Helicopters Fly Low in No Man’s Land


“You know none of this is real, right?” He asked as we walked away from the bar on a deserted Tuesday night. Despite the fifteen or so drinks, and my dismayed distraction that my female stalker had shown up, I replied clearly “Oh, I’ve always known that.”

But I was ahead of myself. Atlantis has an Atlantis and I was there getting drunk with a 6’6″, full grown, interdimensional Angel Baby. Really drunk. Why won’t this crazy stalker chick leave me alone drunk.
Her antipsychotic riddled brain could only focus on gravity. “Gravity” she would gasp wistfully with a smug knowingness in her jaundice yellowed brown eyes, every few moments, interrupting conversation.

Fortunately, drunkenness erased the rest of the evening, blood sample collections aside. I awakened next to sleeping Angel to “There are little bugs everywhere. This is unbelievable. I can see them. I want a room change. OK, I want a refund then!” Stalker was wreaking havoc again. She had latched on ferociously this time and ruined my date. Now, obviously hallucinating, she was making absurd complaints about Angel’s room to front desk.

The night before, Angel had made it a point to tell the cute college girl working front desk “I came all the way from New Mexico, just for her.” But really, I was just a side job, a few extra bucks along the way. A quick break from cargo transport for a quick blood draw.

Stalker was off the phone for less than 60 seconds before I heard it again. A wispy, barely audible “gravity.” I decided to explain some physics to get her to shut up. Angel Baby was an interdimensional private contractor with experience in CIGI grid building, but I don’t think he knew too much about physics.

I went on and on about physics and immortality on the ride to drop off Stalker and continued for the 36 mile ride to headquarters. “I just can’t understand why wealthy in the know types age so horribly. I mean, don’t the ones orchestrating the conspiracy KNOW they don’t have to get so old and nasty looking? Byrd looks like he’s about to bite with that wrinkly old beak!”
“You really don’t have anyone to talk to??” He forcefully questioned. I did not.

“I need you to know what I do for a living.” He instructed me to read the information in two very fat manila folders resting in the center console of his oversized king cab diesel truck. “I know what you do for a living. I read your linked in profile. I know you kill people.” He revved his engine.

That space in between the space in between was but a dream to most. Some not real is less real than not real. That place was packed chock full of bad actors pumped up on antipsychotics. They played their roles well. Puppeteers turned dreamers into hustlers and rapists. And policeman would sheepishly believe any story you gave them. And there was no gravity. No gravity at all.