Christopher WunderLee: The Loony: a novella of epic proportions

The firmament’s 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 Jacob’s 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 oracle’s 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 don’t 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 god’s 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… I’m here… Who is it…? What do you… well, how… how did…? I’m… Yes… indeed… I’m… I’m… I can’t do this… this any longer… I don’t… well… I can’t… I’m not… I don’t want… (Out-of-room voice 1: … may god’s love be with you…) I can’t continue… I’m afraid… I can’t… not… no… I’m uncomfortable with… I didn’t… Yes…. I know… I’m aware… of that… I’m… I can’t…Well… yes… of course… but, I’m not… this is… No, I… (Out-of-room voice 2: …and the papers want to know whose shirts you wear…) Its not… that… it’s… it’s just that… I can’t, I didn’t… I’m not… equipped, I’m… I need to know… about, well… about her … I can’t… this is… I don’t care… no… whether we’re talking… over Styrofoam cups… I need to know… about… well, is it safe… for her …? (Voice 1: …far above the world…) So? There’s no need… I don’t… need… why? I’m… I’m… not… I don’t want… Yes, well… I understand… but, I’m… I can’t… do you expect? How long? I mean… this is… how long will I have to… to continue…? Forever… there… I… this is… why…? I… I’m… no… I will not… I refuse… my life… my whole life… the contract…? …under duress… I… what else could I…? I… surely… I don’t 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… eject…ed… Is? Is there… why, I mean… why Ed, after all… all these years? I don’t… understand…? I’m… I… no… I’m not… you can’t… this is… absurd… you’ve… what…? Thanksgiving Day float…? Where…? …carried away… by a… a cartoon dog… do you…? …the footage…? …the Pulitzer picture…? Do you? I’m… how…? You’re saying he… he was… no, I’m… this is… I’m not… no longer… you can’t… no… I’m not… going… I’m not afraid… this is no… life… no…well… I… yes… of course… but… (Voice 1: …your circuit’s dead, there’s something wrong…) …wait… listen… I’m… (Voice 1: …can you hear me…?) …no… no… no… I’m not… you can’t… I’m… I… I’m… no… I’m not asking… no more… questions… I… I made a mistake… no… I didn’t mean… I… was… no… worried… you have to understand… the pressure… the… I’ve not… I’m not sleeping… I can’t… I was worried about… about her … I swear… I never meant… don’t… please… you’re not going… going to have Them… Them… do… anything… I’m not… (Voice 1: …and there’s 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 he’s 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 head’s mirror, mapping his wrinkles topographically. He looks out over the empty parking lot of a thrifty motel two lights off the interstate as if he’s a hermit just escaped the cave and witnessing the grandeur of god’s true morning for the first time since he was chained to the shadowy puppets of false realities.