By Jack Heart & Orage

Special Thanks to Samantha S. & An Nwn


We are living in a post apocalyptic era where the only constant is the millstone of isolation that weighs down upon the sentient like the world on the shoulders of Atlas. Speak and no one hears, cry and no one cares, laugh and surely you are as mad as those who have brought us here. There seems to be no way out barring a miracle from some long expected savior that no one is expecting anymore.

That could be because he was already here and although no one noticed at the time, they always said he would come like a thief in the night, he left that miracle in a glass case like a fire extinguisher to be used only in an emergency, which of course as the Avatar of the Supreme Being he saw coming since Time itself began. This is our last big internet piece; we’ve done what we could. For now on we will be on Patreon if anyone wants us but for here and now this is open to all and its contents public property, reproduce it as you will, please. As it should be; this is our best work…  

He died on Mother’s Day. Father’s Day was yesterday and the pain has not eased even a little. I did not expect him to die, leastways die and stay that way. I’d already seen him die and come back to life. He was lying under the blanket on the couch where I slept and all of a sudden let out a blood curdling shriek, convulsed and went limp, eyes fixed wide open. My father was a hunting guide for celebrities, I worked in the Hudson Bay Company wild furs department for two years and am a first mate on charter boats hunting shark by trade. I know when an animal is dead.

I checked him three times for a heart beat or any shallow breathing. There was none. I tearfully picked up the phone to call my cousin to arrange his burial in my cousin’s wooded backyard and heard a sucking sound. When I looked at Tookie, his head was up and he was looking all around as if wondering what just happened. He got up and immediately ate two cans of food. He usually never even finished one. After that, he was fine for at least a month, but he would never go on that couch again, or under that particular blanket.

This went on for months, since I pulled her card upon my return from Indiana in early March. It seems the little animal became a focal point in a test of wills between the Djinn, those who are not cowards, and the Dreamer. Even after the installment by miracles of a Daddy Warbucks caricature as president of the United States of America, I still did not take the concept of a Dreamer seriously.

She knew the set up between the Djinn and I, better maybe than I did, from our hundreds of hours spent talking about it between whatever psychosomatic malady was ailing her on that particular day. But that she was a player, not even a player but the overlord, was just an abstract to be bantered about during lulls in the conversation. I don’t, or at least at the time I didn’t, think either one of us ever really believed it. As for the Djinn, the whole thing has been at an impasse for exactly three years as I write this.

Djinn is a blanket term I have settled upon for entities that originate in Nyan Tolo, a satellite in the three-star system of Sīrius known to Africa’s Dogon as the Star of Woman. In Dogon lore, carried orally out of Egypt in time out of mind and recorded in The Pale Fox; a book written by the famed anthropologists who studied the Dogon, amongst these entities known as Nommo, there is only one male, and he is more or less the Devil. But he is driven by his frustration of being separated from the females. I can identify with him; and perhaps it was that frustration that motivated me.

By her own admission, she had stopped reading us after our Twin Peaks pieces and in spite of the stories, and they all have one, I instinctually know there is an immutable force at play that is the source of the impasse, an artificial wall between me and mine. Someone is setting rules, and everyone else is inventing etiological myths for why they must follow them. I don’t know whether I was really beginning to believe it or not, but I remember during the course of conversation with Orage I mentioned a few times that I thought it was her.

One day in March during the course of conversation, she brings up an article written by a colleague whom I detest, and she knows that. When she asked me if I read it, I cut her off curtly saying I don’t read anything written by that person. She dropped the subject, but later when I thought about it I became resentful that she could read that article and want to discuss it with me while being everything but dismissive of my own work.

Later on my Facebook wall, a limited hangout for praetor human entities, I posted a picture of a snarling werewolf with a caption saying that is the face you make when your friend calls you up and wants to discuss the work of your enemies but doesn’t even read yours. I didn’t mention any names but they knew and she knew that they knew, and she comes on the thread fuming mad so that now even the semi-sentient agglutinations, as we call them, that monitor the wall know who I was talking about. I reminded her civilly that she had told me herself that she could no longer read what we have been writing. She lied and said she did, then she called me a dick in writing.

From out of nowhere, my back, which had put me in the hospital before but hadn’t been hurting, hurt so bad I could barely get out of the chair. Not long after that Tookie began howling in pain. He had a congenital heart problem when I got him, and we had been advised by a Manhattan veterinary cardiologist that he could die at any moment or live to a ripe old age. His condition causes his lungs to sometimes fill with water, but we have drugs which usually fix that in a day or two. You can tell when he needs them, he will cough and pant for air but this was different, he was screeching in agony. Tookie had never done that before.

After about three hours of Tookie’s nonstop screeching, the sheer malice of the attack upon the slightest provocation on somebody who was supposedly her best friend, and my own inability to do anything to help him, I was unnerved enough to say something on Facebook where the others were watching. Some came to my defense as I knew they would. I never would have asked for myself or anybody else, just the cat. I was told to take the post down, which I did, and I wrote the tyrannical bitch in Texas telling her in writing I only took the post down for the cat…

As soon as I did Tookie stopped caterwauling and, although he looked at death’s door, he slowly began to recover in the ensuing days. With the help of a spinal epidural, I shook the back pain off like a gnat bite. After about a week, Tookie was eating, dragging his right back leg, but slowly getting better. Then came the incident where he abruptly died, but when he came back, it was as if none of it had ever happened. He was no longer dragging his back leg, in fact he was surfing the walls and making the spectacular six-foot vertical leaps that were part of his unique cat repertoire.

For a month he seemed fine, and I thought everything would be okay, but the hand of death was upon Tookie, and in the end there was nothing anyone could do to lift it. This is her world; we’re just visiting, and in the end it is always her Will that will be done here. That does not mean we cannot drown it and her with it; it’s been done before. “Augelmir the Water Giant was unleashed towards the end of April, and it’s been raining ever since here and in the Mississippi Valley;” (36) America’s breadbasket…

In the beginning of May a thunderstorm arose the likes of which I have not heard in my almost sixty years. I was writing and Tookie was sitting on the computer tower next to me, his customary perch. There was an ear-splitting explosion outside, and the whole complex shook. I opened my front door to the sound of wailing alarms and disorientated people wandering around in the rain with flashlights. My condo looked like the only one that still had lights. Feeling smug, I came back inside to find Tookie cowering on top of the refrigerator.

He was not a timid animal, in fact he did not get along with my daughter’s Old English Bulldog and usually he was the aggressor. It took me hours to coax him down, and when he finally came down, he stood in the hallway peering around the corner at the far mirrored wall of the living room. When he finally did come into the living room, he kept staring at that mirrored wall as if he were watching something in it. After that, he would always face that wall when he was in his chair. In a couple of days, he was panting for air, but this time the medicine had no effect. You could see him fighting it every step of the way, but in the end, he turned from pink to a vivid shade of yellow.

Right before Tookie died, he got off my bed and dragged himself to the litter box to urinate. When he got out he went to the mirrored wall, let out a screech and collapsed. I put him back on my bed, but he was already dead. In Kether, the Crown of God in the Sepher Yetzirah, there is a classification of beings called Chaioth Ha Qadosh that rule over Briah or the formative world. They are the highest order of beings before Metatron or the presence of God and God himself; Eheh. About as true a translation as you are ever going to get of Chaioth Ha Qadosh is Holy Living Animals; Tookie was Chaioth Ha Qadosh. I’ll see him again, and so will she…

Since the Shadow of Nemesis: Pyramids of Giza and Lies of Empire, everything we have written has been meticulously cited according to all known academic standards and from indisputably legitimate sources. If the conveyance of the information is being repeated, then we cite our original article where it first appeared and was cited.

Author Details
Jack Heart, pen name for George Esposito, is known for his extensive research and writings that provide high-quality information and authentic alternatives to mainstream narratives on a wide variety of subjects. His life experiences make for a highly intriguing perspective.

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  1. More like slaughter house five where his captors brought him the hot girl to his prison but of course he could escape as he did but always came back to her.

    I say he escaped with that hot girl….

  2. Reminds me of a Kilgore Trout insertion in a Vonnegut novel; an Alien was shouting the cure for cancer and because he looked like a matchstick, someone picked him up and repeatedly stuck his head trying to ignite him.

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