Christopher WunderLee - The Loony: a novella of epic proportions

The firmaments like an ass shivering. A mechanical storm erupts from the oracle of the Cape as the anointed supplicate themselves to the fiery belches of a foreign god. The steel phallus of the deity levitates slowly, rising in a spectral haze of cooked air.

There has never been a true miracle. The sun has never waved as it passed in its burning chariot, the statues have never cried animated tears, the mother of god has never spoken to children in an isolated European glade. There is no way to express a miracle. But they knew they were seeing one.

Inside the vessel of god, which was oscillating like an enormous dildo and lifting itself into the virginal recesses of the sky, they were bolted to his innards. They were isolated from his divine skin by sanitation suits and caressed him gently with trembling fingers. They were going to his home, the first of humanity invited for supper and, perhaps, a cocktail. They were weeping, pissing, screaming, dreaming. They could not see the worshippers bowing to the infernal power as the vehicle lifted itself away from their terrestrial lives.

They had begun to climb the invisible rings of Jacobs ladder. They passed the tower, a structure so confused it could speak only in twisted, pornographic tongues, and the clergy announced to their congregation in voices inspired by the divine launching of the first interstellar obelisk that humanity was now synthetic angels, soaring on gasoline wings. The followers howled in pleasure, the tube of god was taking their envoys to see his thrown, decorated by constellations and quasars, to listen to his voice, a hole so vacuous it did not allow light to escape, to stare into his helium fusion eyes.

By now, the oracle had ejaculated its fumes and the projectile that had lifted off from its moist insides was a faint stream of fire writing the cursive of the lord across the sky. The pilgrims were finished clapping, finished watching, and it was the end of the miracle. All the worshippers were herded out of the oracles protected grounds. They moved in a dreamy daze, staring in wonderful disbelief, as the protectors guided them towards the gate. They did not speak, but made eye contact with each other and silently assented.

There is no more sky. Space has been harnessed. Like time, it will be a tool for future use. Man has been initiated into the pantheon of the gods. He sits beside them, an equal, an atomic overlord, super-sonic seraphim, a creator, a destroyer, a janitor of nature, a fortune-teller, a miracle maker, and a preacher.

There is no future. It is already known, already engineered. But they dont know that. Only he knows. Even while he watches, it almost convinces him. His head droops into his arms, where he cradles it paternally. The screen repeats it like a stained-glass window, over and over again while the preacher repeats himself over and over again. He collects fragments in his palms. He listens to the somber, dependable voice affirming the images, like the gothic icons of graphic saints dying desperately for gods grace. By now, he has seen enough. They stand motionless, just behind him, passively watching. He sways towards the screen, his own image superimposed over the lie. The room is the same, as if he just noticed. They are the same. The phone rings as soon as the noise ends, one sound for another

Hello Yes this is yes Im here Who is it? What do you well, how how did? Im Yes indeed Im Im I cant do this this any longer I dont well I cant Im not I dont want (Out-of-room voice 1: may gods love be with you) I cant continue Im afraid I cant not no Im uncomfortable with I didnt Yes. I know Im aware of that Im I cantWell yes of course but, Im not this is No, I (Out-of-room voice 2: and the papers want to know whose shirts you wear) Its not that its its just that I cant, I didnt Im not equipped, Im I need to know about, well about her I cant this is I dont care no whether were talking over Styrofoam cups I need to know about well, is it safe for her? (Voice 1: far above the world) So? Theres no need I dont need why? Im Im not I dont want Yes, well I understand but, Im I cant do you expect? How long? I mean this is how long will I have to to continue? Forever there I this is why? I Im no I will not I refuse my life my whole life the contract? under duress I what else could I? I surely I dont even know will I always? Ed? Yes I remember Ed the neologist the he wrote the acronyms and (Voice 2: and the stars look very different today) I I remember I remember them all ejected Is? Is there why, I mean why Ed, after all all these years? I dont understand? Im I no Im not you cant this is absurd youve what? Thanksgiving Day float? Where? carried away by a a cartoon dog do you? the footage? the Pulitzer picture? Do you? Im how? Youre saying he he was no, Im this is Im not no longer you cant no Im not going Im not afraid this is no life nowell I yes of course but (Voice 1: your circuits dead, theres something wrong) wait listen Im (Voice 1: can you hear me?) no no no Im not you cant Im I Im no Im not asking no more questions I I made a mistake no I didnt mean I was no worried you have to understand the pressure the Ive not Im not sleeping I cant I was worried about about her I swear I never meant dont please youre not going going to have Them Them do anything Im not (Voice 1: and theres nothing I can do)

Doctor Albert Lochner finds himself cloaked indiscreetly in a shaggy bathrobe with a Klimtian, oddly symmetrical pattern and cartoon slippers that look like they are going to dine on his heels. The television is finally quiet. The phone is talking to itself within the sheets. About this time of morning, and its subsequent retrieval of autumn dropping leaf-like memories, Lochner has managed to secure his first cup of coffee and lets its aromatic tendrils waft languidly up his nasal cavities (being a non-caffeine drinker), as he stands at the door, patiently waiting for yet another day of mad dashes across the American surrealscape with his two G-men. His mouth feels like hes been chewing tin foil, his eyes swollen from too many bargain mattress dreams, his greasy face extenuating multiplying depressions in his skin, finding himself up-close in the heads mirror, mapping his wrinkles topographically. He looks out over the empty parking lot of a thrifty motel two lights off the interstate as if hes a hermit just escaped the cave and witnessing the grandeur of gods true morning for the first time since he was chained to the shadowy puppets of false realities.

Every time the doctor thinks of it, he rides it out to completion, knowing full well that the same questions, the same ruinous ideas, and the same morology will make him consider, in the paroxysmal glitter of his minds eye, if it all didnt really begin with the iconography of the fiction, which will, without fail, lead him to consider how he went from pragmatic scientist to mythopoeic weaver of the tallest tale since the globe went flat after the reasonable good fellows of the 18th Century had their way with it. The story, the tradition, the beliefs, all the prerequisites for a proper myth

However, he has not gotten that far, not this morning, not the morning of chardonnay twilight, with Riesling spindles of light breaching the moldy curtains and Windex deficient windows. Hes still dwelling, like a very content Purgatorite, on the beginning of his lust for invention. When Lochner tries to analyze his own desires, his own actions, his own Freudian absurdities and Jungian nuisances, hes taken captive by the sort of reel-to-reel imagining of a brute, oftentimes vulgar, more often than not, nonsensical superciliousness of a pride and true mythomane. They are rides on his neurosis explored by the self of a drunken bodhisattva who has come to realize: the big questions not: whats the sound of one hand clapping, thats easy clap, clap, but whats the sound of one finger snapping? He is convinced, more often now than before, since hes had quite some time to contemplate it in the backseat of the government plated sedan, that he has always believed in tangential velocity. Like many children, he was told the tall tale of the man, who is said to smile down on his satellite TV screen, falling at a random eight kilometers per second, and grant the wishes of pure innocence and faith. But Lochner never saw the face, never saw the kindly wrinkles and gentle eyes, the mona lisa lips or the enlightened brow. He saw, when he looked up at the great balloon of refracted light, a lone silhouette in a rocking chair with his profile glaring out into the ether, a dying grandpa of the expanding universe who sat lonely and betrayed upon his lunar throne. But this was all fiction, like the Martian skull, or the canals of Venus, or the rotten apple core in the middle of the earth, where dragons dwelled and little midgets with hippie beards frolicked gaily with skinny little homo elves on Tolkienie quests.