I grew up in the forgettable town of G. (population 1,642),
just down the road from Tarkus Experimental Energy Laboratories. It must have
been a Right Government™ funded, secret operation – black-ops, skunkworks, CIA crap –
but no one in G. ever spoke about it; no one ever said one word about the strange
things that went on there in the dark. The police always had new,
top-of-the-line prowlers. The school library always had copies of the latest
books, and many first edition classics, and the school computer lab was equipped
with the latest technology -like the Urmx-7 computing system, complete with ENCOM end of
line MCP transmitters.We had the Urmx-7 system years before anyone else. But the
city fathers and mothers never said word one about Tarkus Labs.
Old Waters, Wilson Waters, was painted as a drunken paranoiac when he tried to convince the G. Daily Clarion to publish an article about the strange lights seen flashing over the Tarkus gated compound. He even gave them the photos he took of the lights as they buzzed back and forth above the town. I know for a fact that Wilson wasn’t a drinking man. I knew him for 30 years and never, never, knew him to drink so much as a single beer. All of his friends knew this about him, but Tarkus would not be mentioned. Wilson Waters was drowned in their lies, under the influence their money could buy. "Space Paranoids," indeed!
When Tarkus Experimental Energy Labs accidentally set fire to the mountain during one of their laser weapon trials, it was completely ignored. Smoke billowed into the sky, blotting out the sun; four or five houses were engulfed in the blaze, but no one said boo. The town completely refused to acknowledge the conflagration.
The Cold Sleep Temporal Displacement project perpetually anticipated the tragicomic arrival of a stranger. We were born mad. Some of us are still waiting.
“Jesus will give you air-conditioning and cookies, will shower you with ice-cream.” I never believed these campaign promises. Not from the John Birch Society. Not from Tarkus Experimental Energy Laboratories.
I had, for many years, a constellation of spider bites above my ankle, fiery red stars that itched and burned my leg all through the night. The spider bites on my neck caused nightmares, bad dreams about exotic dancers and the collapse of the sun. To this day I cannot extend out my right leg, or roll my neck without a series of cracks and pops.
I do not understand how they did it, but cats and rattlesnakes sleep at my feet. This is, undoubtedly, the work of Tarkus labs. Why would they develop automaton phlebotomists, armed with large-bore needles? Dress it up as quantum venipunctures if you like, but this was nothing but scientific sadism.
Old Waters, Wilson Waters, was painted as a drunken paranoiac when he tried to convince the G. Daily Clarion to publish an article about the strange lights seen flashing over the Tarkus gated compound. He even gave them the photos he took of the lights as they buzzed back and forth above the town. I know for a fact that Wilson wasn’t a drinking man. I knew him for 30 years and never, never, knew him to drink so much as a single beer. All of his friends knew this about him, but Tarkus would not be mentioned. Wilson Waters was drowned in their lies, under the influence their money could buy. "Space Paranoids," indeed!
When Tarkus Experimental Energy Labs accidentally set fire to the mountain during one of their laser weapon trials, it was completely ignored. Smoke billowed into the sky, blotting out the sun; four or five houses were engulfed in the blaze, but no one said boo. The town completely refused to acknowledge the conflagration.
The Cold Sleep Temporal Displacement project perpetually anticipated the tragicomic arrival of a stranger. We were born mad. Some of us are still waiting.
“Jesus will give you air-conditioning and cookies, will shower you with ice-cream.” I never believed these campaign promises. Not from the John Birch Society. Not from Tarkus Experimental Energy Laboratories.
I had, for many years, a constellation of spider bites above my ankle, fiery red stars that itched and burned my leg all through the night. The spider bites on my neck caused nightmares, bad dreams about exotic dancers and the collapse of the sun. To this day I cannot extend out my right leg, or roll my neck without a series of cracks and pops.
I do not understand how they did it, but cats and rattlesnakes sleep at my feet. This is, undoubtedly, the work of Tarkus labs. Why would they develop automaton phlebotomists, armed with large-bore needles? Dress it up as quantum venipunctures if you like, but this was nothing but scientific sadism.
No comments:
Post a Comment