God’s Girlfriend
By Enki Anunnaki
Copyright 2012 Enki Anunnaki
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CHAPTER 1
2:36 A.M.
Must god mate with me tonight?
The night is so black and blank it is capable of anything.
Lightning knocks on my bedroom windows. I jump into bed and wait for Anunnaki to float me into his hands and pull my soul out through my womb. Ca-bang! Rain bludgeons the farmhouse tin roof as wind howls for more. I tense and quiet my bones.
“Anunnaki!” I named him after a Sumerian god. He came to me at seven-years-old and to my farmhouse a year ago while my husband was away in Chicago. That night, I awakened in a coffin of white light. I clawed and broke my fingernails, but I couldn’t break out.
The coffin light vanished and I floated into the jaw of a fanged lizard eating my life as gray creatures with black eyes observed my naked body.
“God.” But Anunnaki’s slit-mouth didn’t move.
I’m an anthropologist and I was amazed by his gray flesh, almond-shaped black eyes with no pupils, no outer ears but small auditory orifices, small nasal openings, flat nose, small slit-like mouth, no lips, no teeth, thin neck, long thin arms and legs, long thin hands with fingers lacking joints and fingernails, small suction-cup-like feet, webbed toes, no clothes, and no visible sex organs.
Anunnaki inserted a pulsing white scepter into my womb.
He’d said, “When men began to multiply on earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of heaven saw how beautiful the daughters of man were, and so they took for their wives as many of them as they chose.”
Genesis 6:1 – the sons of God mated with the daughters of man.
I felt morbidly at peace and then I was back in bed, naked. My pajamas were folded neatly beside me.
I screamed. I ran. I screamed some more.
I showered off the filth, but my soul was infected. Anunnaki took me again.
I ate myself into a depression, neglected my husband, and refused him sex. When I told him about Anunnaki, he divorced me over an imaginary affair.
My shrink didn’t get it, either. The abductions continued.
While I was at peace in Anunnaki’s hands, I was a bloody mess afterward, frightened to near suicide.
Until…
I decided to fight back.
3:06 a.m.
No electricity. Dark as dead. I hear whoa-wind and rain like birds falling from the sky. I hurry into the bedroom, set the flittering candle down on the nightstand, crawl into bed, and watch the flame flicker in a mysterious draft.
This early a.m. is our anniversary and Anunnaki didn’t come!
Remember when you were frightened all the time back then, until you started falling in love with him? Yes – always in ecstasy while I was in his hands only to find myself back at home scared out of my bones.
So either I killed the fear of being kidnapped by an unstoppable power or I killed myself because Anunnaki bled my soul like Satan’s butcher, and my painkiller was accepting that he only tortured my mind.
I don’t fight anymore.
I’m falling in love.
My shrink said I suffer from a quasi-Stockholm Syndrome, a psychological phenomenon in which hostages express empathy and have positive feelings towards their captors, sometimes defending them.
Thunder!
Rain like boulders on my tin roof and I imagine a mud-brick ziggurat temple in ancient Mesopotamia toppled in destruction. I roll over in bed, reset my fetal ball, and watch the window – lightning knifes the rain and the fishpond is its cursed reflection.
Suddenly, I levitate.
Anunnaki’s black almond-shaped eyes rocket me past burning stars. He sparks out like a moth in a flame and now darkness.
I smell ammonia and his bumpy finger pads caress my face.
It’s not taboo. It’s okay. I am good.
“You give me what comes into my mind. Live with me on earth.”
“It is not in my nature. My emotionless demeanor irks you,” he says. I can’t see him, but I feel he’s a thousand hands, tongues, and lips. Suddenly – the dark explodes into yellow-gold light.
“Stay, please. No man has ever made me feel this way.”
“Soon.”
“Please – I’m falling in love with you, deeply, spiritually.”
“Feelings are useless obstacles to the survival of your species.” I feel him holding me. “Can’t you learn to feel?”
“No more. Feelings nearly destroyed us. Humans must evolve to feel only for survival, as a means to an end. That is immortality, Mary. I am breaking your heart.”
“You know you are breaking my heart.”
The gold light fades to black which means Anunnaki’s coming!
Silver sparkles pop in the dark and grow a gray head with black eyes. A shrimp-like “human fetus” morphs into a childish body.
He radiates yellow-gold light and freezes me in space.
Now utter darkness and a tranquilizing godly hum.
We form a glowing cross in the dark. He is the upright beam and I’m the crossbeam, a mortal-immortal union of two light beings in darkness. “Take my eggs for hybrid fetuses and seed the stars with my kin.”
I see everything in his black tear-shaped eyes. His long glowing fingers thrust the white scepter deep inside my hot soul.
I squeal like a knifed lamb and bleed out mortal worries until there is nothing but everything.
***
I ask, “Why aren’t I in my bed, Anunnaki?”
“Forever you’ve been asking God why I chose you,” he says.
“You can’t feel so why…”
He says, “I have great machinations for you.”
“It’s about time.”
“Eighty-five-percent of earth’s billions of humans do not contain Negative blood. You know this, Mary.”
“I know that thirty-thousand years ago a new blood type called Negative was cast on earth. Negative blood types do not contain RH-genes. The RH-gene comes from earth’s RHesus monkey. Earth scientists can find no earthly origin for Negative blood. I have O-Negative blood. Prince Charles of England has it and…do I come from somewhere else?”
“Gold.”
“I love you Anunnaki, but I wish my parents were made of gold.” Ha!
“You are the Chosen One to reveal the fraud.”
5:32 a.m.
I spring awake in bed. Sweat burns my eyes. Shadow-furniture emerges from dark blank nothing. My imagination hears footsteps running down the stairs. I look left-right. My eyes focus the dark. Overhead, rain stomps my gold tin roof.
The golden night movie is alive. I come from gold? Chosen One? Royal gold blood? Reveal the fraud?
Remember – that you believe that Anunnaki is real is how you preserve your sanity.
On my bed I find gold roses and a bag of Godiva chocolates. I love strange gifts and press the gold flowers to my nose and smell the sun as I rub the 98-looking birthmark on my inner right thigh.
Chosen One.
I’m the only one who can unlock the mystery.
I love gold – ever since I was a little Catholic girl. Grandma gave me a pair of 18-Karat gold earrings that I wore like golden covenants.
I rub 98 and smell gold flowers.
I love the gold-flecked rocks I find digging up bones.
I rub 98 and smell gold…
My gold jewelry collection is a killer.
I rub 98 and smell…
I balance my stock portfolio out with precious gold.
Columbus said, “Who has gold has a treasure that even helps souls to paradise.”
Perseus’ Golden Fleece. Jews’ golden calf. Croesus’ golden coins. Crassus’ golden throat-murder. Egyptian gold in the afterlife.
7:33 a.m.
My mentor Anunnaki will make me a superstar in the fake field of anthropology. Imagine a real live Anunnaki at an anthropology conference! But why does Anunnaki think I have the potential and intellectual abilities to be the Chosen One?
I spring out of bed, scamper downstairs, grace my sunlit kitchen, and lovingly inject the gold flowers into a red watered vase.
Countless squirrels scamper in the kitchen window.
Mom says, “Where were you, Mary?”
Into the video-teleconferencing system I say, “Good morning, mom. I’m a big girl. Thanks, bye.” Mom lives an hour away. She nagged me to buy the video-teleconferencing system.
I whistle off to a hot shower, dress in the mirror and hum (noticing the straight-line scar on the back of my neck disappeared), don gold earrings, bracelets, necklaces, and rings, eat Pop Tarts, and sip coffee while tingling to thoughts of loin-shattering Anunnaki.
Who needs a real man when I have “lover boy” Anunnaki? But why does he have to leave kinky scoop marks on my back?
By eight-thirty in the morning, I drive to work. Overhead, a black unmarked helicopter follows in the sky – secret deceptive intelligence.
My iPhone rings. I answer and hear, “Mary, just listen, please. I know you said no before, but you must run for Congresswoman again. I don’t know why you decided not to run for reelection last year. You’re a rising party star and we need a charismatic fighter like you.”
I didn’t run for reelection because Anunnaki fried my brain. I dove into local, grass roots politics and gorged on supporters chanting my name and waving my signs. “I’m driving to work. We’ll chat later. Bye.”
I work in San Francisco and drive north on US-101. I love San Francisco’s cable cars, Golden Gate Bridge, fog, freedom of expression, high fashion, and street art. I’m late for work. Who gives a shit? A radio commercial wants me to buy gold to hedge against a bad economy. A talk radio show argues the waning gold-backed American dollar is a hijack plot.
I take a right onto 11th street, flanked by streetlights that sometimes go off at night until I move on.
I feel a shadowy future. I have a sick feeling in my stomach.
I park and walk into work at the California Academy of Sciences.
I’ve already been working on exposing the fraud of my work.
I’m the director and curator of anthropology at the academy. I clawed my way into the coveted position to crush the bones of the House of Fraud.
I’m a PhD – Laboratory of Paleontology, University of Paris VI, and the Museum National d’Histoire. I discover and interpret hominid fossil remains. What a joke. For years, I ate the lies – no more fake Santa Claus bringing gifts of bullshit bones to the myth of human evolution.
Coworker and fellow anthropologist Alex Debunker sweeps down the hallway of golden knowledge with his eyes on me. “You look exhausted,” he says nearing my office door. “Rough night?”
I enter my office and close the door loudly behind me so he hears it bah-rang down the hallway. My office smells like the dust sailing in sunlight in my office window. I plop into my desk chair and fire up my computer on the desk. Click-whir-wum-wum.
I study the twin snakelike punctures on my neck in a gold compact mirror. My last MRI revealed an unknown object near my brain stem.
I grab my 18-Karat gold fountain pen, snatch a file folder from my desk drawer entitled LIES, flip it open, and review my anthropology notes for another sinful workday. My ears listen beyond my office door.
Knock-knock.
“Vanish.” But I want his cute buns in here. Alex doesn’t know he is my proxy agent for sweeping change in the anthropological community.
Alex opens the door and peeks inside. “Hi.”
“Bye.”
He creeps in, shuts the door behind him without making a sound, tiptoes over to a chair, and sits down. “Playing hard to get again?” he asks. “I won’t take no for a dinner date.”
“No.”
Forty-year-old Alex is six-feet tall and two-hundred-and-twenty pounds of workout, protein drinking, carb-conscience muscle. But he acts likes he is frightened of me. Big momma’s boy.
“I thought about the lies all weekend, Mary.”
“And?” I stand up for his answer.
“I spent my life educating and researching...”
I punch my desk. “So did I!”
“Mary, you’re asking me to throw away all of my hard work and ostracize myself from the academic community. Remember famed anthropologist Margaret Mead? Scientific and academic communities attacked her ideas on anthropology because she endorsed a new science called parapsychology. What you’re asking me to do isn’t fair.”
“Bullshit!”
“Is it Anunnaki again?”
“No!”
“I’m sorry, Mary. I can’t throw my life away over lies.”
“But you know the evidence is bullshit. And you’re the only one who has videos and pictures of establishment insiders perpetrating the conspiracy at that closed conference we went to.”
“I won’t let you destroy yourself, Mary. I see the headlines now. Anthropologist ex-congresswoman turns conspiracy nut.”
“Then lie to little kids!” I open my office door, step into the hallway, slam the door shut, and run down the hallway. “I hate this place!”
“Mary stop!”
“No!”
Alex catches me from behind. “I know your Anunnaki’s but…” I wriggle free and run out the exit door. “You know damn well anthropologists have been lying to people!” I run for my car.
He runs beside me. He falls down, gets up. “I’ve been lying too, but it’s all right.”
“No it ain’t!” I stop at my 1922 Ford T-Bucket replica. “You think that what we do is all right? As anthropologists, you think that putting grossly primate-looking heads on the bodies of humans in pictures for the entire world to freaking see, to make people think they’re pre-humans, is all right?”
He points to the sky. “Look!”
I do and he snatches my car keys from my hand. “Bastard!”
“Get in. I’m driving. There’s that black SUV with the tinted windows.”
Alex white-knuckles the steering wheel in a bucket seat on an automobile frame with no roof. He checks his mirror. “So you think we should reveal the lie about pre-humans and destroy the peace of mind of billions of people? And what does it have to do with an imaginary alien you’re falling for instead of me?”
“You think it’s funny?” The SUV is in my mirror under the sun.
“Who’re these guys?”
Speeding down Martin Luther King Drive.
“Feds. Who the hell else cares about my story? Not my shrink or my ex-husband. My mom thinks I’m a whacko.”
“Don’t cry.” He hands me tissue.
“Remember the scam about three-million-year-old Lucy? I think she has everything to do with why they’re following us.”
He turns onto I-280S, checks his mirror. “Still there.”
“Lucy’s bones are more robust than any of our bones. She has zero bones that look like us. Her head is even different than ours.”
He says, “But we made the world believe she’s a pre-human because we – they – are paid to find pre-humans. Like finding Santa Claus.”
“We’re anthropologists. We know Lucy’s arms are too long to be human for chrissakes.”
He checks his mirror. “But we fudge it for paychecks and pride.”
“Anthropology is institutionalized. They never allowed for the possibility of outside intervention in the evolution of humans, whether extraterrestrial or divine.”
“And then out of nowhere there’s a changeover from them to us.” He checks his mirror. “Shit! They’re still following us!”
“They’re harmless. They’ve been following me for weeks.”
“Great!” He speeds up. “It’s the fucking CIA following us!” He checks his mirror.
“It is.”
“How do you know?”
“Anunnaki told me.”
“People like us go missing all the time!” He punches the steering wheel and guns my 350 Chevy motor.
“The transition between us and them requires at least twenty to thirty incremental changes for them to have evolved into us. Their bones are much bigger than ours. They have big brow ridges and nocturnal vision eyes that we don’t have. We have poor night vision. They have huge nasal passages. We have a little uplift of a bone sticking out of our face for a nose. Their upper jaws stick off their faces while ours are squished in. Nothing like us. The degrees of change that are required between them and us are startling.”
“I know this but I’m living!” He snakes through traffic at one-hundred-miles per hour.
“Slow down!”
He switches lanes and cuts off a hearse. “Then bring this goddamn story in!”
“The transitions from Australopithecus to Homo Erectus to Cro-Magnon are light years apart! Despite what anthropologists like us tell you! These light years aren’t transitions they’re freaking transformations!”
“I’m gonna live!” He fishtails past a big rig at one-hundred-and-twenty-miles per hour.
“Stop the T-Bucket!”
“They’re following us!”
“Now!” I punch his arm with all I’ve got.
“No!”
I pull my Gloch-17 pistol and jam it into his temple. “Pull over to the side of the road or I’ll be looking through the hole in your head.”
“You’re nuts!”
“You’re scared!”
He yanks us onto the shoulder of I-280S.
“Jam it into park and switch seats. I’m driving.”
“They’re behind us!”
“Do it!” I switch seats and peel off the shoulder.
“Drive nice and slow so they can murder me.”
“You think you’re gonna get away?” I change lanes, let a car pass.
He punches the dashboard.
“Want me to pull over so you can go after them?” I hand him my iPhone. “Call your mother.”
“She’ll beat my ass.”
“As I was saying…look at Turkana Boy. He’s one-point-five-million-years-old. His bones are questionably different from humans. His bones are thicker, bigger, stronger, and more robust than any bone in any NFL football player’s body. He’s twelve-years-old and he’ll crush you in his bare hands. Yet we swear that humans came directly from these guys. We know the data doesn’t support our conclusions.”
“You found this out yesterday?” He checks his mirror.
“I saw the light.”
“Fucking alien laser beam!”
“Shut up. There’s not a single human bone in the so-called pre-human fossil record. Anthropologists won’t even argue the point. But we’d need at least twenty to thirty cousins between them and us to portray a gradual evolutionary transition. And they had bigger heads than us and bigger brains, but we magically shrunk and somehow got smarter. We don’t even have one fingernail from the missing link. So Darwin remains intact and our Rulers don’t frighten the masses about where they really came from.”
“What’s this got to do with Anunnaki?” He hugs my right arm.
I yank the T-Bucket onto the Exit 32 shoulder and jam it in park. “Lemme me show you how a man protects the woman he desires.” I throw my pistol onto the seat. “So you don’t poop your pants.” I jump out of the T- Bucket.
“I’ll take off!”
“I have the keys idiot.” I walk toward the SUV with my hands up.
Alex says over my shoulder, “Government spooks in suits with dark sunglasses – so let’s walk right up to them!”
“If you weren’t a wimp you’d do it yourself.” Hands up, I approach the driver’s side and tap my forehead on the window. “Nice suit. Italian?”
The handsome driver has a military haircut, chiseled face, and he wears dark sunglasses. He rolls his window down.
“Nice day, huh? Clean cut and smartly dressed men from the C.I.A.? Why’re you guys following me? You like my booty?”
The suited passenger in sunglasses laughs and says, “That’s the first time in thirty years someone walked up to me and asked me what the hell I was doing following them.”
The driver says, “You got balls lady.”
“I’ve got supernatural balls. Wanna see them?”
The passenger sips his Styrofoam coffee and says, “She might swoop down in a flying saucer and fuck you up partner!”
I say to the driver’s open hanging jaw, “Listen to your partner. An ABC poll reveals that nearly half of all Americans and millions more globally believe we’re not alone, and a growing number believe they’ve actually met aliens.”
The laughing passenger spits coffee all over the windshield. “Shit! C’mon lady get back on the road!”
“Fine.” I lean my head inside the SUV and kiss the driver’s cheek.
“The kiss of death.” Laughing.
“If I’m lucky,” I say and walk away.
“Would you have really shot me back there?” Alex asks.
I say, “If I tell you – then I’ll have to kill you.”
“I do feel better now – that you confronted those goons.”
“The only fear you have to fear is fear itself.”
“I guess…I mean…well…you keep saying you’re dating an alien…so I guess those goons back there don’t really scare you much, huh?”
“I have a guardian angel.” I drive the T-Bucket along the gravel driveway leading to my one-hundred-year-old farmhouse in the farming and ranching community of Pescadero, one-hour south of San Francisco.
Summer sunshine, whistling birds, and a black helicopter.
I bet goons secretly watch my ten-acre spread. I hope they catch my cow killer. My last cow died by mutilation by laser-like surgery yesterday – blood completely drained, reproductive organs gone, anal coring, and no obvious point of entries.
I park and walk toward the farmhouse, but a gust of wind pushes me away.
We enter my two-story farmhouse with a front porch, ghost rocking chair, and flapping American flag.
Alex begs me to dissect the farmhouse for strangers. I force him to sit in my sunny kitchen. But nature scenes outside the windows and unmarked vehicles on the road beyond the wood-rail horse fence spook him out.
It’s warm and 10:59 a.m.
I open the refrigerator and grab a pitcher of ice tea. “Mom are you there? Mom? Guess not. Good.” I look at Alex.
He twists his face up in a fruitwood chair at the kitchen table. “So – have you been to the beach and surfed with aliens yet?”
I say, “You really woo me.”
“Is Anunnaki mad I’m here?”
“Ask him.” I slam his glass of tea down in front of him. “Tell me about him. I’m all telepathy. Transmit.”
“Not scared – now that I did your dirty work? Let me try again.” I point to the window. “Those suits aren’t following me because I’m pretty.” I drop the window shades and darken the kitchen. “Asshole.”
“Sorry.”
I yank a chair out and sit down at the table.
Silence.
Alex looks everywhere but at me. His copper hair and pale Irish skin are night and day. His pea-sized nose is red from Jack Daniels. His manic, foulmouthed, widowed mother makes him drink.
He’s too pale. “Hungry?” I head to the refrigerator and open it. “Ham or bologna and Swiss or American?”
“All of it. I’m sick of protein shakes.”
Poor thing. I make a skyscraper sandwich and serve it with chips. I sit and watch him eat the sandwich in four bites.
He says, “Tell me about the lie and Anunnaki.”
“The Anunnaki have been around for thousands of years according to Zecharia Sitchin’s ancient Sumerian studies.”
He asks, “You’ve read Sitchin’s works?”
“Yes. Sumeria blossomed in southern Iraq some seven-thousand-years-ago between the Euphrates and Tigris rivers. Another sandwich?”
“Please. You’re a good cook.”
I make another sandwich and serve it with more tea. “Sumeria came about on earth suddenly, out of nowhere, with no civilization before it.”
He eats like a shark. “Sumeria appeared out of nowhere some seven-thousand-years ago, way before ancient Egypt. Sumeria had cities, kings, priests, codes of law, literature, art, music, agriculture, and a language unrelated to any known language family on earth.”
“Sumeria was the first civilization to practice intensive year-round agricultural, the first to develop a writing system, the first to depict pictures on engraved cylinders, the first to use bricks in beautiful buildings like ziggurats, and the first to domestic plants and animals.”
“And the wheel, cuneiform, arithmetic and geometry, irrigation systems, Sumerian boats, and a lunisolar calendar to name a few.”
“Great astronomers too, Alex. One of their celestial symbols shows a sun surrounded by our planets in all the correct sizes and order. But there’s an additional planet called Nibiru and its story – how earth came to be, how our moon came to be, and how our whole solar system came to be – is written on Sumerian clay tablets.”
“We discover new planets all the time.” He studies his empty glass. “Did you put something in it?”
“No silly.”
“I don’t want to hallucinate and see little green men.”
I say, “Gray. Anyway, the story describes how Nibiru and its satellites passed through our solar system and crashed into our planets, leaving behind our earth and moon – um the hammer bracelet in Genesis.”
“Really?”
I say, “That’s not all. Seven-thousand-years before Galileo the Sumerians knew the sun was the center of our solar system.”
“This isn’t in our history books. This is pseudo-history-science, Mary.”
“It’s true. See – they got your mind right where they want it.”
“Because the masses can’t handle the truth of the secret agenda?”
I smile. “The story tells how the Anunnaki came to earth from Nibiru and showed earth the ways of great civilization.” I kick him under the table and he jumps.
“Stop! No civilization has ever been found that predates Sumeria.”
I say, “Detailed descriptions exist of an Anunnaki called Enki who came to earth from Nibiru to mine gold needed to protect Nibiru’s dying atmosphere. In Enki’s autobiographical text he says he’s a scientist who came to earth and tested our food and water. Did you know that gold is a great radiation shield and that pure metallic gold is non-toxic and non-irritating when ingested?”
“Interesting.”
I say, “Enki needed more help because he couldn’t extract enough gold out of the waters of the Persian Gulf. So more Anunnaki came from Nibiru to help extract gold for their dying planet, and Mars was a way station on their journey. Don’t look at me like I’m nuts. Don’t humans have a strange fascination for Mars and haven’t we spotted strange things on Mars?”
“You’re nuttier than I thought.”
I smile. “Enki’s half-brother was Enlil and Enlil created a settlement on earth called Edin – where the words Garden of Eden originate from in the Bible. The Bible was written many thousands of years after the Anunnaki came to earth.”
He jumps out of his chair. “You’re screwing with my religion!”
“When’s the last time you went to church, prayed, or thanked God?”
He sits down.
I say, “The Anunnaki even mined gold in Africa. A vanished civilization dug for gold many thousands of years ago.”
“You know – humans do have a long, historical, fascinating love affair with gold. And mines have been found that are tens-of-thousands of years old, way older than the Sumerians.”
“Gold has a mysterious hold on humanity and the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is sheer happiness.”
“Gold bands symbolize marriage. Gold is financial care. Gold means wealth. Master thieves love gold bars. Countries’ monetary systems are backed by gold bullion. Beautiful jewelry and treasure stories.”
“Nations hunt the planet for gold.”
“Gold is our greatest and sickest achievements.”
“Gold symbolizes eternity.”
“Those who possess gold rise in status and dignity.”
“Crowned heads.”
“Religion.”
“Decorum.”
“But gold as eternal life drives people insane.”
I say, “Gold’s hold on the human psyche is mysterious. And Sumerian texts describe a mutiny by gold mine workers. But Enki still needed gold to save Nibiru. So Enki enlisted the ape people on earth to work in his massive gold digging operation. How? Enki put his mark on the apes – made them understand his commands and language, made them subservient, transformed them into a working class slave race for gold digging.”
“A damn slave! I knew it!”
“DNA,” I say. “Texts describe how scientist Enki combined Anunnaki genes with ape genes. Many horrible creatures were created through trial and error. But Enki created the perfect model slave. A Sumerian cylinder depicts a goddess raising a newborn model up and she shouts, ‘My hands have made it!’ This is how we came about.”
CHAPTER 2
9:30 p.m.
It is as stunningly dark outside as the immortal beginning of time.
I answer my iPhone and hear, “Okay, you’re not running this November, but will you please write candidate Gaul’s speech. No one writes speeches like you, Mary. The president studies your speeches.”
I say, “Speech writing isn’t a priority, but it is therapeutic.” I hang up.
Wind beats the nighttime farmhouse.
I tiptoe upstairs and check on Alex who won’t go home. He sleeps in the spare bedroom on a canopy bed with the door open. I imagine what “peeping tom” mom might say. I step into his bedroom. Lure him into blowing the whistle on the anthropological cover-up with something he wants, me.
I hurry downstairs to my antique roll top desk, yank the chain on the desk lamp, and sit. I grab a pen and paper and jot down speech notes: Washington’s pledge in 1789 to protect the new nation’s liberties and freedoms – a government instituted by themselves.
I get writers’ block.
I fire up my computer, get online, order a silk dress in gold with a black chiffon overlay (sexy cocktail dress), and a home blood-type test kit. Now Alex will take me for a wild drink.
I click off the desk lamp, lean back in the chair, and absorb wild moonlight streaming through the curtain-less picture window. I smile at thoughts of pulling off my Alex Deception.
Summer heat lightning slashes the night sky.
Moonlight oozes through the window.
A bookshelf of books filled with Zechariah Sitchin and Erich Von Daniken flash like ghosts.
Where is Anunnaki and whom is he sleeping with?
I catch “an everything’s okay” chill. But I flick the backyard floodlights on because the little woman in my head talks, questions, second guesses me, tells me what to do, what to love, and what to worry about.
Floodlights illuminate the trees out the picture window. Ah, light. The Spooks know I’m here, anyway. If they crash the place I’ll shoot the place up. I’m an ex-Army military policewoman with a firearms collection.
The half-lit half-dark trees make me think of Anunnaki’s light-dark sides. Like I was a hooker, he’d just come, do his thing, and leave. Now I get a conversation. And what does Anunnaki have to do with Zechariah’s Sitchin’s “ancient astronaut” human creation theory? And what about my blood type? Why is there no known human origin for Negative blood? And how does it play on the lies plucking the fake bone-stringed harp of human evolution?
Discover Alex’s blood type! Am I going mad?
Everyone goes a little mad sometimes, don’t they?
6:06 p.m. Saturday.
Mary begs me over the phone, “Alex, meet me for a drink at…” I tell Mary, “I don’t feel like going out.”
She says to me, “Gold Dust Lounge, cute piano pub in Union Square?”
“You want my evidence to sacrifice to your gods. Any other time you don’t wanna drink.”
“Way before this, Alex – didn’t I tell you someday, honey, someday?”
I hear something behind me. I whirl off the couch into a blinding white light and see a silhouette.
“75-million candle watts of power, Alex. A poacher’s dream.”
I trip over the coffee table and breathe fear on the floor so fast that nothing else exists.
“Alex Debunker.”
I’m naked and freezing in a concrete room. Air-conditioning blows on me from a vent in the ceiling. I want to kill it with my teeth.
In the far corner of the ceiling, a camera spies me. I’m cold and shake like a jackhammer. My body is blue and I don’t have fingers or toes.
My hands are handcuffed and held over my head by a wire cable leading to the ceiling. My feet are locked into a ringbolt in the floor. I can’t sit. I must stand. I want to die.
I nod off in the cold, but a man shakes me awake. “Fuck you! There’re laws against this!” I scream.
“You’re a ghost detainee. This is a black site. You won’t recall a thing.”
I spit at him.
He throws a bucket of cold water over my head.
I shake and pee.
“Where’re the photos and videos of the anthropology conference?”
“I destroyed them so Mary can’t get herself into trouble asshole!”
“Do you want to watch Mary being tortured next door?”
The man unlocks my handcuffs and unshackles my feet. Free, I fall to the floor.
The man says to his companion, “The poor bastard’s telling the truth.”
“Hello Alex.”
I wake up in my bed. “Who’re you?” I ask the face hovering over me.
A man puts a gun to my forehead and thrusts a picture of my mom into my face. “Skinned alive.”
“No please!”
He thrusts an iPhone into my face. “You like apps? Watch. It’s live.” He taps the screen and shows me mom cooking in her kitchen, talking on the phone to my sister’s five-year-old daughter. “Mom is a video game and you control the levels of evil mom gets.”
“No!”
“Every time you help me play the game we cut mom down one level of evil. If you get mom down to zero before the clock expires mom is saved. If not, mom experiences every level of evil in the game. Do you wanna play?”
“Yes!”
“Start the clock. Game on. Get Mary to…”
“I will! Don’t hurt my family!”
“Tell no one or mom gets skinned alive.” He shows me a YouTube video of animals skinned alive in China for furs. “Do Mary right. Don’t look for me. I’ll look for you.” He punches me in the stomach so hard I vomit. “May god be with you.”
10:31 a.m.
Mother arrives at my farmhouse. “Good morning, Mary. I got you some yummies from the Fruit Barn on Ocean Ave.” She sets the bag down on my kitchen table. “A melon, tomatoes, and good potassium bananas.”
I give her a smooch on the cheek. “Thanks.” I rummage through the paper bag, grab a tomato, bite, salt it, and bite the red juicy ball again.
Mom turns my chin so I look at her. “You’re an honest beautiful woman, Mary. Why haven’t you talked to your sister in years? You’re gonna be thirty-nine next week. And why can’t you get married again?”
“Not to that Alex Debunker boy you like so much.”
“I never got a grandchild.” Her high, fluffy, power-set hairdo resembles Margaret Thatcher. “What’s wrong with Alex?” she asks. “You share the same interests and work and he’s cute.”
“I suspect you don’t mean it.”
She wriggles her eyebrows up and down. “What’s he like?”
“Mom stop. Matter of fact, I’m going to his house. I haven’t heard from him in five days. He doesn’t return my phone calls. I’ve been to his house a dozen times. No one answers the door.”
“Oh – he’s out with the boys. But check on him so I don’t worry?” Mom digs her hand into her pocketbook. She still wears the diamond wedding ring my dead dad gave her and the gold bangles he bought me to give her as a Christmas present when I was ten-years-old. She pulls out a black velvet box and hands it to me with a smile on her face. “Early birthday present.”
“Mom – you’re on social security.”
“It’s the power of gold. I know you love it.”
I take the black box and open the lid, slowly, teasing myself.
“I bought it in San Francisco from a jeweler… you know how San Francisco grew from a small town of two-hundred people to over thirty- thousand during the Gold Rush, and how you work there and all in anthropology at the academy, so I thought you’d like it.”
“It’s a Dumuzi the Shepherd necklace from Bad-tibira in Sumeria, the fifth pre-dynastic king in the legendary period before the Deluge.” I hug her. “Thanks.”
“24-Karat.”
I put the necklace on, rush to the bathroom, and admire it in the mirror. “Beautiful.”
“I heard you mention Dumuzi and I know you’re planning a trip to the land of Sumeria in Iraq someday, so I had Dumuzi made to guide you along your journey.”
“The necklace is a special made custom order? That cost more. You can’t afford this mom.” I storm into the kitchen.
“I’ll be dead soon. My estate will pay VISA when I’m gone.”
“You’re not going anywhere mom.”
I don’t tell her that Ngeshtin-ana – in a mythical composition – tells Dumuzi that his dreaming of his own death is a sign that he is about to fall in an uprising to hungry evil men. Dumuzi is caught, escapes, but is caught again hiding in a field and killed.
“Mom what’s the matter? Mom?”
She collapses into the kitchen chair. “Chest pain, that’s all.” She digs at her neck for her pill fob necklace, fumbles out a tiny nitroglycerin pill, and shakes it under her tongue.
My telephone answering machine beeps and I hear, “Alex, it’s Mary. I don’t know if you’re home but I’m coming over. Mother and I are worried about you. I’m out front.”
I jump out of bed, run to the bathroom, and brush my teeth. I wet my hands, ruffle my hair, and comb it quick.
I hear the answering machine again. Now the doorbell!
I run downstairs in pajamas and open my front door. “Hey good looking. What do I owe the pleasure?” I ask Mary.
She barges in. “Where you been? I’m sick worrying about you.”
“I hopped a boat to Catalina Island to get away.”
“Alone?”
“Me and beer. Just got back.”
“In pajamas? Where’s your boat ticket?” She rifles through papers on my coffee table.
“Upstairs.”
“Get it.” She stomps over to the staircase leading upstairs.
I catch her from behind. “What’s this about?”
“How long have you been home?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Really? I sat outside in my T-Bucket for the past hour wondering if I should knock on your door and show my concern or not.”
I pull her close and kiss her neck.
“Feels good.”
I carry her to the couch and lay her down.
She sits up and pulls her shirt down. “I can’t.”
I sit on Alex’s couch. He stands over me. He looks down on me like I’m his prey. He has sick lust in his eyes. He creeps me out.
Why didn’t you let him have you? You know you need him. You know you have to use him. Shut up! Shut up! Shut the hell up!
I will not get the evidentiary goods by spreading my legs!
“Maybe another time. You’re a nice guy it’s just…I don’t want this to be our first time…here…in this…messy living room. Maybe somewhere more romantic, you know.” I head for the door. “Call me later. We’ll go out for a drink.”