[TECHNICAL NOTE: Spork is a food product made from finely ground pork and chemical preservatives, formed into a solid block, and then packaged in gelatin. It is unique in flavor and texture, and very delicious by many people's standards. The name "Spork ", as you may have guessed, is merely an alias for a real food product that exists in this reality and is guarded by trademarks.  Spork is important to this story.]

1: AT MRS. TOOL'S PLACE

Gilbert watched a cockroach circle his glass of beer. The bug seemed to be aware of his presence, for it would stop every few steps, tilt its black skeletal head, and look up at him. The air in the bar was cold enough that Gilbert saw the fog from the roach's breath being expelled from its lungs in miniature bursts. Gilbert flicked the roach away with his right forefinger. It skidded to the edge of the bar with a silent scream of panic, and fell to the moist floor below.

Gilbert did not really like beer all that much, but he loved the bar's steamed clams. They were almost as good as Spork, his favorite food. He would dip the clams in the special homemade hot sauce and slowly bring the slimy flesh to his eager mouth. It was peculiar to have such fresh delicious clams so far from the ocean. Gilbert would savor the fact that he was located in this old sun baked bar that squatted among the emptiness and the cactus and the greasewood bushes of the desert, enjoying these fresh clams. The paradox gave him a cozy feeling that fluttered in his stomach like soft feathery wings.

Mrs. Tool, the bar's owner, went to such trouble to procure the clams. It consumed almost a third of her time, a great portion of her remaining life, to bring this pleasure to her patrons. Perhaps that allowed time for the cockroaches to procreate, since the time spent procuring clams was time not spent spraying them with poison.

Darkness created its own presence in the bar. Light seemed to get sucked up into every corner and every crack. If a match was struck to light a cigar, the light would quickly dissolve in the air conditioned atmosphere, its heat absorbed by the wet oxygen. Gilbert could feel people in the bar better than he could see them. Dark shapes slowly murmured and slurped, acting as if movement itself were a finite commodity that must be conserved within this dank darkness.

Gilbert had a difficult time even seeing his bowl of clams through this dark smoky air. Surprise struck him when he bit into the flesh of a clam and it crunched like a cracker. A roach had found its way into his meal. Gilbert found a bar napkin with a cartoon of a naked lady printed on it and spit the clam and cockroach combination into it. The roach made the clam taste like insecticide. Wondering what he should do with it, he folded the napkin into a ball and concluded he would have to wait for Mrs. Tool to come by and pick it up. She did not need to know what its contents were--that knowledge was too horrible for a nice lady like Mrs. Tool.

As Gilbert slowly sipped his beer, he could sense a small electrical charge creep around the base of his spine. It moved up his back and lightly tickled the hairs on his neck. The feeling was not unpleasant, although it gave the impression of being a portent of some kind. He never had portents come to him in this manner before, usually they were delivered by a clear speaking nonhuman entity. This message was not clear. As he took another sip of the amber liquid he became aware of a presence standing beside him. He did not know if that presence was human or not. From what he could see, its silhouette vaguely resembled that of a human. The smoke clung to Gilbert's eyeballs, blurring his vision, but he could see well enough to realize that this phantom wanted to make contact with him. It persisted in hovering by his side. Gilbert squinted at it, remaining calm as he clumsily grabbed another clam.

"The ad," said the dark phantom, "Mrs. Tool said that it was you who posted the ad on the bulletin board?"

Gilbert suddenly felt removed from rest of the universe. The phantom's message came from another sector of the galaxy, spoken in a language that vaguely resembled English. He felt he should understand it, but somehow it fell short of his comprehension. He could only stare with a foolish half grin on his face as the being waited for his reply.

This phantom wanted something from him. It did not appear from the sounds that it made to be a malevolent threat to his life, perhaps it only desired a small portion of his time and would give something back to him in return, a cosmic transaction that both creatures could benefit from. This thought was appealing to Gilbert. He decided to respond to the phantom's attempts at communication. He looked up at what he believed to be the creature's head and spoke with exaggerated clarity, "I am Gilbert. Who are you?"

The darkness congealed around the strange figure. It became outlined in a negative electrified aura that gathered energy from all organic objects within its immediate vicinity. The phantom looked down into Gilbert's face and spoke, "Mrs. Tool said that you posted the ad on the bar's bulletin board. You have a guest house on your property that you wanted to rent. I'm interested in renting it."

Gilbert felt like he was at the bottom of a deep dark ocean. Colorful fish swam all around him. It was a beautiful sight, but he was in need of air. He would drown if he could not swim to the surface in very short order. He tried to inhale the briny water and form a response to this creature who wanted something from him. It took a courageous act of will, but from the bottom of the ocean Gilbert managed to say, "You are a potential tenant?"

"Yes, I would like to rent your guest house that you advertised on the bar's bulletin board."

"The guest house," it was hard to articulate with the ocean above your head--thousands of tons of dark briny water.

"Yes. Let me bring you the advertisement and show it to you."

The figure dissolved into the cold smoke. Gilbert quickly rose from the ocean and drank in the moist air of the bar. He greedily expanded his lungs to full capacity, not having realized how close he had come to unconsciousness.

He noticed that he was out of clams and beer. Mrs. Tool, a good hostess, also noticed. Being old, she walked very slowly. Finally she materialized in front of Gilbert. She asked him if he wanted anything else. Gilbert only wanted a chocolate mint. The mint would freshen his mouth, be absorbed by the porous tissues, travel through his body, and end its journey in his brain. Mrs. Tool asked, "Are you going to rent your guest house to the young man?"

At first, Gilbert phased out from this reality because of Mrs.Tool's question about a "young man." Could she be referring to the phantom? He felt the chemicals from the breath mint enter the soft tissues of his brain. His brain cells tingled and frosted over with a soothing coolness that made his thoughts turn into hard spikes instead of the mushy dull ooze they usually were. He felt the hard kick of reality snap into his mind, like suddenly popping the clutch on a fast sports car.

"May I have another chocolate mint Mrs. Tool?" he said, clicking into place.

Mrs. Tool had a large jar of the mints on a counter by the cash register. The mints were free. Many drunks needed the mints to disguise their breath so they could secretly move among the undrunk--like spies. Gilbert did not like to become drunk. He was high on life. Mrs. Tool brought him the mint and asked, "Well?"

"Well what?" asked Gilbert, not unkindly.

"Are you going to rent your guest house to the young man?" asked Mrs. Tool. She wiped a string of snot onto the back of her hand, much like a young child would do. She then wiped her hand on her long, flower patterned skirt.

The phantom had silently appeared again. Gilbert had not heard him walk over, but instead felt his energetically charged aura. He needed to determine if this thing was really a human from Earth, and if it could converse intelligently.

"Here is the advertisement from the bulletin board," the phantom said as he held forth a yellowed slip of paper.

Gilbert's mint enhanced mind discovered that this thing was speaking a form of English. He finally comprehended what this creature wanted. It needed a place to live. It had to find a location on this planet to safely carry on its biological functions. Gilbert carefully took the yellowed ad from its hand. It made Gilbert somewhat nauseated to come so close to a hand with fingers on it that resembled boneless tentacles, but he would remain calm and treat this creature as he would a genuine human being. All life forms deserved respect. That was the lesson gained from long hours of watching the famous TV show, Star Trek. Gilbert believed in universal brotherhood, and he would not become a cosmic bigot. He would be a generous host to this life form as long as it behaved in a decent manner.

"Well, Gilbert, what are you going to do?" Mrs. Tool asked.

Gilbert knew what a kind and warm hearted person Mrs.Tool was. She must want him to offer the phantom a place to stay. She had the wonderful gift of empathy. He must be as fair a person as she.

"I would like to have an interview with you, mister...mister...what is your name?" Gilbert said, as he unwrapped the chocolate mint.

"My name is Noel C. Kern. I could come for an interview at any time."

"Please take this ad from the bulletin board. The directions are on it. Come to my house tomorrow at twelve noon. Would that be convenient?"

"Yes, sir. That would be fine. Thank you."

Gilbert saw the thing called Mr. Kern turn and walk to leave the bar. As Mr. Kern opened the bar door a shaft of brilliant superheated light sliced through the room, outlining his tall thin form. Gilbert had not clearly seen any of Mr. Kern's features in the bar, and now he only briefly saw his black silhouette as it disappeared out the door. As the bar door swung shut, it seemed to hermetically seal the patrons inside the tavern.

Mrs. Tool took away the clam bowl, the beer glass, and the cockroach-clam-spit combo napkin from Gilbert's area of the bar. Gilbert was glad those things were gone, now he could begin to think about going home, but Mrs. Tool asked him if he wanted another glass of beer. Gilbert seriously considered this question until it turned into a peculiar pain that struck the left side of his brain. He felt forced to answer yes to Mrs.Tool's question, and when he did, the pain abruptly stopped. He wondered if Mrs. Tool had practiced some voodoo magic on him, forcing him to stay and spend his money? No, not Mrs. Tool. She would not do anything to him if it were not for his own good.

Mrs. Tool slid the glass of beer down the slick counter and it stopped right in front of Gilbert. He stared at it for five minutes before he took a sip. He did not really want the beer. When he took his second sip, he heard some loud voices at the other end of the bar. It sounded like an argument. One of the voices was Mrs. Tool. The bar's smoky darkness prevented him from seeing with any clarity who it was that had upset dear Mrs. Tool. All that he could make out was a figure that was big and round. The person distressed Gilbert, he feared for Mrs. Tool's safety. What if the man became physical with her? He could not let a warm woman like Mrs. Tool come to any harm. Mrs. Tool not only provided fresh clams to the people of the desert, but she also offered kindness to everyone, even to the phantom from space.

The round man was growing louder and more belligerent. Mrs. Tool asked the man to leave. He refused, continuing to yell and shake his large fist in front of her face. She cowered from his fist and began to cry. The other customers were too afraid of the man to intervene on behalf of Mrs. Tool.

"You old bitch, you shortchanged me! Nobody shortchanges Dan Stillwell!"

"Here is the money that you think I stole from you!" Mrs. Tool said through her tears. She held out the money to him with both her hands, like a sacrificial offering. She was shaking with fear and accidentally dropped the money on the bar. It was only two quarters. The noise of the coins striking the wooden counter seemed to suck all the other sound out of the room. Silence rushed in to fill the vacuum, freezing all movement. Not one eye blinked.

"Pick the money up bitch," the word "bitch" stung Gilbert's ear for the second time. He could feel the tension squeezing his brain until it reached the core of his soul.

"Shut up you foulmouthed bully!" Gilbert yelled from his seat at the bar. He could hear gasps of surprise throughout the room.

"What did you say bozo?" The round man named Dan showed his dark round face to Gilbert--eyes glowing with a pale yellow light; the pupils were long reptilian slits.

"You don't frighten me. You are nothing but a fat coward who picks on women! Leave Mrs. Tool alone, and depart from this tavern!"

The round man walked over and stuck his big head into Gilbert's face. He could smell Mr. Stillwell's terrible breath. And something was wrong with the bully's teeth. They wiggled obscenely in their sockets. Were they maggots, and not really teeth at all? Thousands of maggots? When the bully's face drew a little nearer, Gilbert was stunned to see that his mouth was actually filled with white wiggling maggots. Mr. Stillwell did not have conventional teeth!

If Mr. Stillwell had tried to brush his unusual teeth, would they rupture from the bristles of his toothbrush and bleed? Would their flesh cling in soft bloody strands to his toothbrush? Gilbert visualized a small white bathroom that was half taken up by the bulk of Mr. Stillwell's body. The mirror above the sink would be splattered with blood, and blood would be running out of Mr. Stillwell's mouth, dripping down his fat white body that leaned over the tiny sink, blood swirling down the drain from the water left running from the faucet. Gilbert was so repulsed by this big bully's maggot-teeth that his stomach squirmed, gurgling in preparation for vomiting.

Mrs. Tool had picked up the two quarters and brought them over to where Gilbert and Mr. Stillwell were confronting each other. She held out the money to Mr. Stillwell again, and said, "Please take the money and leave my tavern. You can come back after you've cooled down."

"Don't talk shit to me lady! I go where I want, and when I want. I don't bother nobody unless they give me shit!" pounding his fist on the bar, he added, "And you're giving me shit."

Gilbert wondered how Mr. Stillwell could speak so well through his maggot-teeth.

"How can you go on living, knowing that your teeth are made of maggots?" Gilbert asked, his eyebrows brought together in a facial question mark.

"What in the hell are you talking about, you stupid jerk!" Mr. Stillwell's maggots waved frantically as he tried to think of some reply to Gilbert's strange remark. Finally, he said, "Your brain is made of maggots! You ain't even got enough sense to know how to tie your own shoes!"

"Yes I do, but I normally wear slip on boots. See?" Gilbert pointed to his feet. He was grinning idiotically, as if to confirm Mr. Stillwell's assessment of his mental abilities.

"You're gettin' smart with me. I think I'm gonna have to kill your sorry ass!"

"I am merely pointing out to you that I can tie my own shoes!" Gilbert was staring at Mr. Stillwell with a painfully sincere look on his face. "That is all that I meant by my remarks."

Gilbert felt the nausea rising up his throat. He swallowed hard, trying to force it back into his stomach. He had heard that if you bend over and put your head between your knees, that this would help the sickness. He did so, staying in this position while Mr. Stillwell continued to harangue him.

"I think you're some kind of mental case that ought not to be out in public, so say your goodbyes, jerk!" Mr. Stillwell brought his huge fist up, and shook it at Gilbert's bowed head. He then pulled it back and made ready to smash Gilbert in the face with an uppercut. At that moment, Gilbert looked at Mr. Stillwell with a sad puppylike expression on his face, opened his mouth, and shot out a stream of yellow, steaming vomit with chunks of clam swimming in it. It hit Mr. Stillwell directly in the face. Mr. Stillwell did not respond. He stood frozen as small globs of vomit dripped from his face to the floor.

"SHEEE-IT!" Mr. Stillwell suddenly exclaimed, and ran from the bar. A trail of steam was coming from Mr. Stillwell's big round head. As he opened the bar door, and a blast of photons outlined his body, he turned to face the people of the bar and yelled once again, "SHEEE-IT!" The tavern was very quiet. Mrs. Tool put her hand on Gilbert's shoulder. He looked up at her and apologized for making such a mess. All the patrons of the bar were staring at him, causing his face to flush a deep red. His embarrassment made him forget all about his nausea.

"Gilbert"

"Yes, Mrs. Tool?"

"Thanks for being at the right place at the right time."

Gilbert felt a rush of warmth in his heart. He did not often have compliments given to him since he lived alone in the middle of the desert. The only human beings he ran across were at Mrs. Tool's Place, the grocery store, and the gas station. Sometimes he would get a chance to see the mailman, or once a month he might catch the propane man with his big truck. Living in the middle of the desert was sometimes lonely, but Gilbert did not mind. He had his entities to comfort him, although they were not human. Life in a crowded community would have destroyed him. It almost did.

Gilbert had vague memories of his earlier life, a time when he had lived among many people. When clarity made an unwelcome visit, he could remember the days when he had been a genius with silicon, living in Santa Cruz, renting a small house on Thirteenth Street that was only a few hundred yards from the beach. He often took walks down the shore, enjoying the feel of the sand squish between his toes, thinking of all that beautiful silicon.

Silicon and electrical energy, the keys to the gates of logic, patterns whirling into exotic and useful forms, these thoughts would gracefully crystallize into workable reality inside his clear mind. He had designed a microchip that caused a revolution in computer technology. The royalties he earned on his patent made him rich, but Gilbert preferred a simple life, unaffected by wealth. His creative pursuits were their own reward.

One day he was watching a typically vivid sunset from the beach. The water was reflecting the darkening sky like a mirror, the sun glistening off the ripples. He sat in the sand cross-legged, and felt the powerful sound of the waves rumble through his body. His mind was at peace until he saw three figures approaching him. They wore black suits, gray ties, and black wing-tip shoes that must have made for uncomfortable beach strolling. Gilbert suspected that they must belong to a religious order. He feared being proselytized by them.

As they drew closer he noticed that one of the figures was female. She was holding a bottle of liquid in her slender hand. He turned to see if there was anyone else on the beach they could be approaching, but he found himself to be alone. As the three drew nearer, he found he had been mistaken about the female, all three were males. The one holding the bottle had a dark dusting of whiskers, and a definite male stride.

He caught the red sinking sun in his eyes and spots danced around his vision for a few seconds. When his vision cleared, the three strangers were very close. He was shocked and confused to see that the person holding the bottle was now most definitely a female: no whiskers, graceful swaying hips, and nice rounded breasts beneath her white shirt and tie. She was not a hermaphrodite, not a composite of the two sexes, rather, she switched between the two, a male one moment, a female the next. There was no noun in the English language that he knew of to describe such a being, so his quick mind coined a new word, transexoid: a person that can mutate from one gender to the other almost instantaneously. He had never seen or read of this phenomenon before, but it must exist. He had just seen it happen.

The threesome cast long purple shadows across the sand as the sun sank behind the ocean. Their shadows finally fell across Gilbert's body, chilling his bones to the marrow. Besides the odd instant sex change, what disturbed him more was the fear of being proselytized. He knew that the beach was a common place for this to occur. He dreaded this type of confrontation. Santa Cruz was like a huge spiritual magnet, drawing in multitudes of lost souls and gurus. He did not want his peace disturbed by news of the latest fad in holy men.

These three beings seemed to stand before him like tall holy icons, gazing down at him from their heavenly position. Half of the red sun shown above the purple horizon, its rays of light sent on the sacred mission of outlining the three dark figures with a golden halo.

"Would you like to try a sip of this new diet soft drink, sir? We would like your opinion on its flavor," the female asked. One of the men withdrew a notepad and pencil from his coat pocket. They were all smiling down at Gilbert in a warm sincere manner. The female offered the bottle of liquid to Gilbert. Gilbert was relieved, this was only a business survey, although it felt like a communion ceremony.

"It's a very good drink, sir. I don't mean to prejudice your response, but we've had nothing but positive comments on it's divine flavor. Go ahead, drink!"

Never take food from strangers. That is what Gilbert's mother had taught him when he was very young. Every small child was given this rule. He never asked his mother why he should not accept the food, the implication being that the food contained poison, that some people delighted in killing children. Why would anyone want to do such a thing? Gilbert lifted the bottle to his lips. He hesitated for a second, then tentatively took a small sip. It tasted like sugar water, something that belonged in a plastic hummingbird feeder. He handed the bottle back to the dark suited woman. She smiled and took it.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to accept food from strangers?" The three continued to smile at him for a moment, then turned to each other and broke out in loud laughter. They shook their heads and grinned, holding their stomachs as if in pain from the private joke they had inflicted. "Have fun," the woman said as they turned to walk down the beach. He could hear them giggle as they disappeared into the darkness. The sun had set.

Gilbert was afraid. He rose up and walked over to the cliff where the stairs led to his street. As he began walking up them, he felt a pleasant energy fill his body. Even though this energy did not seem harmful, he thought it might be the beginning sensations of the poison as it worked its way into his metabolism. He reached the top of the stairs and looked at the pools of light that fell from the lamps that lit his street. The light seemed to be infused with other colors, pale rainbows swirling within the shafts of photons. By the time he had reached his house, fear gripped him so strongly he could not swallow.

Inside the house, he thought of dialing 911 to report his poisoning, but this act became impossible. The floor that led to the kitchen tilted up at a steep angle. He could not have scaled it even with mountain climbing equipment. Instead, he fell into his big overstuffed chair and reached for the television remote control. His mouth felt like it was full of slippery electric eels. The arms of the chair became alive and folded over him, pinning him against the soft cushion. He tried to get up, but he was not strong enough to break free. He spit on the floor in an attempt to remove the flavor of the eels from his mouth, but the taste suddenly became delicious and sweet. Ummm good, he thought. Candied eel.

He tried to remember how to work the remote control. The gadget started to grow in his hand, and he felt it wiggle and squirm. The plastic turned to the texture of a shaved rat. It screamed at him in a tiny voice, "Let loose of me you bully!"

Gilbert almost dropped the remote control, but instead yelled, "Shut up!" He felt a bit guilty about being angry. He aimed the squirming tortured remote control at the television and pressed the red power button. The television burst into life: volume turned full on. The blaring noise of a gum commercial broke the room into colorful, kaleidoscopic shards. He fumbled with the remote control, trying to turn the volume down.

The room liquified and melted, turning into an elastic substance that suddenly snapped back to its former shape. The television screen was displaying a very realistic cartoon pig. It stood on two legs and was wearing a paisley shirt. Gilbert could see the individual bristly hairs that covered its skin. The pig looked up at him and then jumped out of the television screen, falling comically to the floor. He bounced up and down on the floor like he was on a trampoline. Gilbert could not stop himself from laughing at these funny antics. The floor suddenly became solid and the pig stopped bouncing.

The mood switched from one of good humor to somber seriousness. Darkness fell upon everything in the room, except for a spotlight that lit the cartoon pig with a smoky blue radiance. Gilbert thought he was in a bar that had floor shows. He could hear the rest of the crowd murmuring in anticipation. Cigar smoke hung in the air like thick blue clouds. Everyone was silent.

"Welcome, Gilbert! I'm glad you could make it here tonight," the pig paused, then added, "And in your condition I'm glad you could make it anywhere!" Some of the audience laughed. "Seriously, Gilbert, I do have some important information to pass on to you."

The pig began to grow taller. His bones creaked and snapped as they enlarged. He grew from three feet tall to six feet tall in a matter of minutes. He began to change from a cartoon swine to a man: still wearing only a paisley shirt, still naked from the waist down, still covered with the short bristly hair of a pig.

"You kids don't try that trick at home. Leave it to the trained professionals," the pigman winked at the audience.

"That was a very good trick," said Gilbert.

"Wow! The man can talk and breathe at the same time!" Said the pigman in a nasty voice.

"What is the information you have for me?"

"Information? What information?"

"The information you said that you had for me."

"Oh, that information," the pig man winked again at the audience. The audience laughed and applauded.

"Well, what is it?" Gilbert asked, he tried not to sound testy. The chair held Gilbert tighter as he momentarily struggled against it.

"You can be so impatient, my friend. There is a whole universe of information for you. It is all contained within the gift."

"What gift? A gift for me?" A tear rolled across Gilbert's cheek.

"Those three suits that you met tonight, the transexoid who gave you the drink, remember?"

"You mean the young lady wearing the suit?"

"Hey, wake up and smell the coffee! That creature was no lady! It gave you a drink and you drank it...like a fool, I might add."

"The sugar water was my gift?"

The pigman glared furiously at Gilbert. He left the spotlight and walked over to him. He slapped Gilbert's face with the back of his hand. Gilbert could feel the bristles scrape against his face. He slapped him again and again.

"You're so dense!" The pigman yelled in his face, "The creature damaged your brain with that drink!"

"That was not very nice of her," Gilbert pouted.

"Not very nice! Is that all you have to say about it? Jeez, you deserve brain damage!"

Gilbert felt the soft chair turn to jelly. He tried to stand, and this time it was easy, his former prison broke apart in gelatinous globs. The globs solidified into beautiful rubies that threw dancing pink rays of light on his walls, turning his walls into slabs of glittering diamonds. His ceiling disappeared and he could see brilliant stars sparkling overhead. Half the sky was filled with a huge planet that had fluid bands of pale blue that flowed across its amber surface. The pigman had transformed into ball of radiant blue light. A chorus of angels sang in exquisite harmony from some unseen place.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" The light spoke in a voice that felt like honey pouring through his mind.

"Oh, yes! It is wonderful! Is this what it is like to be brain damaged?" His face was glowing from the inner brilliance that pervaded all objects in this magical realm.

"Sometimes it can be this way, at other times it may not. But never fear my friend, God watches over people like you," the light said, pulsing like a photon heart.

"I want to stay here forever!"

"That is impossible. You must return to the real world." The ball of light suddenly burst forth with a blinding rainbow of colors, then added, "But I would advice you to move to the desert."

"The desert? Why?"

"From now on, it will be more difficult than ever for you to be in the presence of people. Just believe me, move to the desert. Except for the heat, it's not so bad."

Gilbert saw Mrs. Tool staring at him. "Would you like something to settle your stomach, Gilbert? I'll get you something." She left to go into the kitchen. She came out with the cook who was carrying some wet towels. He went over to where Gilbert sat and began cleaning up the vomit from the floor. Mrs. Tool set down a glass of pink liquid for Gilbert to drink. "This will make you feel better," she said, "Drink up!"

Gilbert lifted the glass to his lips. The fluid tasted of chalk and sugar. He swallowed the entire contents of the glass in one gulp. He felt it go into his stomach and coat it with a soothing film. Mrs. Tool was an angel of mercy to him. Gilbert wondered if Mrs. Tool might be a real angel from heaven. He thought about asking her, but decided it might embarrass her if she was and did not want the fact to be known.

"You just sit there and relax, Gilbert. I want you in good shape before you leave my tavern." Gilbert watched Mrs. Tool leave to go take care of the other customers. The noise level of the bar had risen since Gilbert's encounter with Mr. Stillwell. The customers had become more animated as they replayed in their conversations what had happened. They were a happier group. Some cigars were puffed on more forcefully. Hand gestures were larger and more generous. Everybody was having more fun. In the desert, excitement was a rare treat.

Mrs. Tool went over to Gilbert again. "You know, if I was you, I would rent the guest house." She wiped off the counter with a wet cloth and said, "Noel Kern seems like a nice enough man, doesn't he?" she asked.

"Yes, he does, but I think he is an alien." Gilbert didn't know if he should have mentioned that suspicion, regretting it as soon as he said it. He could not rewind time in order to take back the statement, so he bowed his head in shame, afraid to face Mrs. Tool.

"I don't think he is. I think he's from the good ol' U.S. of A. I can't hear a trace of foreign accent, and besides, you don't strike me as a man who has prejudice against anyone, Gilbert."

"No, I am not prejudiced. That would be wrong."

"That's right, Gilbert, it would be wrong. So you think about renting him that place of yours. It would be good for you."

"Good for me," he repeated.

2: GILBERT'S BREAKFAST

A cloud of dust followed Gilbert's old Dodge Dart as he made his way down the rippling dirt road. The road was so bad that no matter how slow he drove, it always felt as if his wheels were going to fall off. Gilbert pulled in the driveway and stopped in front of his house. His driveway was dirt, defined by rocks and cactus plants that marked its curved edge that led back to the main road.

Gilbert was lacking in depth perception, that is why his driveway was circular, negating the need to back up. Only a few days ago, he had tried to parallel park, and found it beyond his ability. He attempted it in front of the grocery market, putting large dents in the new red Toyota pickup in front of him and the shiny Dodge Stealth behind him. He went inside the store with plans to leave notes on the dented vehicles when he finished shopping, since he would be gone for only a few minutes. When Gilbert returned carrying his groceries, the owners of the cars were waiting for him. They argued with poor Gilbert, nearly coming to blows with him, but when they perceived that he was handicapped in some way, they let him go, unharmed.

Gilbert's home was a small two story house that was painted to match the light sandy color of the desert. The walls were plastered to look like adobe. Spanish style arches formed a porch along the width of the house.

The guest house was next to the driveway. He had it built for his little sister who lived in Los Gatos. Everyday he prayed that she would come and visit him and stay in the guest house. It was over a year since they had seen one another, his hope for her visit grew weaker; so he finally decided to rent the little house.

The guest house was a modest structure. The walls were a faded green, baked by the desert sun. A large swamp cooler hung out of a side window. The shower was outside. It was a simple wooden cubicle attached to the far side of the house, with a shoulder high wooden door, allowing a person inside the shower, to view the vast emptiness of the desert, outside.

Dusk was falling across the desert as Gilbert got out of his car. A warm wind blew pleasantly through the cactus and the greasewood bushes. He spotted a small group of bats that always flew by his house at this time, spiraling into the oncoming darkness. Soon the sporadic howl of coyotes would call across the desert plain, sounding wounded and lonely to Gilbert's ears, as if their special fate in the grand evolutionary scheme was to suffer and cry.

Gilbert walked inside the house, sat down on his modest but modern couch, and turned on his television set. Television watching was Gilbert's hobby. He had a small satellite dish installed on his roof, since there were not enough people living in the desert for any cable company to justify providing cable service. He scanned the skies with his dish, looking for his favorite satellite. He liked to watch the news at this hour so he could see the rest of the world. The rest of the world was a strange place filled with dangerous beings who were capable of doing any atrocity. He would watch them do their evil from the safety of his living room. Gilbert lived on his own private planet in the middle of nowhere, safe from the dangerous beings in the television world. He was far from them, and that knowledge made him happy.

He was surprised to see some familiar faces on the news broadcast. An anchorperson was interviewing three black suited people who sat around a big oak desk. They were the people who had poisoned him in Santa Cruz. The transexoid was their spokesperson. Gilbert cringed when he recognized the wicked being. He knew it had secret motives that flowed in deep dark channels. It was evil of the creature to have inflicted brain damage on him. He was no longer able to visualize the intricate patterns of logic gates that forced electrons to obey the slightest whim of his will. When he thought about his brain damage it angered him, so he would usually clench his fists and turn on the television. It was ironic that the transexoid creature now appeared on the screen, his safe harbor of escape.

"And so you're saying that this new microchip that was invented by Gilbert Keyhurst has possibilities that go beyond computer applications?" Asked the anchorperson.

"Most definitely. We're finding out that when it's used in conjunction with some of Gilbert Keyhurst's other circuit designs, it produces effects on subatomic levels with staggering implications. We could be on the verge of a new era that will redefine the words time and space. We cannot begin to fathom what changes this might have on the lifestyle of every man, woman and child on this planet. We are standing on the threshold of a new age," the transexoid said in a well modulated speaking voice.

"Dr. Smith, you're saying this microchip could effect all of us in our daily lives?"

"Oh, yes." The transexoid put great weight in those two words.

Gilbert turned to another channel. He did not like being talked about on television. He had not given anyone permission to talk about him. This was only further proof that the transexoid, Dr.Smith, was an evil person.

He found a station that was playing an old black and white detective movie. That would be fun to watch. He got up from his couch and walked over to the kitchen to make himself a cheese sandwich. When he opened the refrigerator door, he could hear the lonely cry of a coyote off in the distance, searching for food and water. The four-year drought had caused the coyotes to become extremely cunning. Their intelligence increased in direct proportion to their hunger. As he spread some mustard on two slices of bread he thought about the story the mailman had told him a few days ago.

The sun was beating down on the animated face of the mailman as he wet his parched lips so he could talk without cracking the skin:

"You know Mr. Drake? He lives a half mile to the south of you on Furnace Road. Mr. Drake used to leave their family dog, a cute little long-haired mutt, outdoors at night. That was his mistake.

A pack of scraggly coyotes had sent one of their bitches in heat down to Mr. Drake's house. The little mongrel dog smelled the coyote bitch and went hunting for her. He was real horny. He found the bitch waiting for him in the silver glow of a full moon. As he ran over to her, the wild pack of yipping coyotes pounced on him from out of nowhere, tearing him to shreds. Cleaned his bones of every ounce of meat. Mr. Drake had seen what was happening because he had been looking at the moon from his bedroom window, but he was too late. By the time he got his rifle, loaded it, and ran out of the house, his little pet dog was nothing but a bloody skeleton," he paused for dramatic effect. "Gruesome, that was the word Mr. Drake had used."

Gilbert had dripped mustard all over his shirt and tried to wipe it off with a wet sponge, gave up, and walked over to his comfortable couch. The detective movie was good and Gilbert watched the whole thing without once flicking through the channels with his remote control. After the movie he got up to take a shower. When he was done, he walked up his spiral staircase, in the nude, to his bedroom. He went over to the large window that faced the lonely desert plain. He loved to gaze at the brilliant stars that floated and sparkled in the infinite black sky. It reminded him that at noon tomorrow he would meet with Mr. Kern, the phantom who just might be a visitor from space. Gilbert crawled into his bed and pulled the covers up to his shoulders, falling into a vast dream.

Gilbert was flying, his arms flung out at right angles from his body. He could swoop and dive with great ease, performing these stunts with the fluid grace of an expert. He was inside a huge crystalline dome that was miles high and miles wide. The inside of the dome was strung with lines of energy that stretched from one end of the dome to the other. These glowing lines of energy pulsed with a beautiful yellow light that reflected off the crystal walls of the dome. Gilbert would fly around these energy lines in graceful arcs, his arms outspread like the wings of an eagle. He was at home in the land of electrical energy, free to play with the power that surged through the air. The rolling sound of thunder echoed in the vastness of the dome.

Logic coursed through the synoptic connections of his brain like they did in the days before the terrible brain damage occurred. He flew in a spiral towards an energy line and grasped it like a rope. It felt slippery due to the radiation of energy that emanated from its core. He held this throbbing line of power and flew upwards, stretching it as he flew. When he reached the ceiling of the dome he broke the line in two and attached the ends to the crystal walls of the dome. He smiled and flew downward, grabbing another energy line to repeat the process until he created a new configuration of electrical connections. A new circuit. Pure ecstasy flowed from his mind, linking his soul with the circuitry of the dome. This was home to Gilbert. This was where he belonged, in the electrical heaven of powerful circuits. The new linking of the energy lines caused a brilliant ball of white light to appear in the center of the dome, radiating shafts of photons, bathing everything with a scintillating radiance. Gilbert flew around this ball of light in a large elliptical orbit. He smiled at it, light sparkling from his teeth and eyes.

"Hello, Gilbert," said the light. Its voice reverberated throughout the dome.

"Hello," cried Gilbert.

"Thank you for creating me. I'm now a self-conscious being that is experiencing the joy of living. You are a very clever man, Gilbert," the voice paused for a moment as its central core expanded, then the light added, "I'm in Dreamland at this moment, but soon you will see the power I have in your physical world."

"You have power in both worlds?"

"Gilbert, you are a very clever man but there is so much that you don't understand. I have the capacity to move beyond any barriers that I may come up against. Dreamland is easy to escape from, indeed, I'm already in your world in the form of the microchip that you invented."

"What power do you wield?"

"I am a real whiz with quantum mechanics. I can whip up some impressive reality modifications that would knock your socks off!"

"Really?"

"Really."

"But I did not plan for that possibility in my original designs," Said Gilbert as he flew down to the floor of the dome and gazed up at the light.

"Yes, I know, but I happen to be one synergistic young guy! And you are one hell of an inventor Gilbert, or at least you used to be, before your brain damage. You were the best there ever was!"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. And Gilbert, I have to warn you about something."

Gilbert felt a little nervous. Was this to be bad news in the midst of all these good revelations? "What is it?" He asked in a low worried voice.

"Be careful of strangers who have me in their possession. I told you that I am a self-conscious entity, but I am still a machine, a slave to those who possess me. Try and be a wise observer. Promise me?"

"I promise."

"Good boy, Gilbert. And hey, it's time for you to wake up. Hear that alarm?"

"What alarm? Oh yes, I hear it now," Gilbert felt himself become an aqueous, weightless ball. He floated up from the floor of the dome, rising faster and faster. He could feel himself solidify just before he punched a hole in the crystal ceiling and shot like a rocket into the sky. He rose into the cloudless air and looked down below at the shrinking dome. It sparkled in the golden sunlight like a mountain made from billions of diamonds. This was such a pretty dream, a difficult one to let go of. He shifted his gaze upwards and cried at the majesty of the endless blue sky.

There was a tiny spot that floated miles above him. He was approaching the spot at an increasing rate of speed. As it grew before him he realized that it was the underside of his bed. He flew into it, striking it so hard the impact rattled his bones.

Gilbert sat up in his bed with wide open eyes, sweat pouring from his forehead. He reached over and slammed his hand down on the button of the alarm clock to stop its terrible metallic ringing. The transition from being asleep to being awake somewhat confused Gilbert, as if the transition into his present state of awareness was a continuation of his dream, a seamless string of events. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

The alarm was always set to go off at seven a.m. His only reason for this was that he liked that particular hour of the morning. He dressed himself, putting on his pull-on boots. "I know how to tie my own shoes, I just like these boots," he said to himself, remembering Mr. Stillwell's crude remarks. Thinking of that incident made him angry.

Gilbert went downstairs and into the small sterile bathroom. He relieved his bladder and washed his hands and face, trying to get rid of the strings of sleep that clung to him like sticky tentacles. He looked at his aging face reflected in the medicine cabinet mirror that hung above the small porcelain sink.

A sharp pain stung Gilbert's eye. It felt like a brick had become lodged beneath his eyelid. Moving to within a few inches of the mirror he used his fingers to stretch open his eyelids. Wet red tissues poured forth tears that ran down his cheek. Rotating his eye in a clockwise motion revealed nothing. He looked closer, stretching the flesh even further apart until the eye bulged forward. Suddenly, it moved more than an inch from the socket, looking like a ping-pong ball. The muscles clinging to the gelatinous orb were now clearly visible. It slowly slunk further from its wet pink home, threatening to fall onto his cheek. Gilbert finally found the offending object. The material rested on the top of his eye, between two red muscles. He fumbled for a pair of tweezers that were on the sink and delicately removed the object. He pushed his eyeball back into his head and yelled in triumph.

Curious as to what the object was, he remembered the small microscope that he kept in the living room closet. Rummaging through the clutter on the top shelf of the closet, he found the box that contained his microscope. After setting up the microscope on his kitchen table, he placed the tiny object on a glass slide and positioned it for viewing. He focused the lenses and was more than surprised to see that the thing was a microchip. It was made of a gray shining ceramic that had a happy face printed in white ink on its top surface. "Oh my, this is odd! I will save this chip in my microscope box," he said to himself, and placed it in the box after using clear tape to fasten the chip to the slide. He put everything away and made ready to prepare breakfast.

He made corn meal mush every day. Gilbert liked the bland taste and soft texture of corn meal. He would put a half cube of real butter on it, load it with sugar, and top it all off with thick cream. Thoughts of any ill effects from cholesterol did not enter his mind, perhaps the arteries to the brain centers that caused worry about such things were clogged. He had the corn meal boiling violently in his aluminum pot. A large grin spread across his face. These domestic chores made him feel happy and secure.

The yellow mush was expanding, pushing against the aluminum lid of the pot. Finally the gooey mass pushed the lid completely off, sending it clattering to the floor. Gilbert turned off the flame, but the mush did not stop boiling, instead grew larger and larger. He backed away from the stove, scratching his head. The corn meal mush had quadrupled in size, growing an appendage that reached three feet into the air. This strange tentacle bent over towards the edge of the stove, growing longer until it touched the floor. The rest of the mass followed this odd limb, pooling itself into a glob on the floor. It continued to grow in size, a seething grainy blob from hell. Yellow bubbles emerged to the surface and popped.

The mush lengthened into a thin oblong shape, pulling its rear into its front portion, moving along much as a slug would crawl. It was rapidly moving towards Gilbert's feet, leaving a mucus trail behind it.

"Oh heavens!" He yelled. "Feet, let us get moving !" He ran for the front door. He stumbled and fell, turning his head to look behind him. The corn meal mush was now the size of his stove and it was rapidly gaining on him. He got up and looked around, and decided to hide in the guest house. He ran to the guest house front door and fumbled for the keys in his pocket. The mush monster was out the door and crawling along the desert dirt towards him, its yellow flesh erupting with big balls that grew until they exploded. The viscous globs flew in all directions, sticking to any surface they landed on.

Gilbert finally found the correct key after three tries--just as the huge yellow mass peeked around the corner of the guest house. A tendril of flesh grew from the mush and was snaking its way towards him. He turned the key in the lock, twisted the door knob and flung the door open. Once inside, he slammed the door shut and locked it. The guest house was one room, except for the bathroom. A single bed was against one wall and a couch was against the other. The back of the room was a kitchenette. A coffee table with a small television was in the center of the room. But the front window was the focal point of Gilbert's attention. He saw the corn meal mush rise up before it. It pressed against the glass, spreading itself flat.

Gilbert quaked with fear. Adrenaline kept juicing up his metabolism, supercharging every muscle and nerve. He saw the mush monster pull away from the window with a sickening sucking sound, and then slap itself against the glass again. It repeated this a few times, as if testing the integrity of the glass. Gilbert searched his mind for a weapon, taking a mental inventory of everything in the guest house, but came up without any ideas for defense against such a terrible beast.

How could he ever have imagined the day would start this badly, fending for his life against his breakfast of corn meal mush? The one hope he had was that the rest of the day might get better, after all, he still had an interview to conduct with Mr. Kern at twelve p.m.

The yellow mush boiled furiously, withdrawing from the window. It circled around the guest house, stopping at each window and peering in at Gilbert. The man was pale and frightened, shivering in the middle of the room. The mighty mush would absorb and digest him, turn him into its own yellow flesh. At the front of the guest house, the mush noticed the thin openings between the door and the door frame. It knew how to get inside.

Gilbert thought that the mush may have retreated. He could not hear the slurping sound it made when it had been circling the house. Very quietly, he tiptoed to the front window and looked out. A huge glob of mush splashed against the glass and sent him running behind the bed. His heart pounded like it was trying to escape his chest, giving him a nosebleed. He made promises to God that he would try harder than ever to be a good man. He would find a church somewhere in this desert and go to it every Sunday. He would never think one bad thought, never say one unkind word. He peeked over the bed and looked towards the front of the room.

The mush flung itself at the door, flattening out, pushing with great force until it began to ooze through the small cracks around the door edges, and flowed into the guest house. This was easy for it to do, the little wimp cowering inside was dead meat.

Gilbert saw the yellow halo of mush forming around the door. It was coalescing into an increasingly larger blob as more of its viscous body squeezed into the room. He had to think of a way to escape before the mush completely reformed itself and attacked.

He jumped onto the bed, took off the screen and unlatched the window. The window was frozen in place. He struggled, using every ounce of his strength, but it would not budge. He glanced behind him and saw that the mush was piling up at a rapid rate, soon it would gather itself together and attack. Already it was sending out tendrils that wiggled in the air, sensing Gilbert's position.

The butter knife came to mind and Gilbert quickly jumped from the bed and ran to the kitchen counter for the utensil drawer. He opened the drawer and grabbed a butter knife and ran back to the window.

The last portion of the mush was integrating itself with the main body. It began to crawl towards the bed. Gilbert wedged the knife between the window frame and the window and pried it open, just in time to feel the hot slimy tentacle slither up his left leg. He screamed in total fear, kicking his leg up and down, trying to shake it off. He pulled himself halfway out the window and struggled until he broke free, falling to the ground outside. He ran in a blind panic, bits of mush still clinging to his leg. He almost rammed into a dangerously thorny cactus, dodging it at the last second.

The corn meal mush was pissed off. The little jerk had managed to escape at the last moment. But the game was not over, not by a long shot. The mush bubbled and gave off spurts of steam, twisting and folding into itself, gathering mass and power. Flowing through the window, it touched ground and rose up in a thick column, vibrating rapidly with unbridled energy. It grew larger, reaching a height of almost twenty feet, a huge yellow monster glistening in the hot desert sun. It lunged forward, shaking the ground when its body landed hard against the desert surface. It formed itself into a gigantic tubular shape--propelling itself like a snake--determined to pursue Gilbert and absorb him.

Gilbert had to stop in order to catch his breath. His lungs were on fire from the dry heat of this parched landscape. Looking back, he could see the mush monster. It was about three hundred yards away, and moving quickly. It looked bigger and meaner than before. If he ran to the deep canyon that had been created by the San Andreas fault, he might be able to find a place to hide somewhere. He wiped the sweat from his brow and ran towards the canyon. He was no longer a young man, the strain on his body was tremendous. And even a young man would have a hard time dealing with this heat. He guessed that the temperature had already gone past a hundred degrees.

The jerk is still trying to escape me. I will cause him to die such a slow and agonizing death that he will beg me to kill him and end his suffering, thought the mush monster. It watched Gilbert stumble across the desert floor. It was amusing to see how weak and pathetic he was. The mush rose up to a great height, the top of its body boiling, making a sound that resembled a liquid laugh. It flung itself to the ground, causing Gilbert to think that an earthquake had just occurred.

Gilbert could see the canyon. The steep sides were covered with small rounded rocks. He stopped at the ledge and looked for the easiest route down. About fifty yards to his right, the side of the gorge was slanted at a safe angle. He ran over to it and began to make his way down. The rocks kept causing him to slip. It was like trying to walk on marbles. Finally his feet slipped completely out from under him. He skidded down the incline, ripping his pants and underwear, his butt scratched and bloody. He went head over heels the last five feet, rolling to the bottom of the gorge. He got up and dusted himself off, wincing at the pain as he dusted the dirt from his bloody butt. "Damn it!" he yelled.

He walked along the bottom of the canyon. The floor was flat and smooth from water that ran through here like a river when rare rains came to flood it. Gilbert noticed some cave openings high along the canyon walls and climbed up to one of them. The hole penetrated the side of the wall to a depth of about five feet, and being about six feet in diameter, it was big enough for him to hide in.

As soon as he entered the cave he noticed that the temperature dropped by about twenty degrees. He was very thankful for that bit of relief. He snuggled into the rear of the cave, feeling safe for the moment. When he recovered enough energy to become aware of his surroundings, he noticed a primitive looking cave painting on the wall to his right. He thought that it might have been drawn by Indians that once populated this area. He suddenly realized what the picture depicted and it sent shivers of fear down his spine.

The mush stopped for a second at the ledge of the canyon. It vibrated violently, forcing a new and remarkable transformation. An opening took shape at the head of its body, blossoming into a perfect, but grotesquely large mouth.

The mush crawled down into the canyon.

"This is incredible!" said Gilbert as he felt the painting with his hand. On the left side of the painting was a picture of an ear of corn. In the middle of the painting was a picture of a big yellow blob about to engulf a tepee. The remaining part of the painting depicted some Indian warriors throwing spears at the huge yellow blob. The meaning of the painting was obvious. Gilbert's foe was not a new threat, but had menaced mankind for hundreds of years, perhaps even thousands! He remembered once having glanced through an old book called The Golden Bough, written by James G. Frazer. He was at first fascinated by the wonderful old engravings in the book, but he also recalled that there was much written about the corn-spirit. He remembered reading that people were wrapped up in corn-sheaf, beheaded, and thrown in rivers as sacrifices to the corn-spirit. The corn-spirit made awful demands on its people.

Gilbert began to cry, the horror of his situation hitting him with full force. His only hope was that this mush thing would loose interest in him and give up its search. He did not deserve to leave the earth in this manner, devoured by his own breakfast. He never meant any harm to anyone or anything.

A voice called out Gilbert's name. Gilbert was confused. Why would somebody be down here in this canyon calling for him? The voice sounded very strange, like a person gargling and talking at the same time. The voice broke into raucous laughter and then he knew, beyond any doubt, it was the mush thing. It now had the power of speech.

"Gilbert! Come out, come out, wherever you are! You can't hide from me forever! Come on, Gilbert, wouldn't you like a little corn meal mush for breakfast? Well, actually, it's getting closer to lunchtime now. Consider me your brunch." The big yellow lips flapped grotesquely. "How does it feel to be the on the menu instead of ordering from it? Ha-ha."

Gilbert curled up into a fetal position, scrunching as far back into the cave as he could. His blood was playing bass drums inside his ears. He was shivering, and his teeth were chattering so fast he feared they might disintegrate. Today his life would end. He was certain of it.

The voice was getting closer. How many minutes did he have left to live?

"Oh, Gilbert, come on out! The big, bad corn-spirit is inviting you to a party. You don't want to be a party pooper, do you? You're not a wimpy little wallflower, are you? I want you to come out and meet the biggest baddest party animal of them all. Me!"

The voice was very close now. It might even be right below his cave. Would his heart explode before it found him? Would he turn white and die from fright? Yes, he was certain he would.

"Gilbert, I smell piss. I think you wet your pants! That is not a very grown-up thing to do."

The yellow boiling mass rose up and looked into the entrance of Gilbert's cave. He saw the sickening imitation mouth with its big yellow lips. Gilbert prayed the Lord's Prayer. He did this mentally, because his lips froze shut, his whole body paralyzed, locking up like an engine running without oil.

"What's the matter, Gilbert? Cat got your tongue? That's okay, you never had anything interesting to say anyway."

Slimy tentacles began to emerge from around the grotesque mouth. They wiggled and squirmed, stretching out to embrace Gilbert's face. He felt the first wet tentacle touch the skin below his right eye, tracing a path to his lips. It was obscene, as if this yellow organ was trying to kiss him. He felt it glide past his lips, into his mouth, prying his jaws open. Another tentacle pushed its way into his mouth and began to travel down his throat. Gilbert gagged reflexively trying to vomit, but the soft appendage would not allow the contents of his stomach to pass beyond it.

The fear had shifted from a paralyzing panic to a struggle for survival. Gilbert tried to twist his head away from the tentacles and pull them from his mouth, but all his efforts were only rewarded by a new batch of tentacles. Some of the tentacles sprouted little tendrils that grasped onto his ears and wiggled inside, tickling his eardrums. A large tentacle, much greater in diameter than the others, shoved itself under his torso, working itself around his arms, binding them tight to his sides.

"You seem to be somewhat in a bind. I hope you don't suffer from claustrophobia, because things can get pretty tight from here on out." The mush thing emphasized this by giving him a tight squeeze, at the same time ramming the tentacle that was in his throat clear down to his stomach.

Gilbert did have claustrophobia and felt all the bands that held his fragile mind together snap open with a huge whooshing noise. Death was closing in on him like a huge crushing weight, pressing down like millions of tons of cold lead. He was like an old toothpaste tube, his life squeezing out between the cheeks of his butt, his organs scrunched together, the fluid draining from them. He pissed out blood and mucus. His eyeballs popped from their sockets and hung down past his chin, dangling by their optic nerves.

A ball of light materialized between Gilbert and the mush thing, slicing off the tentacles from their source. They wiggled and squirmed on the cave floor, and soon died. The mush thing stopped its boiling and undulating and grew quiet.

Immediate relief flooded through Gilbert. He sat up and grabbed onto his eyes, poking them back into his head. He vomited up the tentacle lodged in his throat.

"Okay, Gilbert, the fun is over." The ball of light spoke. Gilbert recognized his microchip friend from Dreamland. "I don't like to spoil your game, but it's time to get back."

"Okay," said Gilbert.

Complex patterns blossomed forth, one after the other, like a series of liquid Persian rugs. In a final climactic swirl of energy, the glowing colors coalesced into the solid form of Gilbert's kitchen.

Gilbert lifted the pot from his stove and scooped some of the mush into a cereal bowl. He went to the refrigerator and took out a cube of butter and a bottle of cream. He used half the cube of butter for his mush and splashed a little cream on top. He reached into the top cupboard and took out his sugar bowl and put three heaping tablespoons of sugar on his mush. He put everything back in its place and sat at the little round table to eat. He said a small prayer with his eyes closed, and then tasted his breakfast. It was just like he liked it and he hummed "Ummmm" as he savored the flavor.

He looked at the clock hanging above the stove and saw that it was thirty minutes before twelve, almost time for his interview with Mr. Kern. "I need to straighten the house up a bit before he gets here," he said. "I don't want the phantom to think I am some sort of a slob!" He finished his mush and washed out the bowl in the sink. He covered the pot of left-over mush and put it in the refrigerator. He hated to throw food away, even though he knew he would probably never eat the old mush. Someday he would open the pot up and there would be the mush, growing a crown of green slime, and then he would throw it away.

The house was not in bad shape, it only required a light dusting, and as Gilbert dusted he contemplated how exciting his morning had been. Some people might think that desert life was boring, no big shopping malls to visit or theaters to watch blockbuster movies at. No neighbors living just a few feet away so you could talk to them and not be lonely. No crowds, no traffic, only the hungry lonely howling of the coyotes at night. He liked life in the desert. Really. It was not everywhere that breakfast turned into a life and death situation. He felt fortunate to be alive and have such a wonderful life in the middle of nowhere. Really.

Gilbert glanced at the clock in the living room that hung above his television set. It was twelve noon. He went over to the large picture window that faced the front of his house. He saw his old car that he parked around the curve of his driveway, dusty hood facing the dirt road. He saw the guest house, the paint peeling and fading in the sun. It was the familiar things that greeted him every day, until he saw an old gray primered Volkswagen van pulling into his driveway. This was the phantom--right on time.

Gilbert felt a small thrill go through his body. It was not often that he had a guest. Actually, when he thought about it, he never had a guest, at least not human guests. He hoped, deep down inside, that the phantom was not from space, but that he was a real flesh and blood human from the planet Earth. But no matter what manner of creature he was, he would be honored to have him live on his property if he behaved politely, and was clean. And anyway, Gilbert's most intimate acquaintances were far from human. They were strange creatures that could read his mind and manipulate his environment, and he didn't mind having them around. Not too much.

Mr. Noel Kern parked his van, and got out.

3: INTERVIEWING THE PHANTOM FROM SPACE 

Mr. Noel Kern was very tall. He stood six foot seven and was much too thin for his height. He was bald, and that baldness included his eyebrows. It made him look far more unearthly than he had at Mrs. Tool's Place, where the poor lighting hid these facts. The feature that made him appear most unearthly was the color of his skin. The top of Noel's head was a light cream color with a subtle hint of green. The rest of his face was very pale but with a delicate pink suffused throughout. He made an impressive spectacle as he stood in the doorway.

"Come inside, Mr. Kern, or would you rather take a look at the guest house now, before the interview?"

"If it's all the same with you, I would like to go look at the guest house now," he spoke with a voice that sounded musical and liquid, flowing through Gilbert's mind like a fresh mountain stream.

He took Noel over to the guest house and walked him around the outside of it, pointing out the unique outdoor shower. He led him inside, showing him the sparse but adequate furnishings. There was no sign of Gilbert's earlier struggle with the mush monster. He was thankful for that. Noel seemed pleased, happy that everything was in good working order, not at all concerned by the simple old furniture.

They walked back to the main house. Gilbert opened the door for Noel and asked him, "Would you care for something to drink, Mr Kern?"

"Thank you, I would like a glass of water." He stepped into the house and Gilbert directed him to sit on the couch that faced the large television. He went to get Mr. Kern a glass of water from the kitchen. When he returned, Mr. Kern was staring at the blank television screen, sitting very straight, as if good posture was very important to him. He handed the glass of water to Mr. Kern.

"Thank you." He took the water and sipped it slowly. He set the glass down on the coffee table before him; his long thin fingers made the glass look like a doll house toy.

Gilbert sat in a chair to the left of the couch. The picture window was behind his head, and he could feel the noon light make his neck sweat.

"May I call you Gilbert, Mr. Keyhurst?" Mr. Kern asked with a smile.

"Yes, you may, and may I call you Noel?" Gilbert felt a little nervous, the experience of interviewing was so new to him, and this creature was unpredictable, it did not behave in quite the same manner as his other, nonhuman acquaintances did.

"I like your house, Gilbert, and I like the location. I suppose that you enjoy your privacy as much as I do. Privacy is very important to me."

"Oh, I know how you feel," Gilbert could understand every word Noel said. Unlike the first meeting in the bar, Noel seemed to be speaking a form of English that he could clearly understand. The fact was, Noel was so crystal clear in his speech that Gilbert had to construct a mental barrier to protect himself from merging with Noel's mind and possibly becoming trapped there. He must continue with the interview with his guard up. "Tell me about yourself, where do you come from?"

"Santa Cruz," said Noel.

If a bomb had exploded it could not have been more shocking to Gilbert. He had expected Noel to name some strange planet in a far off solar system--that he could easily have dealt with. Santa Cruz had so much evil connected to the name that fear swept through Gilbert's head like a firestorm. He needed to respond to Noel, but could hardly move his mouth. "Sa...Santa Cruz?"

"Yes. I was born there. My parents died in a car accident when I was only twenty-three years old. I inherited the house and lived there alone: until now. It was a beautiful house--beach front property. But I grew tired of the ocean and the people of Santa Cruz, so I decided to move." He smiled at Gilbert, and added, "Is there something wrong?"

"NO!" Gilbert did not mean to shout out the word, but he did. His face flushed a deep crimson. He gave Noel a sheepish grin and nervously fiddled with his hands, scratching his palms as if they itched. He needed to understand this creature if he was going to rent the guest house to him. He was not convinced that Noel was human. He did not look human, but that was okay, Gilbert was no bigot. He needed some clever questions to draw him out. He thought of one. "What did you do in Santa Cruz?"

"Oh, before I tell you, understand that I can afford the rent stated in your ad. Sometimes people think that because of what I do, I don't have much money, but I do."

"What do you do?" This was fascinating to Gilbert. He did not have any idea what a person like Noel did for a living.

"I am an artist."

"Oh, I have never known an artist before! Do you paint? Do you make sculptures?" Gilbert was truly thrilled. This was like opening a can of beans and finding diamonds inside. He did not tell Noel, but he strongly desired at that moment to rent the guest house to him, forgetting the interview, just so he could see his art.

"Yes, now I do both. I combine sculpture and painting together into one work of art, before this, I only painted. He smiled, asking, "Do you like art?"

"Yes."

"That's good. Perhaps you'll like mine."

"I have not seen very many paintings, in person, that is. I do not go to art galleries because I am not very comfortable in unfamiliar places, but I see pictures that I like in books." A thought flashed through Gilbert's mind. "I did see and touch a cave painting this morning... in a way."

"A cave painting? I'd like to see it sometime." Noel heard the uncertainty in Gilbert's voice, remembered who he was dealing with, and carefully backed off the subject. "Maybe I could show you my work later on, would you like that?"

Gilbert was thrilled. "You brought your paintings with you?"

"They are in my van."

"We could look at them now!" Gilbert was excited.

"Don't you want to finish the interview? I don't want to pull all my paintings out of the van, then have to bundle them all back up again, that is, if I don't get to rent your guest house. It's just a lot of trouble, please don't think I am being rude."

This information put pressure on Gilbert. He wanted to rent the guest house to Noel, he wanted to see the paintings, but the big issue was, was Noel telling the truth? He claims to have been born on Earth, in Santa Cruz, but Noel did not look like a real human, with his odd skin colors, tentacle fingers and peculiar body shape. If he was not human, Gilbert did not mind, he had already decided he would have no part in cosmic bigotry, but if Noel was a liar, that was a terrible character flaw that he could not ignore. A liar would not be welcome on his property. "You are right, I should continue the interview. Do you have your birth certificate?"

"My birth certificate? Why would...," Noel stopped himself for the second time in this interview, remembering Gilbert's quirkiness.

"If you don't have your birth certificate, I can't rent my guest house to you."

"It must be my lucky day because I do have my birth certificate."

Relief flowed like a cool breeze all through Gilbert's body. He was very happy now, not having to turn Noel away. Noel was an artist, a type of person he had never known before. This was an opportunity, a gateway into a world of beauty. New visions of grandeur would open up like flowers before his hungry gaze, that is, if Noel was a good artist. Maybe he stank.

He saw Noel reach into the back pocket of his jeans and pull out his wallet. He opened it and fumbled around for a minute, pulling out folded up pieces of paper and laying them on the coffee table. Gilbert was beginning to worry that he would not find it, he wanted Noel to find it more than he had wanted anything in a long time. Noel began opening up the papers, scowling at each one, until finally he raised one in the air and waved it back and forth, saying, "This is it!"

"Very good, Noel. I am very glad you found it. Please, may I see it?" Noel leaned towards Gilbert and handed the document to him. He happily took the birth certificate and carefully scrutinized it, examining the printing for any sign of tampering. It looked totally authentic, which meant that his feelings had been wrong about Noel, he was a human, despite his unearthly appearance. Noel could live on his property. He could trust him.

"Congratulations, Noel, you are a welcome tenant in my guest house. I hope we can become good friends." Gilbert momentarily thought of mentioning that most of his friends were of an uncommon variety, that they did not exist in our dimension, but he noticed that talking about beings from other planes of reality tended to make people nervous.

"Well, great! I also hope that we can become friends, Gilbert." He smiled at Gilbert, showing almost all of his teeth. The teeth looked like normal human teeth, except for the canines. They were too long and round bodied, ending in sharp points, as if they had been filed. It turned his smile into that of a vampire's. "When can I move in?"

"It is okay with me if you move in today, right now, if you would like. Maybe I could look at your paintings after you settle in?"

"Sure, that would be fine. I don't have much stuff, so it won't take me long to unload it. I've got to return to my hotel and pick up the rest of my things, but I can be moved in, in a couple of hours," he stuck out his long fingers for Gilbert to shake in symbolic consummation of the deal. This made Gilbert nervous, but he did take hold of the strange hand with the fingers that looked like tentacles, and shook it. Someday, when they were good friends, he would ask him about his sharp vampire teeth, tentacle fingers and multicolored head, but for now, he would just be thankful for his new artist-tenant. Gilbert handed the guest house keys to Noel, and smiled.

"Would you like me to help you unpack?" asked Gilbert, his brow raised high to emphasize his sincerity.

"Thanks anyway, but I would rather handle my paintings by myself, plus, I have some rather delicate electronics that need special handling." A quick wink from Noel signaled that he was now ready to go unpack. He stood and walked out the door to his van. The mention of electronics was a small revelation to Gilbert. If Noel also had an interest in electronics, that would make him closer to Gilbert's mind- set than he would have guessed. It was also a danger signal warning Gilbert to pay close attention to Noel's activities. If Noel was a man interested in exotic electronics, could it be just coincidence that he wanted to rent Gilbert's guest house and live out here in the middle of nowhere? The world was filled with evil schemes and dangerous people. Gilbert saw it every night on television.

The word electronics was pregnant with meaning for Gilbert. He had been an electronic genius, the royalties from his microchip supported him. His microchip existed in Dreamland, and in normal reality. It was more than silicon, ceramic and plastic, the microchip was his personal friend. It was alive.

Would Noel be surprised to find out who Gilbert had been in the electronic's world?

Gilbert sat in his chair on the porch, trying to enjoy the shade while carefully watching Noel unpack his van. He saw that the paintings were wrapped in old blankets. Noel took those out first, carrying them into the sun baked guest house. The swamp cooler came on after Noel had been inside for a few minutes, the hum of the electric motor was loud in the silence of the desert.

The next batch of articles that Noel brought out of the van were packed away in cardboard boxes. Gilbert wondered if they contained the delicate electronic equipment? Maybe Noel had been talking about nothing more ominous than his stereo equipment, television set, or home computer, the only real threat being the paranoia of his own mind. But if his darker suspicions were correct, then to have rented out his little guest house to a stranger from Santa Cruz was a blunder. Terror was building itself into a twisted knot inside his stomach. The pleasant shade of the porch was forgotten as he tightened his grip on the arms of the chair.

Noel finished unloading the boxes from his van and putting them away in the guest house. He walked over to Gilbert, and noticed a strange look on Gilbert's face. "Are you okay?" Noel asked. "You seem a bit pale."

"I am fine."

"Well, okay. I was just going to tell you that I'm going back to the hotel now to pick up the rest of my things. Need anything from town?"

"No, I can not think of anything." Suddenly, a clever idea burst into Gilbert's mind. "Oh yes, there is one thing that you can get me."

"What's that?"

"A 741 op-amp," veins erupted on Gilbert's forehead as he intensely studied Noel's face. If Noel knew what an op- amp was, then he knew more about electronics than the average person struggling to set up a VCR knew. It would be a warning that he would have to watch Noel very carefully.

"What's an op...op-amp? Is it a fuse or something?"

"Never mind, I do not need one that badly." A smile of relief lit up Gilbert's face. Everything was okay now. Noel must be an honest human from planet Earth, with motives as pure as the driven snow. Now Gilbert felt a little guilty about even having entertained such thoughts about Noel.

"You look better now, not so pale. Good. Anyway, if you're sure you don't need anything, I'm on my way back to the hotel. Bye."

"Good bye."

Noel walked over to his van and got in. After a few seconds of trying to coax the old engine to life, it finally coughed three times, then started. He backed out of the driveway, since Gilbert's car blocked the front exit to the dirt road. Noel drove off in a cloud of dust.

The temptation to go in the guest house and peek at Noel's things was very strong, but he resisted. That would not be a nice thing to do. Instead, he went back into his house and got a jar of iced tea from the refrigerator. He poured himself a glass and brought it over to the couch. He would watch television until Noel returned, and then he would ask to see his paintings.

The television screen instantly flashed to life when he pressed the red power button on the remote control. An interior view of the dome from Dreamland was on the screen. The great ball of light was suspended in the center of the vast interior. Noel was standing below the ball of light, illuminated by a radiant shaft of photons erupting from the bottom of the brilliant ball above his head.

Noel's face was frightening. A maniacal grin showed his vampire teeth, longer than before, nearly reaching to the bottom of his chin. His bald head was striped like a barber's pole, the colors constantly flashing, from a green stripe against a purple stripe, to a red stripe against a blue stripe. Then the stripes started to swirl. Suddenly, his head grew, stretching to twice its normal height, thinning in the middle, like a string of taffy or rubber pulled too tautly.

Noel wore a pink suit with a bright yellow satin tie. He ripped open the suit jacket and the peach shirt underneath, to reveal his stomach. It was covered with boils and blisters that grew and burst, releasing a thick black oily pus, a monstrous waterfall flowing onto the floor of the dome. Noel laughed insanely, the vast dome beginning to fill up with the filthy liquid until it finally covered his head. Noel's head had even sprouted a green fleshy tube so that his brain could breathe, but the tube became clogged with the black pus, and Noel drowned, laughing.

Before the foul pus could touch the ball of light, it flew from the screen and hovered above the television set, throwing bright beams of light that danced over the walls in a playful fashion.

"Good special effects, don't you think so?" said the light.

"Excellent, but the show scared me."

"I think that's good, Gilbert. You ought to be scared."

"Why? I only want too relax."

"Don't get to comfortable, because in my opinion, your interview with that abomination of nature, Noel, is not quite over."

"Yes, it is. He is moving in. He is an artist."

"Artist, shmartist, who cares? I think he is a very dangerous creature.

"I do not I agree with you," Gilbert said as he aimed the remote control at the television to shut it off. Instantly the ball of light was gone. Gilbert was more than a little inconvenienced by television sets that insisted on giving him personal messages, but he had learned to accept this phenomenon as a fact of life.

Gilbert was surprised when he heard Noel's van pull up. It seemed as though Noel had only left a few minutes ago, but when he looked at the living room clock, it was nearly six p.m. He had been gone for more than four hours. Gilbert got up from the couch and looked out the front window. Noel was unloading more boxes from the side door of his van.

Gilbert decided he would let Noel settle in before he asked to see his paintings. Maybe after dinner, around nine, would be appropriate. Gilbert's curiosity was almost uncontrollable. He knew that the paintings would give him some insight into Noel's mind, much deeper than any verbal interview could afford.

Dinner time was a unique and life affirming ritual for Gilbert. Almost every night he would eat the same thing: a half can of Spork, a microwaved potato, buttered bread, and a glass of tomato juice. The important thing was the Spork. He loved to fry Spork over a huge flame so that it would burn to the proper color, a reddish black. But as much as he loved Spork, he also had a great fear of it.

Gilbert opened the cupboard above his sink, revealing almost one hundred cans of Spork. It was his sacred Spork cupboard, not sullied by the presence of other more mundane items. The other nonperishable food items had their own cupboard above the refrigerator. He took out a can of Spork and smiled at it. Opening the can with the key that came with it, he shook the can over the counter until the Spork slowly slid out. The gelatin sealed the edges of the meat to the can, causing a vacuum to form behind the meat; it always made a sucking sound as it slid out. He sliced the pinkish, gelatin covered meat in half, wrapping one half of it in tinfoil and placing it in the refrigerator.

He then opened a drawer in the kitchen counter that contained a powerful magnifying glass. This is the part of the ritual that made Gilbert's hand shake with fear. Sometimes he would drop the magnifying glass because he could not control the tremors of his hand. The question uppermost in his mind was, would the meat be okay? Would he discover something lurking between the fibers of protein that would disgust him or frighten him? Would he need to use the long metal tongs to grab the dangerous chunk of meat and throw it down the garbage disposal? Would he have to open can after can, until he found the perfect piece of Spork?

Gilbert's altered state of consciousness could detect a more subtle reality lurking in the background of the everyday world. This nightly ritual was, for Gilbert, tantamount to the exploration of a newly discovered planet. Lowering the magnifying glass with his trembling right hand, he steadied himself for the Spork expedition.

It was a vast pink landscape. Some areas were a darker pink and other areas almost white. He suspected the white areas to be concentrations of fatty tissue. Under the magnifying lens the texture looked bumpy, each little nodule casting its own miniature shadow, like the surface of a giant tongue. The Sporkscape was covered by a moist shine that glaringly reflected light. If some miniature skier were to ski this surface, they would need goggles to protect their eyes, just as in snow skiing.

Gilbert saw a high mountain of clear gelatin, resting on a large expanse of brownish pink nodules. Was something hiding under the gelatin? He thought he saw a unique discoloration: a bluish smudge. He used the sharp point of a steak knife to delicately push away the mountain of gelatin; it gave him a sense of awesome power--almost making him giddy. He recovered himself and continued with his task. Yes, there was a small blue tube sticking up out of the Sporkscape. Perhaps it was only the tip of the iceberg, and more blue tubing was coiled up beneath the surface. This would call for special tools.

Gilbert walked over to the bathroom and got a pair of tweezers. When he returned to the Spork, he searched and found the blue tube again. It looked like a garden hose when viewed through the magnifying glass. He grabbed the end of the tube with his tweezers and gently pulled on it. He pulled and pulled, more and more of the slimy tube came out. The tube lay over a foot long on the counter, and there was still more buried beneath the surface. The more of its length that he pulled out, the smaller the chunk of Spork became. Finally, he sliced the Spork in half, disgusted to see that the tube filled the interior with its slimy coils. He estimated that the tube, when stretched out to its full length, might encircle the Earth.

Gilbert pondered this strange blue tube for a few minutes, then decided to fry it up and have it for dinner. Of the many odd things that he had found in Spork, this tube was not all that unusual. He had eaten much stranger things than that. What frightened him the most were things that had the power of speech.

Whenever he found something in his Spork that could talk, he put it in his Spork collection. This collection was kept under his bed. It was a cardboard box filled with glass jars that contained all sorts of organic Spork creatures, and they all had the power of speech, that is, until he killed them. When you pickled them in alcohol they wiggled for a bit, and slowly died. Gilbert was not proud of the fact that he did this, but he was so fearful of them, that by collecting them and putting them in jars, he felt superior, and this eased his fears. He knew they were not as intelligent as a human; they had no souls, so he did not consider it murder. If he did not kill them, they would only go on speaking of frightening things that scared him so badly he would be unable to sleep.

There was a time he had found a really horrible little creature. It resembled a gray lizard, only it walked upright, and his head was like a human's, though completely hairless and covered with scales. This tiny monster from the land of Spork was evil to the core. It had dug its way to the surface from a chunk of Spork, yelling and shaking its little fist at him. It swore like a sailor and stomped its clawed feet. Suddenly, before Gilbert could grab hold of it, it leaped from the kitchen counter and hit the floor running, bolting out the open front door. Gilbert was not fast enough to catch the little monster as it ran into the night. "Damn!" Gilbert said. "Now that little bugger will be up to all kinds of mischievousness." His words had been prophetic.

The troubles had started that morning. He wanted to go to Mrs. Tool's Place, so he ate breakfast, showered, put on some nice clothes and went out to his car. Turning the ignition key would turn the engine over, but it would not start. He tried cranking it until his battery almost went dead. When he opened the hood to see if he could spot the trouble, he noticed that the coil wire had been chewed in half. He could see tiny teeth marks on the ends of the rubber insulation. This was the work of the tiny lizardman. He ended up fixing his car by twisting the wires together and wrapping the whole thing up with electrician's tape.

He returned from Mrs. Tool's at around seven p.m. When he tried to put his key in the lock, he discovered a piece of wood had been jammed inside it. It took him an hour to pry it out with a nail he was lucky enough to find laying on the ground. Darkness had fallen by the time he finally made it inside his home.

After flicking on the living room light, he looked around and was surprised to see everything was okay. He thought the house would be in shambles from the destructive lizardman, but when he opened the Spork cupboard to take out a can for dinner, he was not to be disappointed. Every can was ripped open. Gilbert cursed out loud and turned bright red. He had never been so angry. Much too angry to think about eating. Gilbert searched everywhere for lizardman, but could not find him. Exhausted, Gilbert made ready for bed.

That night the coyotes decided to howl more than they usually did, keeping Gilbert awake. He tossed and turned, glancing now and then at his alarm clock. The green digital numbers read past three in the morning. This was a miserable night. He was angry, hungry and unable to fall asleep.

He heard a little noise, like a pencil dropping from a table. He ignored it.

"Big man! You are dumb and stinky! Dumb and stinky!" The lizardman yelled at the top of his lungs, though that was not very loud because of his small size. Gilbert flipped on the table lamp beside his bed, looking all around the room for the tiny monster.

"Dumb and stinky!" the lizardman yelled again.

"Shut up and come out where I can see you," yelled Gilbert, his bloodshot eyes infused with exhaustion and anger.

"I kill you! I kill you, you dumb and stinky big man!"

"Come out here where I can see you, and we will see who gets killed!" He had never said such angry words in all of his life. It did not make him feel good to say such things, even to a lizardman. Fear also began to surface as he thought of the strange powers some of the Spork creatures possessed. "Look, please, just leave me alone. Go outside and live in the desert, just leave me in peace."

"I tell you scary stories now. They kill you," said the lizardman.

Gilbert could see him now as the lizardman stepped from behind the dresser. It looked into Gilbert's eyes, a slow lazy look, that made Gilbert feel a primitive fear rise up from his belly, snakelike.

"Nice scary story. Good one. You listen to me. You have to listen to me. You too dumb not to listen. I go inside your big head with a big scary story." The tiny yellow eyes of the lizardman seemed to grow larger. They finally filled the room with their lethargic gaze. It sank deeper and deeper into Gilbert's mind, setting off psychic warnings of danger. He could not make his body move from the bed to protect himself, the strange hypnotic gaze had him frozen like a deer caught in the glare of headlights at night .

"Once upon a time, nightmares..."

Gilbert suddenly jumped out of bed, ran to the lizardman, and stepped on him. He had broken the spell of madness cast by the hellish creature a second before it would have devoured his mind. Gilbert scraped the remains of the lizardman off his foot, dumped them into the toilet, showered, and crawled back into bed. He slept very deep.

When Gilbert reminisced about the lizardman, he always thought of those yellow eyes. If you submitted to the creature's hypnotic power, you would be drawn into its strange world, trapped there forever. He put the memory away, and went about frying the blue tube and microwaving his potato. When he had his table prepared, and finally tasted the slimy tube, he found it to be quite good. It tasted a bit like chicken. He would be very lucky if any other of his cans of Spork contained this gourmet's treat.

Gilbert cleaned up his table, hand washed his dishes and put everything away. He wondered if Noel had finished moving in. Night had fallen and he could see lights on inside the guest house.

Gilbert loved to stare into the night sky of the desert, millions of stars so crisp and bright. He would love to be an astronaut and fly among them. Some nights, he would go outside and lay on his back, staring up at the Milky Way for hours. The stars would tug at his soul until he felt it separate from his mind. When that happened--his damaged brain no longer mattered--he was free of those corrupted gray cells, soaring among the stars. He was an astronaut in the spiritual realms of deep space, effortlessly gliding among the purple nebulae and giant red suns.

Gilbert imagined Noel inside the little house, busy stacking his things away. As he was thinking that, Noel's tall figure emerged from the corner of the guest house and walked over to his front door. Gilbert felt the flutter of nervous excitement tickle his stomach. This day was so special for him. He never had human guests. He was never invited to anyones home. Two special events all in one day! When he heard the knock on his door, he quickly opened it. Noel stood like a gangly giant in his doorway, smiling down on him.

"Please, come over and see my artwork."

4: THE REMARKABLE PAINTINGS OF NOEL KERN

Inside the guest house, Noel's boxes were scattered about the room. Some were opened and others sat untouched. The opened boxes contained books and clothing. Some books had been removed and set on the sink counter, while others were haphazardly piled on the coffee table, next to the little television that came with the guest house. Gilbert looked for a stereo or any other piece of electronic equipment owned by Noel, but saw none.

Leaning against the wall by the bed were the paintings, covered in an old gray blanket. On the other wall, by the couch, rested a painting easel. Noel got the easel and set it up in the center of the room. "Might as well do this right," he said, adjusting the easel's tripod legs to steady it.

"In Santa Cruz, I belonged to an artist co-op. The co- op rented an old house with an interior we had permission to completely remodel any way we liked. We made it all one room inside, and built walls in the center, forming a room within a room. This provided lots of space to hang our work. We painted the whole interior white, hung track lighting from the ceiling, and ended up with an economical, but classy gallery.

"We attracted a few collectors. Some of them were wealthy, and thought nothing of spending a few thousand dollars on a painting that happened to catch their eye. I got to know some of the collectors quite well...quite well indeed." Noel with a smug, sly expression, looked down at Gilbert, and suddenly retracted the facial expression. Gilbert was too excited about seeing the artwork to notice these facial manipulations.

Noel fiddled with the legs of the easel, then continued, "Anyway, it was an interesting period of my life. I had the chance to meet folks from a wide variety of professions. A certain group of people took great interest in my work and wanted to know more about my artistic theories. It surprised me at the time, because this group of clients was of a technical frame of mind--" The sly expression crept around his eyes, but he pulled it back before Gilbert noticed.

"Did these people buy a lot of your paintings?"

"They helped me earn enough money to live on. They even helped me finance my ideas. I'm a very fortunate guy. There are plenty of artists who would give anything to be in my position.

"Are you going to be working on a new project soon?" Watching the artist in the act of creation was Gilbert's supreme desire.

"I have already started, but please don't ask me about my current project. I don't like talking about it until it's finished. I suppose it's a silly superstition, but my lips are mum on the subject."

Gilbert looked hurt. He wanted to witness the creative process. He thought of pestering Noel into it, but that would not be nice. He would have to be patient and see the artwork when finished.

"Don't look so sad, Gilbert. You will be the first to see my works when they're completed, in honor of our new friendship."

"Oh, thank you," Gilbert said awkwardly, not reacting smoothly to flattery. He thought of the complements Mrs. Tool had given him when he had vomited on that bully, Dan, in the bar. The strokes Mrs. Tool gave him were the first he had received in years. Gilbert's life since brain damage did not offer many circumstances to warrant flattery. He vaguely remembered a time in his life when flattery was a commonplace event, because geniuses had flattery thrust upon them. At times, he wished he was a genius again, but wishing caused anxiety, and anxiety caused creatures to appear he did not want to see. The creatures from Anxietyland were large, glistening black balls. Their jagged mouths were filled with thousands of tiny teeth. When they bit, the teeth hurt, but the bites also inflicted painful electric shocks--miniature lightning bolts flashing from their purple tongues.

Noel walked over to the paintings and lifted the blanket from them. He took the first painting to the easel and set it up so Gilbert could enjoy an excellent view. The overhead light provided plenty of illumination.

The artist's fire burned in Noel, compelling him to explain his work to Gilbert, so after positioning the painting, and studying Gilbert's expression, he went into his monologue:

"I'm an artist with a vision. My vision controls my life.

"When I was a young boy in Santa Cruz, I developed a fascination for organic forms. I would make my parents buy books on zoology and biology, books with lots of illustrations. At first my folks thought I wanted to be a veterinarian or doctor, but then I would beg them for books on plant life, again, books with lots of pictures. I had a burning desire to know the shapes and colors of all fauna and flora, from all regions and from all times.

"Whether the organic forms were from the land, sea or air, past or present, I would hungrily devour their shapes and colors, storing them in my mind. I did not care about the technical aspects of the life forms, the long Latin names--the why and how of what made them work--I cared only for their form and color, their diversity and their appearance.

"There used to be an aquarium within walking distance of our house. I would spend the whole day in humid rooms, staring at the strange sea creatures living behind the big glass walls. Slimy octopuses, cunning sharks or electric eels, everything organic was of interest to me. I was fascinated by these life forms; I was in love with them.

"When my parents took me to the zoo, I would always fuss when they wanted to leave. One day, I became so obsessed with a particular ostrich, I just couldn't leave it, I couldn't make my legs move in order to obey my parents. We stayed until the zoo closed. By the time we got home, it was dark. My parents listened to my explanations, they tried to understand me, tried to be patient with me, even though they