can’t you turn me off or destroy me?”

“You
prisoners think privileged information is a something we offer. Well, it isn’t.
Now, the reason why I am here is that I want to know about the first time you
became acquainted with the multiverse, and who was involved. That is all.”

“Why
do I care? I am not going anywhere.”

“It
is simple. If you give me what I want. Maybe we can discuss your release?”

“From
here?”

“Hahaha—no,
of course not. We will end your existence. How does that sound?”

It
sounds good to me. “And all I have to do is tell you about the day I met Zane?”

“If
that was the first time you learned about the multiverse, then yes. When you
are ready to speak, just speak. We have fitted your room with a recording
device. Talk, and it will activate the recording sequence. I want to know about
the entire day from start to finish. Don’t leave anything out.”

I
raise my finger to toy with the guards, and they fire a warning blast over the
shoulder of the warden. The plasma collides into the wall next to me, and I
smell the burn of its impact. Punks.

“Think
about it, prisoner.”

“My
name is Lincoln!”

“You
deserted that name a long time ago. Close it up, guard,” the warden says. The
guards initiate their retreat.

“Pull
back. Keep cannons hot!” the guard shouts. The vault of my cell starts to shut,
and I hear the clap and shuffle of the warden leaving.

It
is easy for me to locate the file tucked away in my memory. Putting forward a
recollection will be simple. All I have to do is talk. I broke Theodore’s
ceramic flower pot by accident the morning we met. It is the beginning of my
story.

My
restraints deactivate, and limply, I fall onto the ground. I hate that warden
and the Multiversal Council. I can feel my body recovering power, and because I
would like to get out as soon as possible, I speak:

“Okay!
I am going to start talking now. My dad and I finished with our paper route a
few hours before he had to work. I slept for an extra hour, so I would not be
groggy all day. My dad was trying to wake me up for school.”

Being
the son of a dentist wasn’t easy. I spent every day under the shadow of my
dad’s ego. He wanted me to be everything that he was—squared. A day at my house
began with bubble gum toothpaste, mint dental floss, and cherry cough syrup
flavored fluoride rinse—yuck!

‘Lincoln,
you need to get up. Now!’ My dad yelled.

I
said, ‘Dad, I am still tired. My stomach hurts . . . I don’t want to go to
class today.’

Then
of course he said, ‘Lincoln, if you miss the bus one more time, I am going to
double your piano lessons—for good this time. Do you understand me?’ He cared
so much about those damn piano lessons.

‘Yes
sir,’ I said. I lowered my voice and told him how I really felt: ‘Piano is
boring.’ It pained me to tell the truth because my late mother had so loved the
piano.

‘Make
sure you are quiet,’ he said, ‘I am going to read the paper for a bit before
work.’ He retired into his room, because his first patient wasn’t until nine.

From
my bed into the bathroom, it was an obstacle course full of comics, ancient
philosophy books, and dirty clothes.

Mr.
Mom was constantly on my case about getting up, picking up after our family
dog, and building my portfolio of knowledge so that I could one day be the
dentist who worked side by side with him—and someday, take over his practice. I
wasn’t keen on being a dentist. My dad was A-type: Annoying type of person, who
constantly bothered me about my punctuality.

After
pushing my thoughts aside, I remembered it was time to get out of bed. I
stepped gingerly around my pigsty, and entered my bathroom.  I stared at the
mirror of my bathroom with blurred eyes, lined with mucus. I threw some pomade
in my hair, completed my dad’s prescribed teeth ritual, and put on some clothes
that were stylish but indeed dirty, because the laundry was piling up. Content,
I gazed at lingering fog through my bedroom window.

This
day, today, would be so pivotal, so paramount, that any hushed mention to the
Multiverse Council would render them into fits of gnashing desperation. Yet, I
dared not breathe a word of this day. What was the honest gist? The dirty
secret? Theodore Crane wasn’t the first of our group to meet Zane or know of
Odion.

Let
me explain.

I
remember it as clear as the cellophane that encased Carolina Jim’s—my mother’s
favorite smokes. It was seven-thirty in the morning, and I had about twenty
minutes before the bus arrived.

I
was walking through the morning dew in my back yard, toward the pond. My designer
sneakers drew up dew from the ground and saturated the bottom stitch of my
pants. The morning fog was thick like pea soup; I could not see two feet in
front of me.

A
light bulb clicked off above my head. Would it be possible to test a scientific
theory: if I circulated the moist, saturated air in my own backyard, could I
clear out the fog? The challenge engaged my over-active imagination.

‘Ready,
set, go!’ I told myself. Laughing out loud, and gasping for breath at the same
time, I sprinted, waving my arms for maximum disruption of the heavy mist.
Darting back and forth with glee, I started panting with exhaustion. I was
enjoying myself in the backyard until I slipped. In falling, I almost did the
splits. I lay upon the ground on my side, holding my groin, and whimpering like
a possum in heat.

Suddenly,
from the sky, there was an ear-shearing scream, then a blast of wind against
me, as if a sonic boom had exploded in front of me. I sat up, mesmerized, and
the dew that wet my socks and shoes, and the left side of my shirt and pants,
was now soaking my ass.

I
thought to scream for my dad for a moment, but I was spellbound by the
spectacle of a creature standing erect, awash in tendrils of fire that greedily
swirled about, dramatically displaying a fiery aura about him.

A
whirl of dazzling light danced around the masculine creature and cooled his
body. Steam hissed as the fog rapidly evaporated in contact with his body,
preventing me from identifying him. When the steam had wholly dissipated, the
being spoke:

‘Boy.
Don’t scream. I have only a few moments to explain why I am here. In one minute
and twenty-seven seconds, your dad will run out of that house in his silk
boxers. He will ask if you are okay, and if you were talking to someone. You
will say no. Everything that you hold dear is in jeopardy.’

The
man briskly hovered towards me, his feet not touching the ground. His hair was
white; long; braided cleverly behind his head. A regal crown floated still
above him. He settled next to me, and said, ‘There are a few imperative things
that you must remember. My name is Zane, and I hold the key to saving this
beautiful rock you live upon. Listen carefully. Was there a boy whom you met
yesterday?’

‘Yes,’
I said, my voice tinged with awe. ‘His name is Theodore.’

‘Tomorrow
you will skateboard over to Theodore’s house to ask for him.’

‘Or
what?’

‘Or
on the sixty-ninth year of your life—after years of servitude to an alien race
known as the Dacturons—you will watch as the Earth you live on becomes a tomb
to five billion dead earthlings.’

‘This
is a joke. I am dreaming. Ha! That is it—I never got up. I didn’t listen to my
dad, and I fell back to sleep,’ I said, laughing and starting to walk away. I
was soon proven wrong.

The
mysterious voice beckoned to me. ‘Lincoln, you must agree or the end is
inevitable for all of us and all the multiverse. You will pretend that this
meeting didn’t happen. You will tell no one of our encounter, and if you do,
you will never see or hear from me again. Moreover, the fate that I have presented
to you is real, and must be avoided at all costs. Do we have an understanding?’

‘I
guess. What are you?’ I asked.

‘I
am like you—one citizen of the universe preventing a future that is
unthinkable. An evil has risen, and his name is Odion. He is my evil brother.
We are both Omnians. He has intentions of destroying everything with his
Dacturon army.’

‘Can
you speak English, please?’

He
ignored my plea. ‘There is one last thing before I go. There is a boy named
Travis who has already been visited by the Dacturons. He is the only remaining
link to Theodore after Jason’s death. They are using him for something that
Theodore has or knows about. We have not figured out what they are after, but I
need you to find out what it is, and keep Theodore away from Travis at all
costs. I must go!’

Around
him, a whirl of matter, oblivious to me at the time, formed a type of portable
jet and in a bluish brilliance, he rocketed into the atmosphere from which he
had come crashing down earlier.

‘Lincoln,
are you okay? Were you talking to someone out here?’ my dad asked from the
deck, in his red silk boxers.

I
rubbed my eyes and scratched my head, because the supreme being that stood
before me was real. I realized that if I believed this joker, I had a starring
role in the future that Zane foretold. I answered my dad by saying, ‘No.’

“The
bus would arrive to deliver me to piano camp, but it would leave without me. I
would be bound to that crucial meeting with Theodore by my fear of the world’s
end and what a joke it has been. I am done! That is it!”

No
one responds.

I
realize that, once again, I have never hated anyone more than the warden of
this prison.